by Henry Green
“But five times in eight days?” He sounded almost tearful.
“I haven’t Arthur,” she reasoned. “We never did count teas.”
“What have I done?” he demanded.
“Only you know, my dear,” she said.
“And what may that mean?”
“Just all it says,” she answered.
“But darling, this is wrong, somehow. You’re different suddenly. It’s fantastic! What have you got against me all of a sudden?”
“Well, my dear,” she explained, as though to a child “I didn’t particularly want to say this, or perhaps not so soon, but Peter’s growing up now, and we don’t wish him to come back home to find what I did the other night, do we?”
“Diana, leaving everything else out for the moment, Peter’s away at school when he is there, isn’t he?”
“He won’t always be,” she replied. “When he’s finished with his studies he’ll live with us in the flat, until he finds a nice girl, settles down, and marries.”
“Still, in fairness to me, whatever I may be supposed to have done, this is the holidays, now. He’s away in Scotland or isn’t he?”
“I know very well Peter’s up fishing, Arthur. My very loneliness tells me that. All I’m trying is to keep a home together, for him to come back to.”
“Well you won’t do that if you’re never in, yourself.”
“Giving you your little opportunities, you mean?” she asked. “Diana, you’ll have me lose my temper in a minute.”
“I’m sorry, darling, truly I am! But I didn’t start this, did I?”
“Oh, everything is always my fault?”
“Now why do you say that?” she indignantly demanded. “So what have I done?”
“Only practically left home,” he replied.
“I like that!” she complained. “Aren’t I sitting in front of the fire here, now then?”
“You know how I mean.”
“But I don’t!” she protested. “You say I’m different, yet it’s you who always are. And I can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve it!” There was a trace of tears in her tone.
“Oh forget everything,” he said in a careless sort of voice. “I suppose I’m just upset.”
“Now look, Arthur,” she suggested. “If you feel like you say you do why not have a word with Charles?”
“To tell the man he’s seeing too much of my wife?”
“And what’s wrong with that?” she demanded. “You’re the husband, aren’t you?”
“But he’d laugh me out of the club!”
“I don’t understand, dear. Not one little bit! You say you’re upset over my going to see Charles occasionally, and yet you don’t care to discuss it with him?”
“I’ve already told you, Diana, haven’t I? What more should I try and do?”
“But there’s our old arrangement,” she most reasonably argued. “We’ve always said, in fact you’ve just admitted, that whichever of us was asked could go without the other. So he invites me, and I accept!”
“Meaning you won’t refuse unless I stop taking Ann out to an occasional lunch?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that, Arthur?”
“It’s inconceivable, that’s all! Just goes to show the whole old mutual trust and confidence in our marriage has gone, the very thing I always thought and said was rather fine in us!”
“I’m not so sure about trust and confidence,” she objected. “You don’t seem at ease about what you appear to think Charles and I are doing.”
“Well, now then, how are you behaving?”
“I don’t know what you’re attempting to impute, Arthur, but I don’t like any of this, I may tell you!”
“Any more than you cared for what you dreamed up about Ann and me?”
“Which is entirely different,” she quickly put in, with warmth. “You forget, my dear. I saw you! And with my own eyes.”
“I don’t know how else you could have seen?”
“Now, Arthur, enough, you’re beginning to upset me! Oh why do you have to be so? Just when Peter had the ghastly accident and I come back and find you like I did!”
“Then you do admit all you’re doing with Charles is so much retaliation?”
“I admit nothing of the kind,” she replied with spirit. “He happens to be a very old, dear friend.”
“And yet I introduced you originally?”
“Oh Arthur, you can be so aggravating. What difference does that make?”
“I should have thought a lot.”
“Then go round and see him.”
“We’ve been into that already,” he wearily protested. “I can’t, You’d have me a laughing stock!”
“I don’t suppose any more than you’ve already made yourself with this Ann Paynton.”
“What d’you maintain we ought to do, then? Separate?”
“Arthur!!” she screamed. “Arthur! You’re never to say that again, d’you hear, even as a silly joke!”
“Very well,” he said in a level voice. “I apologize.”
“Oh damn,” she remarked. “I think I’m going to cry.” Which she proceeded to do.
“Now darling,” he said in the same voice. He came over. He began to rub a hand up and down her spine.
Through her tears she spluttered, “Why are you so horrid to me?”
“I’m sorry. There,” he said, still rubbing.
She began to recover. “Forgive me. I never meant to” she announced and blew her nose.
He kissed the nape of her neck, tenderly.
She fumbled in the bag she had on her knee for a lipstick and came on Peter’s latest letter.
“Oh I never showed you this, did I?” she asked in a voice already almost unmarked by tears. “It came by the second post. He’s caught a fish.”
“Not a salmon?” her husband fiercely demanded.
“Why, I’m not sure, what else? I mean that’s what Dick has up there, isn’t it?”
“A fifteen pounder” Mr. Middleton quoted. “Why it’s terrific! And only seventeen! This is wonderful news.”
“Darling Peter,” the mother said. “I always knew he would make a fisherman.”
