When a man marries, his wife sooner or later estranges him from his old friends, but Margery on the contrary increased Charlie's intimacy with them. By making him more tolerant she made him a more agreeable companion. They gave you the impression not of a married couple, but, rather amusingly, of two middle-aged bachelors living together; and when Margery, as was the rule, found herself the only woman among half a dozen men, ribald, argumentative, and gay, she was not a bar to good-fellowship but an asset. Whenever I was in England I saw them. They generally dined at the club of which I have spoken and if I happened to be alone I joined them.
When we met that evening for a snack before going to the play I told them I had asked Morton to come to supper.
'I'm afraid you'll find him rather dull,' I said. 'But he's a very decent sort of boy and he was awfully kind to me when I was in Borneo.'
'Why didn't you let me know sooner?' cried Margery. 'I'd have brought a girl along.'
'What do you want a girl for?' said Charlie. 'There'll be you.'
'I don't think it can be much fun for a young man to dance with a woman of my advanced years,' said Margery.
'Rot. What's your age got to do with it?' He turned to me. 'Have you ever danced with anyone who danced better?'
I had, but she certainly danced very well. She was light on her feet and she had a good sense of rhythm.
'Never,' I said heartily.
Morton was waiting for us when we reached Ciro's. He looked very sunburned in his evening clothes. Perhaps it was because I knew that they had been wrapped away in a tin box with mothballs for four years that I felt he did not look quite at home in them. He was certainly more at ease in khaki shorts. Charlie Bishop was a good talker and liked to hear himself speak. Morton was shy. I gave him a cocktail and ordered some champagne. I had a feeling that he would be glad to dance, but was not quite sure whether it would occur to him to ask Margery. I was acutely conscious that we all belonged to another generation.
'I think I should tell you that Mrs Bishop is a beautiful dancer,'I said.
'Is she?' He flushed a little. 'Will you dance with me?'
She got up and they took the floor. She was looking peculiarly nice that evening, not at all smart, and I do not think her plain black dress had cost more than six guineas, but she looked a lady. She had the advantage of having extremely good legs and at that time skirts were still being worn very short. I suppose she had a little make-up on, but in contrast with the other women there she looked very natural. Shingled hair suited her; it was not even touched with white and it had an attractive sheen. She was not a pretty woman, but her kindliness, her wholesome air, her good health gave you, if not the illusion that she was, at least the feeling that it didn't at all matter. When she came back to the table her eyes were bright and she had a heightened colour.
'How does he dance?' asked her husband.
'Divinely.'
'You're very easy to dance with,' said Morton.
Charlie went on with his discourse. He had a sardonic humour and he was interesting because he was himself so interested in what he said. But he spoke of things that Morton knew nothing about and though he listened with a civil show of interest I could see that he was too much excited by the gaiety of the scene, the music, and the champagne to give his attention to conversation. When the music struck up again his eyes immediately sought Margery's. Charlie caught the look and smiled.
'Dance with him, Margery. Good for my figure to see you take exercise.'
They set off again and for a moment Charlie watched her with fond eyes.
'Margery's having the time of her life. She loves dancing and it makes me puff and blow. Not a bad youth.'
My little party was quite a success and when Morton and I, having taken leave of the Bishops, walked together towards Piccadilly Circus he thanked me warmly. He had really enjoyed himself. I said good-bye to him. Next morning I went abroad.
I was sorry not to have been able to do more for Morton and I knew that when I returned he would be on his way back to Borneo. I gave him a passing thought now and then, but by the autumn when I got home he had slipped my memory. After I had been in London a week or so I happened to drop in one night at the club to which Charlie Bishop also belonged. He was sitting with three or four men I knew and I went up. I had not seen any of them since my return. One of them, a man called Bill Marsh, whose wife, Janet, was a great friend of mine, asked me to have a drink.
'Where have you sprung from?' asked Charlie. 'Haven't seen you about lately.'
