“She—mentioned it,” he said thoughtfully.
I didn’t ask for details. Women with hair and chins like Mary’s may be
angels most of the time, but, when they take off their wings for a bit,
they aren’t half-hearted about it.
“To be absolutely frank, old top,” said poor old Bobbie, in a broken
sort of way, “my stock’s pretty low at home.”
There didn’t seem much to be done. I just lit a cigarette and sat
there. He didn’t want to talk. Presently he went out. I stood at the
window of our upper smoking-room, which looks out on to Piccadilly, and
watched him. He walked slowly along for a few yards, stopped, then
walked on again, and finally turned into a jeweller’s. Which was an
instance of what I meant when I said that deep down in him there was a
certain stratum of sense.
It was from now on that I began to be really interested in this problem
of Bobbie’s married life. Of course, one’s always mildly interested in
one’s friends’ marriages, hoping they’ll turn out well and all that;
but this was different. The average man isn’t like Bobbie, and the
average girl isn’t like Mary. It was that old business of the immovable
mass and the irresistible force. There was Bobbie, ambling gently
through life, a dear old chap in a hundred ways, but undoubtedly a
chump of the first water.
And there was Mary, determined that he shouldn’t be a chump. And
Nature, mind you, on Bobbie’s side. When Nature makes a chump like dear
old Bobbie, she’s proud of him, and doesn’t want her handiwork
disturbed. She gives him a sort of natural armour to protect him
against outside interference. And that armour is shortness of memory.
Shortness of memory keeps a man a chump, when, but for it, he might
cease to be one. Take my case, for instance. I’m a chump. Well, if I
had remembered half the things people have tried to teach me during my
life, my size in hats would be about number nine. But I didn’t. I
forgot them. And it was just the same with Bobbie.
For about a week, perhaps a bit more, the recollection of that quiet
little domestic evening bucked him up like a tonic. Elephants, I read
somewhere, are champions at the memory business, but they were fools to
Bobbie during that week. But, bless you, the shock wasn’t nearly big
enough. It had dinted the armour, but it hadn’t made a hole in it.
Pretty soon he was back at the old game.
It was pathetic, don’t you know. The poor girl loved him, and she was
frightened. It was the thin edge of the wedge, you see, and she knew
it. A man who forgets what day he was married, when he’s been married
one year, will forget, at about the end of the fourth, that he’s
married at all. If she meant to get him in hand at all, she had got to
do it now, before he began to drift away.
I saw that clearly enough, and I tried to make Bobbie see it, when he
was by way of pouring out his troubles to me one afternoon. I can’t
remember what it was that he had forgotten the day before, but it was
something she had asked him to bring home for her—it may have been a
book.
“It’s such a little thing to make a fuss about,” said Bobbie. “And she
knows that it’s simply because I’ve got such an infernal memory about
everything. I can’t remember anything. Never could.”
He talked on for a while, and, just as he was going, he pulled out a
couple of sovereigns.
“Oh, by the way,” he said.
“What’s this for?” I asked, though I knew.
“I owe it you.”
“How’s that?” I said.
“Why, that bet on Tuesday. In the billiard-room. Murray and Brown were
playing a hundred up, and I gave you two to one that Brown would win,
and Murray beat him by twenty odd.”
“So you do remember some things?” I said.
He got quite excited. Said that if I thought he was the sort of rotter
who forgot to pay when he lost a bet, it was pretty rotten of me after
knowing him all these years, and a lot more like that.
“Subside, laddie,” I said.
Then I spoke to him like a father.
“What you’ve got to do, my old college chum,” I said, “is to pull
yourself together, and jolly quick, too. As things are shaping, you’re
due for a nasty knock before you know what’s hit you. You’ve got to
make an effort. Don’t say you can’t. This two quid business shows that,
even if your memory is rocky, you can remember some things. What you’ve
got to do is to see that wedding anniversaries and so on are included
in the list. It may be a brain-strain, but you can’t get out of it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Bobbie. “But it beats me why she thinks
such a lot of these rotten little dates. What’s it matter if I forgot
what day we were married on or what day she was born on or what day the
cat had the measles? She knows I love her just as much as if I were a
memorizing freak at the halls.”
“That’s not enough for a woman,” I said. “They want to be shown. Bear
that in mind, and you’re all right. Forget it, and there’ll be
trouble.”
He chewed the knob of his stick.
“Women are frightfully rummy,” he said gloomily.
“You should have thought of that before you married one,” I said.
I don’t see that I could have done any more. I had put the whole thing
in a nutshell for him. You would have thought he’d have seen the point,
and that it would have made him brace up and get a hold on himself. But
no. Off he went again in the same old way. I gave up arguing with him.
I had a good deal of time on my hands, but not enough to amount to
anything when it was a question of reforming dear old Bobbie by
argument. If you see a man asking for trouble, and insisting on getting
it, the only thing to do is to stand by and wait till it comes to him.
After that you may get a chance. But till then there’s nothing to be
done. But I thought a lot about him.
Bobbie didn’t get into the soup all at once. Weeks went by, and months,
and still nothing happened. Now and then he’d come into the club with a
kind of cloud on his shining morning face, and I’d know that there had
been doings in the home; but it wasn’t till well on in the spring that
he got the thunderbolt just where he had been asking for it—in the
thorax.
I was smoking a quiet cigarette one morning in the window looking out
over Piccadilly, and watching the buses and motors going up one way and
down the other—most interesting it is; I often do it—when in rushed
Bobbie, with his eyes bulging and his face the colour of an oyster,
waving a piece of paper in his hand.
“Reggie,” he said. “Reggie, old top, she’s gone!”
“Gone!” I said. “Who?”
“Mary, of course! Gone! Left me! Gone!”
“Where?” I said.
Silly question? Perhaps you’re right. Anyhow, dear old Bobbie nearly
foamed at the mouth.
“Where? How should I know where? Here, read this.”
He pushed the paper into my hand. It was a letter.
“Go on,” said Bobbie. “Read it.”
So I did. It certainly was quite a letter. There was not much of it,
but it was all to the point. This is what it said:
“MY DEAR BOBBIE,—I am going away. When you care enough about me to
remember to wish me many happy returns on my birthday, I will come
back. My address will be Box 341, _London Morning News_.”