“His first salmon!” the father echoed.
“Darling,” she next said to her husband. “You don’t have to work tonight, do you? Let’s go up now.”
“Go up?” Mr. Middleton laughed. “We’re all on one floor here, you know.”
She turned. She kissed him on the lips and took her time.
“Silly,” she said, smiling. “Well, all right then! Next door.”
•
After two nights and a day, Arthur Middleton got his friend Addinsell on the telephone and persuaded him to lunch at their club.
“I’m in trouble, Charles,” he began, over a martini.
“Again?” Addinsell seemed rather guarded in his manner.
“Nothing’s ever the same,” his host groaned.
“Then have you been to bed with that girl, whatever her name is?”
“God, no. Who d’you take me for?”
“Why don’t you? And get it over?”
“But I don’t suppose she would, Charles. Look, old man, all this is beginning to get so serious it even affects my work.”
“Things are bad, then! Always said you worked too hard, Arthur.”
“What would you suggest? The bills have to be paid, don’t they?”
“Relax.”
“And how can I? See here, your wife died early, very tragic thing and all that—oh I know it was hell for you at the time—but, my God, after eighteen years of married life, you don’t know how they can become!”
“I might be able to guess.”
“Yes, Charles, but you can’t tell until you’re actually married to them for long,” Mr. Middleton said in a dry voice.
“Very possibly,” the man agreed. “And so what’s biting you at the moment?”
“Has Diana said anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Which I have done,” Mr. Addinsell interrupted.
“Oh, I know, and thanks very much. But she hasn’t said a word?”
“She wouldn’t, Diana couldn’t,” his guest lied in a flat voice. “Her loyalty’s like an oyster, and you’d cut yourself if you tried to open it with an opener.”
“Yet there are men who deal with dozens a minute out of a barrel.”
“Oh,” Mr. Addinsell objected “then, I imagine, they’ve all got their cards, are members of the Union. Any pearls they may find have to go to the credit of the Benefit Fund.”
Arthur Middleton laughed, almost harshly. “Then Di’s said nothing about Ann?”
“Never once referred to the girl.”
“She has to me, Charles!”
“Only to be expected, after all.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” the husband admitted. “Yet, when you come to consider, just a coffee stain!”
“Difficult to see into a woman’s mind, Arthur.”
“It isn’t for me, not where Ann is concerned with Di. Di tells me.”
“Only natural after all.”
“You think so? Even when there’s nothing to it?”
“Isn’t there?”
“Well, not so far. I mean, there’s been nothing yet.”
“Couldn’t there be?”
“Not on her side. Honestly, Charles, you’re becoming too much of an old cynic. The child’s sweet!”
“Careful how you go, Arthur.”
“What’s your point now?”
“The sweeter they seem, the harder we fall.”
“Well yes,” Mr. Middleton admitted, weakly.
“Now look around this room,” Charles Addinsell appealed. The tall windows, leaning against rain, seemed to filter light back to dark bookcases from floor to ceiling to make a number of men, older than themselves, seated in deep, black armchairs with two waiters in attendance, appear as wraiths, thin before illness, and bloodless as cardboard. “Look at them. D’you suppose there isn’t one not ready to think, or talk, of sex.”
“By God, you alarm me!” Mr. Middleton said lightly. “Well, all right,” he went on “I admit I dream of going to bed with her all the time, morning, noon and night. So what?”
“Go on and do it. Get her off the system.”
“But this might not be right for the child?”
“Let the girl decide that.”
“And have Prior round one morning with his horsewhip?”
Mr. Addinsell laughed. “She won’t tell,” he reassured. “They never do, they’re always too ashamed.”
“But I don’t want her ashamed, Charles. That’s just it, you see.”
“You may not, but whether you like or not, one day she will be. And surely it’s better for her that that shouldn’t happen in wedlock?”
“Wedlock? Where did you get the frightful phrase?”
“In marriage then, which I always thought you took seriously.”
“My God, I do,” Mr. Middleton admitted. “So much so, I’ve begun to think I ought to see less of Ann.”
“How much d’you meet now?”
“Less, probably, than you imagine,” the husband said with a dry voice.
“Which means?”
“Oh, about once a week.”
“Only that!” Mr. Addinsell cried, with the first sign he had shown of animation.
“Yes, I’d imagine it could sound seldom to you,” Mr. Middleton said, with some unction.
“Well, you can’t see the girl much less, then.”
“I’m beginning to feel I should cut down.”
“But there’s competition, must be.”
“Don’t!” Mr. Middleton implored. He seemed genuinely upset. “I can’t bear to think, please! I thought perhaps I might begin to forget her slowly, damn the child.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got it rather badly.”
“That’s what my wife seems to suggest, as a matter of fact,” Arthur admitted.
“And how d’you propose to go about this?”
“Precisely why I asked you out, Charles. You could do a damn good job of work for me here.”
“Look, Arthur, you know from experience you can always count on me,” the man said, without a smile.