I noticed at once that he was drunk. I was astonished. Charlie had always liked his liquor, but he carried it well and never exceeded. In years gone by, when we were very young, he got tight occasionally, but probably more than anything to show what a great fellow he was, and it is unfair to bring up against a man the excesses of his youth. But I remembered that Charlie had never been very nice when he was drunk: his natural aggressiveness was exaggerated then and he talked too much and too loud; he was very apt to be quarrelsome. He was very dogmatic now, laying down the law and refusing to listen to any of the objections his rash statements called forth. The others knew he was drunk and were struggling between the irritation his cantankerousness aroused in them and the good-natured tolerance which they felt his condition demanded. He was not an agreeable object. A man of that age, bald and fattish, with spectacles, is disgusting drunk. He was generally rather dapper, but he was untidy now and there was tobacco ash all over him. Charlie called the waiter and ordered another whisky. The waiter had been at the club for thirty years.
'You've got one in front of you, sir.'
'Mind your own damned business,' said Charlie Bishop. 'Bring me a double whisky right away or I'll report you to the secretary for insolence.'
'Very good, sir,' said the waiter.
Charlie emptied his glass at a gulp, but his hand was unsteady and he spilled some of the whisky over himself.
'Well, Charlie, old boy, we'd better be toddling along. said Bill Marsh. He turned to me. 'Charlie's staying with us for a bit.'
I was more surprised still. But I felt that something was wrong and thought it safer not to say anything.
'I'm ready,' said Charlie. 'I'll just have another drink before I go. I shall have a better night if I do.'
It did not look to me as though the party would break up for some time, so I got up and announced that I meant to stroll home.
'I say,' said Bill, as I was about to go, 'you wouldn't come and dine with us tomorrow night, would you, just me and Janet and Charlie?'
'Yes, I'll come with pleasure,' I said.
It was evident that something was up.
The Marshes lived in a terrace on the East side of Regent's Park. The maid who opened the door for me asked me to go in to Mr Marsh's study. He was waiting for me there.
'I thought I'd better have a word with you before you went upstairs,' he said as he shook hands with me. 'You know Margery's left Charlie?'
'No!'
'He's taken it very hard. Janet thought it was so awful for him alone in that beastly little flat that we asked him to stay here for a bit. We've done everything we could for him. He's been drinking like a fish. He hasn't slept a wink for a fortnight.'
'But she hasn't left him for good?'
I was astounded.
'Yes. She's crazy about a fellow called Morton.'
'Morton. Who's he?'
It never struck me it was my friend from Borneo.
'Damn it all, you introduced him and a pretty piece of work you did. Let's go upstairs. I thought I'd better put you wise.'
He opened the door and we went out. I was thoroughly confused.
'But look here,' I said.
'Ask Janet. She knows the whole thing. It beats me. I've got no patience with Margery, and he must be a mess.'
He preceded me into the drawing-room. Janet Marsh rose as I entered and came forward to greet me. Charlie was sitting at the window, reading the evening paper; he put it aside as I went up to h
im and shook his hand. He was quite sober and he spoke in his usual rather perky manner, but I noticed that he looked very ill. We had a glass of sherry and went down to dinner. Janet was a woman of spirit. She was tall and fair and good to look at. She kept the conversation going with alertness. When she left us to drink a glass of port it was with instructions not to stay more than ten minutes. Bill, as a rule somewhat taciturn, exerted himself now to talk. I tumbled to the game. I was hampered by my ignorance of what exactly had happened, but it was plain that the Marshes wanted to prevent Charlie from brooding, and I did my best to interest him. He seemed willing to play his part, he was always fond of holding forth, and he discussed, from the pathologist's standpoint, a murder that was just then absorbing the public. But he spoke without life. He was an empty shell, and one had the feeling that though for the sake of his host he forced himself to speak, his thoughts were elsewhere. It was a relief when a knocking on the floor above indicated to us that Janet was getting impatient. This was an occasion when a woman's presence eased the situation. We went upstairs and played family bridge. When it was time for me to go Charlie said he would walk with me as far as the Marylebone Road.
