‘Like you,’ my friend said.
‘Yes, to some extent. I couldn’t have put myself in his shoes—identified myself with him, or whatever you call it—if he hadn’t been. And he was about my age—I was twenty-eight at the time——’
‘How long ago was it?’
‘About six years. Like me, he was an athlete in a sort of way, and we had other things in common. I worked for a firm in the City, as I daresay you remember——’
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘And they used to let me off for Rugger matches, even in the middle of the week. I think they felt I gave them some prestige—though God knows how. The fellow in the story was a policeman——’
‘You look rather like a policeman,’ said my friend.
‘Yes, I’ve been told so. He went in for wrestling, and sometimes he was excused duty, to take part in a scrap on the mat. Well, this policeman was in love with a girl, but she didn’t care for him—I mean she quite liked him, but she was in love with another fellow, a violinist in an orchestra he was, with spectacles and hair falling over his eyes—not the sort of man you’d think a girl would take to.’
I regretted having said this, for my friend was no oil-painting. He was undersized and he wore spectacles. But he was so well known in his own walk of life that I didn’t think his appearance mattered to him.
‘Did the policeman and the violinist ever meet?’ he asked me.
‘No, but she used to tell the policeman about him when she was explaining why she couldn’t marry him.’
‘Oh, they were on those terms?’
‘They walked out together quite a lot. She explained that she felt protective towards the violinist, which she couldn’t towards a policeman, and this policeman was a particularly protective type, besides being a grappler.’
‘And you?’ my friend said.
‘I was courting too, and the girl had a boy-friend, but she was different—she was cagey about him and never let on who he was. But she did say she felt protective towards him. “It’s a man’s job to protect a woman,” I used to tell her, but she couldn’t see it that way. In the end I got thoroughly fed up.’
‘You’re telling your own story now.’
‘Only to show the similarities and the differences. I was on a spot just like the policeman was. His mat-work suffered, he lost his appetite, and when he was on the beat he started imagining things—a man with a sack on his shoulder who went into a cul-de-sac (no pun intended) and disappeared—I can’t remember the details. And something about seeing an old illuminated manuscript in an ash-can, and when he went back for it, it wasn’t there. He thought he was going potty, and all because of this girl.’
‘What was she like?’ my friend asked.
‘I think she was slight and dark and not specially pretty, but she had it for him. Well, one morning about nine o’clock he was strolling along some London street in a dazed sort of way, not having slept—they didn’t use sleeping-pills so much in those days—and he slipped on a piece of banana-skin and fell down and couldn’t get up. Of course he knew about First Aid and those things, and he knew that something must be wrong. So he just lay there. As it happened there weren’t many people about, but presently a girl came up to him, and it was——’
‘You needn’t tell me,’ my friend said. ‘It was the girl he was in love with. Talk of coincidences!’
‘But they happen, don’t they? And many people’s lives turn on them. Well, she saw him lying there, looking very pale, with his helmet in the gutter and his leg twisted under him, and in spite of that she recognized him and called for help, and they got him into an ambulance and took him to hospital, and it turned out that his knee-cap was fractured, pretty badly. The surgeon made a mess of setting it, so in the end not only did he have to give up wrestling, he had to leave the police and get a job as a doorman. But——’
‘The girl married him,’ my friend said.
‘How did you guess? She was sorry for him, you see. She thought she could give him something that he needed.’
‘And they lived happily ever after?’
‘No, not quite. He took to drink, as doormen often do; they work such long hours, they often drop in for a quick one—and the glow of self-sacrifice got a bit dim and sometimes she wished she hadn’t made it. That’s life, of course.’
My friend agreed. ‘But where do you come in?’
‘Well,’ I said, and somehow it wasn’t easy to go on. ‘I kept thinking about the story and the more I thought about it the more I got into the policeman’s state of mind—half-desperate, you know. I hadn’t minded so much before I heard it. I had other girls in my life but the policeman’s story seemed to pin-point this one.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Rosemary.’