“I thought I could ask her to a restaurant for a drink, and plead a very important lunch appointment. Then I’d look round and I’d see you having your drink near by. I would introduce you. And you could take her in for a meal. As a very old friend of Diana’s you might tell her Di’s been blowing off. Of course I would arrange with the headwaiter to settle it, if you signed the bill.”
“Now Arthur. None of that! Although I can’t ever forget what you did for me over that business with Penelope.”
“No, I insist, Charles.”
“We’ll see,” his guest said. “But Di’s told me nothing, as I informed you.”
“She has to me.”
“And what am I to say to this Paynton girl?”
“You see, Charles, I can’t speak to her, because nothing’s happened yet! It would be presumption on my part. We just talk about the wind and the weather, now. I can’t go to her and say my wife objects. She’d think I was insane.”
“And I expect she’ll slap my face!”
“She won’t. But don’t make her cry! Promise.”
“Still don’t know what I’m to say to her, old man.”
“Tell Ann I have to meet her less, until this blows over. Make out you’re an old friend of Di’s, in whom she’s confided. Why, old boy, to someone like you, it will be simple as falling off a log. It’s just I can’t discuss things with Ann because nothing’s happened. After all, remember what you had me say to Penelope!”
Mr. Addinsell left it that he could, and again, that he might not.
•
On their usual day, and the accustomed time and place, Arthur Middleton and Miss Paynton forgathered at the bar. It was cold and wet outside, but he seemed hot, almost bothered.
“I say, Ann,” he said. “A frightful thing has cropped up. There’s been a call from the Ministry and I’ve got to go today to lunch with the Permanent Secretary.”
“Then where am I supposed to eat?” she cried.
“You know how things are,” he apologized. He looked sharply round the room, could see no sign of Charles Addinsell. “Who can tell, we may run into someone,” he added.
“Palm me off?” she wailed.
“Now you must forgive this. Of course I mean nothing of the kind, Ann. It’s simply that I can’t ignore this summons I’ve had, although I’m aware beforehand it will be a complete waste of time. Look, I could see the headwaiter and have him send your bill along.”
“Oh Arthur,” the girl broke out “I feel so awful, I really do! I can’t imagine why I started to grumble. Somehow I felt as if I would never see you anymore!”
“Now, Ann, what is this? Aren’t you well?”
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” she said, rather severely. “Then when d’you have to go? At once?”
“How is the time?” he asked, glaring at the electric clock. After which he searched through that bar once more, from his stool. “Good Lord,” he announced, so it seemed in great surprise “see who’s here, old Charles! D’you know Charles Addinsell?” he asked the girl.
“The same one?”
“Yes.”
“Of course I don’t. Except what you’ve told me, Arthur.”
“Then let’s give him a drink.”
After cordial introduction, plus some fervent small talk, Mr. Middleton excused himself, without further explanation, and made off.
“Have another?” Charles Addinsell suggested.
“Oh, but I ought to go.”
“Well then, one for the road.”
“You are so kind. Might I really?”
“Good. Waiter, two more medium sherries. Waiter! Waiter!! Good God, am I to have to shout? That’s better. Yes, two me
dium sherries.” He turned back to the girl. “Terrible job to get attention these days.”
“Are you telling me,” she agreed.
“Though, looking at you, I can see you don’t suffer,” he said.
“Oh, can’t I!” she bridled, seemingly delighted. “Yet suppose I went up with you to a glove counter staffed by the usual girls, I’d let you do the asking.”
He laughed. “You might be right at that,” he said.
She frowned, stayed silent.
“Often come here?” he tried again.
“I always lunch out,” she said, very grandly.
“Well, good luck,” he proposed, raising the full glass.
“Thank you,” she answered over hers.
“Known old Arthur long?”
“Ages!” she said. “I was practically brought up with the son Peter, who’s much younger than me, of course.”
“At St. Olaf’s, isn’t it, where I was with Arthur?”
“Then you have known him a long time!”
“Doesn’t seem like that.”
“Really?” she asked in a cool, grand tone.
“So you’ve known Diana, too, for quite a bit?”
“Darling Di,” Miss Paynton assented.
“Wonderful woman,” Charles mused aloud, in a reflective sort of voice.
“Then you’ve been friends with her for a whole long while, as well?”
“The usual thing,” the man told Ann. “Arthur was just about my best friend, and I was in love with Di before he married her.”
“But how extraordinary!” Miss Paynton exclaimed, in a warmer manner than she had yet assumed.
“So so,” Addinsell grunted.
She smiled with obvious malice at his eyes.
“You still don’t sound very pleased!”
He studied the girl coldly.
“I suppose that’s a thing could happen to any one of us” he replied.
“I’m sorry,” she said, almost humane. “I didn’t mean to seem as if...”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupted, giving Ann his first smile. This always seemed to make an impression of extraordinary charm and frankness, because it broke up his somewhat severe, handsome middle-aged features.
“One never sees anyone one knows, any more, in these places,” he tried once again.
“Well, to be absolutely truthful,” she admitted in a gayer voice “I’ve not met many. I simply haven’t had time yet.”