'Oh, Charlie, it's so late, you'd much better go to bed,' said Janet.
'I shall sleep better if I have a stroll before turning in,' he replied.
She gave him a worried look. You cannot forbid a middle-aged professor of pathology from going for a little walk if he wants to. She glanced brightly at her husband.
'I daresay it'll do Bill no harm.'
I think the remark was tactless. Women are often a little too managing. Charlie gave her a sullen look.
'There's absolutely no need to drag Bill out,' he said with some firmness.
'I haven't the smallest intention of coming,' said Bill, smiling. 'I'm tired out and I'm going to hit the hay.'
I fancy we left Bill Marsh and his wife to a little argument.
'They've been frightfully kind to me,' said Charlie, as we walked along by the railings. 'I don't know what I should have done without them. I haven't slept for a fortnight.'
I expressed regret but did not ask the reason, and we walked for a little in silence. I presumed that he had come with me in order to talk to me of what had happened, but I felt that he must take his own time. I was anxious to show my sympathy, but afraid of saying the wrong things; I did not want to seem eager to extract confidences from him. I did not know how to give him a lead. I was sure he did not want one. He was not a man given to beating about the bush. I imagined that he was choosing his words. We reached the corner.
'You'll be able to get a taxi at the church,' he said. 'I'll walk on a bit further. Good night.'
He nodded and slouched off. I was taken aback. There was nothing for me to do but to stroll on till I found a cab. I was having my bath next morning when a telephone call dragged me out of it, and with a towel round my wet body I took up the receiver. It was Janet.
'Well, what do you think of it all?' she said. 'You seem to have kept Charlie up pretty late last night. I heard him come home at three.'
'He left me at the Marylebone Road,' I answered. 'He said nothing to me at all.'
'Didn't he?'
There was something in Janet's voice that suggested that she was prepared to have a long talk with me. I suspected she had a telephone by the side of her bed.
'Look here,' I said quickly. 'I'm having my bath.'
'Oh, have you got a telephone in your bathroom?' she answered eagerly, and I think with envy.
'No, I haven't.' I was abrupt and firm. 'And I'm dripping all over the carpet.'
'Oh!' I felt disappointment in her tone and a trace of irritation. 'Well, when can I see you? Can you come here at twelve?'
It was inconvenient, but I was not prepared to start an argument.
'Yes, good-bye.'
I rang off before she could say anything more. In heaven when the blessed use the telephone they will say what they have to say and not a word beside.
I was devoted to Janet, but I knew that there was nothing that thrilled her more than the misfortunes of her friends. She was only too anxious to help them, but she wanted to be in the thick of their difficulties. She was the friend in adversity. Other people's business was meat and drink to her. You could not enter upon a love affair without finding her somehow your confidante nor be mixed up in a divorce case without discovering that she too had a finger in the pie. Withal she was a very nice woman. I could not help then chuckling in my heart when at noon I was shown into Janet's drawing-room and observed the subdued eagerness with which she received me. She was very much upset by the catastrophe that had befallen the Bishops, but it was exciting, and she was tickled to death to have someone fresh whom she could tell all about it. Janet had just that business-like expectancy that a mother has when she is discussing with the family doctor her married daughter's first confinement. Janet was conscious that the matter was very serious, and she would not for a moment have been thought to regard it flippantly, but she was determined to get every ounce of value out of it.
'I mean, no one could have been more horrified than I was when Margery told me she'd finally made up her mind to leave Charlie,' she said, speaking with the fluency of a person who has said the same thing in the same words a dozen times at least. 'They were the most devoted couple I'd ever known. It was a perfect marriage. They got on like a house on fire. Of course Bill and I are devoted to one another, but we have awful rows now and then. I mean, I could kill him sometimes.'
'I don't care a hang about your relations with Bill,' I said. 'Tell me about the Bishops. That's what I've come here for.'