My friend made no comment, and I went on, ‘Then it occurred to me, Why don’t I do what the policeman did? And then I laughed because of what you were saying, was it likely I should slip on a banana-skin just as Rosemary happened to pass by? The chances were too much against it. All the same, the thought kept nagging me, and one evening when she told me she had almost made up her mind to marry this chap—whoever he was—are you married, by the way?’
‘No,’ my friend said.
‘Take my advice, and don’t be. Well, that piece of news jolted my imagination and gave me an idea. Why shouldn’t I stage an accident like the policeman’s? Not a serious one like his, of course, though I should make it look so—I should hobble away, leaning on her arm—and not just anywhere, I wasn’t too far gone to see how silly that would be. But I knew of course where Rosemary worked—she was secretary to some sort of executive in a street off Knightsbridge. I used to wonder if he was the man, typists so often fall for their employers. And I knew what time she had to clock in by—nine-thirty in the morning. We used to save up things to tell each other—I more than her. I had learned her daily schedule by heart—or all of it that mattered to me—so that whenever I thought about her, I should know what she was doing, at any given time. She took the bus along Knightsbridge and then walked down this side-street.’
‘And you relied on finding a convenient banana-skin?’
‘Ah, there I was clever. But to go back. I worked, as I told you, in the City, practically the same hours as she did, and the City is a long way from Knightsbridge. How could I be there when she was? One afternoon I told my boss I wasn’t feeling well and could I have to-morrow off? I’d never gone sick before. I remember his reply, he said: “Yes, of course, Parminter. We’ve got to keep you fit, haven’t we, for the match on Saturday.” So the next morning I was there in Wilton Place, walking up and down and——’
‘Looking for a banana-skin?’ my friend asked.
‘No! Even in those days manners had changed, as you must have noticed, and street manners especially. I was eating a banana. Between bites I looked up and at last I saw her hurrying along, a little late, towards me. I dropped the banana-skin on the pavement, I put my foot on it, and down I went.’
‘Poor Parminter!’
‘Well, yes, you’re right. I was heavy then—I’m a good deal heavier now—and I came a terrific cropper. My head hit the pavement and I didn’t know where I was for a moment. Then I saw Rosemary bending over me.
‘ “Good God!” she said. “It’s Gerald! Are you hurt?” ’
I moaned, and tried to stir but couldn’t.
‘ “Darling,” she said—it was the first time she had ever called me “darling”—“I know I mustn’t try to move you, but I can kiss you,” and she did. Then she said, “I’ll get an ambulance.” I was still feeling groggy when the ambulance drove up, and it’s a blur what happened next, but they let her go with me. At the hospital they X-rayed me, in case I had broken any bones or cracked my skull (you may think it was cracked already!). I hadn’t, but they said they must detain me for the night for observation and I was put into a ward with several other cases—orthopaedic, it was called. Rosemary said she would go back to my flat and fetch the things I needed for the night. “Pyjamas? Toothbrush? Toothpaste? Hair-brush? Sponge? Razor? Shaving-brush? Shaving-cream? Bedroom-slippers, dressing-gown?” I had no idea she knew so much about a man’s requirements and it all sounded so intimate, as if I’d spent the night with her, which of course I never had—she was too keen on the other fellow. She was back within an hour, but they wouldn’t let her see me, because by that time I was suffering from shock—uncontrollable shivers was the form it took. They gave me strong sweet tea and put hot-water bottles round me, I remember. Oh, what a fool I felt, and frightened too: I thought I might have injured myself for life. And what was so mortifying, I had had scores of tumbles playing football, and thought I had learned how to fall. After a time the shivering wore off and then they told me that during the lunch-hour the young lady had telephoned about me twice; she sounded upset, the nurse said, but very sweet. Then a bunch of roses was brought in—roses in February, think of the expense! I took them with me when I left next morning—my bed was needed for another patient. But I could still hardly move: I had a bruise right from my ankle to my hip, and had to be helped into the ambulance and upstairs to my flat. I couldn’t get about for several days, and might have starved if Rosemary hadn’t come to my rescue. Of course, I missed the match.’