'I simply felt I must see you. After all you're the only person who can explain it.'
'Oh, God, don't go on like that. Until Bill told me last night I didn't know a thing about it.'
'That was my idea. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps you didn't know and I thought you might put your foot in it too awfully.'
'Supposing you began at the beginning,' I said.
'Well, you're the beginning. After all you started the trouble. You introduced the young man. That's why I was so crazy to see you. You know all about him. I never saw him. All I know is what Margery has told me about him.'
'At what time are you lunching?' I asked.
'Half past one.'
'So am I. Get on with the story.'
But my remark had given Janet an idea.
'Look here, will you get out of your luncheon if I get out of mine? We could have a snack here. I'm sure there's some cold meat in the house, and then we needn't hurry. I don't have to be at the hairdresser's till three.'
'No, no, no,' I said. 'I hate the notion of that. I shall leave here at twenty minutes past one at the latest.'
'Then I shall just have to race through it. What do you think of Gerry?'
'Who's Gerry?'
'Gerry Morton. His name's Gerald.'
'How should I know that?'
'You stayed with him. Weren't there any letters lying about?'
'I daresay, but I didn't happen to read them,' I answered somewhat tartly.
'Oh, don't be so stupid. I meant the envelopes. What's he like?'
'All right. Rather the Kipling type, you know. Very keen on his work. Hearty. Empire-builder and all that sort of thing.'
'I don't mean that,' cried Janet, not without impatience. 'I mean, what does he look like?'
'More or less like everybody else, I think. Of course I should recognize him if I saw him again, but I can't picture him to myself very distinctly. He looks clean.'
'Oh, my God,' said Janet. 'Are you a novelist or are you not? What's the colour of his eyes?'
'I don't know.'
'You must know. You can't spend a week with anyone without knowing if their eyes are blue or brown. Is he fair or dark?'
'Neither.'
'Is he tall or short?'
'Average, I should say.'
'Are you trying to irritate me?'
'No. He's j
ust ordinary. There's nothing in him to attract your attention. He's neither plain nor good-looking. He looks quite decent. He looks a gentleman.'
'Margery says he has a charming smile and a lovely figure.'
'I dare say.'
'He's absolutely crazy about her.'
'What makes you think that?' I asked dryly.
'I've seen his letters.'
'Do you mean to say she's shown them to you?'
'Why, of course.'
It is always difficult for a man to stomach the want of reticence that women betray in their private affairs. They have no shame. They will talk to one another without embarrassment of the most intimate matters. Modesty is a masculine virtue. But though a man may know this theoretically, each time he is confronted with women's lack of reserve he suffers a new shock. I wondered what Morton would think if he knew that not only were his letters read by Janet Marsh as well as by Margery, but that she had been kept posted from day to day with the progress of his infatuation. According to Janet he had fallen in love with Margery at first sight. The morning after they had met at my little supper party at Ciro's he had rung up and asked her to come and have tea with him at some place where they could dance. While I listened to Janet's story I was conscious of course that she was giving me Margery's view of the circumstances and I kept an open mind. I was interested to observe that Janet's sympathies were with Margery. It was true that when Margery left her husband it was her idea that Charlie should come to them for two or three weeks rather than stay on in miserable loneliness in the deserted flat and she had been extraordinarily kind to him. She lunched with him almost every day, because he had been accustomed to lunch every day with Margery; she took him for walks in Regent's Park and made Bill play golf with him on Sundays. She listened with wonderful patience to the story of his unhappiness and did what she could to console him. She was terribly sorry for him. But all the same she was definitely on Margery's side and when I expressed my disapproval of her she came down on me like a thousand of bricks. The affair thrilled her. She had been in it from the beginning when Margery, smiling, flattered, and a little doubtful, came and told her that she had a young man to the final scene when Margery, exasperated and distraught, announced that she could not stand the strain any more and had packed her things and moved out of the flat.
Collected Short Stories Volume 2 Page 21
