Unfinished Portrait. Агата Кристи
come back, perhaps, my pet.’
‘He’s just gone to fly round. We’ll put his cage outside the window.’
But Celia cried inconsolably. Birds pecked canaries to death—she had heard someone say so. Goldie was dead—dead somewhere under the trees. She would never feel his little beak again. She cried on and off all day. She would not eat either her dinner or her tea. Goldie’s cage outside the window remained empty.
At last bedtime came. Celia lay in her little white bed. She still sobbed automatically. She held her mother’s hand very tight. She wanted Mummy more than Nannie. Nannie had suggested that Celia’s father would perhaps give her another bird. Mother knew better than that. It wasn’t just a bird she wanted—after all, she still had Daphne—it was Goldie. Oh! Goldie—Goldie—Goldie … She loved Goldie—and he was gone—pecked to death. She squeezed her mother’s hand frenziedly. Her mother squeezed back.
And then, in the silence broken only by Celia’s heavy breathing, there came a little sound—the tweet of a bird.
Master Goldie flew down from the top of the curtain pole where he had been roosting quietly all day.
All her life Celia never forgot the incredulous wonderful joy of that moment …
It became a saying in the family when you began to worry over anything:
‘Now, then, remember Goldie and the curtain pole!’
The Gun Man dream changed. It got, somehow, more frightening.
The dream would start well. It would be a happy dream—a picnic or a party. And suddenly, just when you were having lots of fun, a queer feeling crept over you. Something was wrong somewhere … What was it? Why, of course, the Gun Man was there. But he wasn’t himself. One of the guests was the Gun Man …
And the awful part of it was, he might be anybody. You looked at them. Everyone was gay, laughing and talking. And then suddenly you knew. It might be Mummy or Daddy or Nannie—someone you were just talking to: You looked up in Mummy’s face—of course it was Mummy—and then you saw the light steely-blue eyes—and from the sleeve of Mummy’s dress—oh, horror!—that horrible stump. It wasn’t Mummy—it was the Gun Man … And you woke screaming …
And you couldn’t explain to anyone—to Mummy or to Nannie—it didn’t sound frightening just told. Someone said: ‘There, there, you’ve had a bad dream, my dearie,’ and patted you. And presently you went to sleep again—but you didn’t like going to sleep because the dream might come again.
Celia would say desperately to herself in the dark night: ‘Mummy isn’t the Gun Man. She isn’t. She isn’t. I know she isn’t. She’s Mummy.’
But in the night, with the shadows and the dream still clinging round you, it was difficult to be sure of anything. Perhaps nothing was what it seemed and you had always known it really.
‘Miss Celia had another bad dream last night, ma’am.’
‘What was it, Nurse?’
‘Something about a man with a gun, ma’am.’
Celia would say:
‘No, Mummy, not a man with a gun. The Gun Man. My Gun Man.’
‘Were you afraid he’d shoot you, darling? Was it that?’
Celia shook her head—shivered.
She couldn’t explain.
Her mother didn’t try to make her. She said very gently:
‘You’re quite safe, darling, here with us. No one can hurt you.’
That was comforting.
‘Nannie, what’s that word there—on that poster—the big one?’
‘“Comforting”, dear. “Make yourself a comforting cup of tea.”’
This went on every day. Celia displayed an insatiable curiosity about words. She knew her letters, but her mother had a prejudice against children being taught to read too early.
‘I shan’t begin teaching Celia to read till she is six.’
But theories of education do not always turn out as planned. By the time she was five and a half Celia could read all the story books in the nursery shelves, and practically all the words on the posters. It was true that at times she became confused between words. She would come to Nannie and say, ‘Please, Nannie, is this word “greedy” or “selfish”? I can’t remember.’ Since she read by sight and not by spelling out the words, spelling was to be a difficulty to her all her life.
Celia found reading enchanting. It opened a new world to her, a world of fairies, witches, hobgoblins, trolls. Fairy stories were her passion. Stories of real-life children did not much interest her.
She had few children of her own age to play with. Her home was in a remote spot and motors were as yet few and far between. There was one little girl a year older than herself—Margaret McCrae. Occasionally Margaret would be asked to tea, or Celia would be asked to tea with her. But on these occasions Celia would beg frenziedly not to go.
‘Why, darling, don’t you like Margaret?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then why?’
Celia could only shake her head.
‘She’s shy,’ said Cyril scornfully.
‘It’s absurd not to want to see other children,’ said her father. ‘It’s unnatural.’
‘Perhaps Margaret teases her?’ said her mother.
‘No,’ cried Celia, and burst into tears.
She could not explain. She simply could not explain. And yet the facts were so simple. Margaret had lost all her front teeth. Her words came out very fast in a hissing manner—and Celia could never understand properly what she was saying. The climax had occurred when Margaret had accompanied her for a walk. She had said: ‘I’ll tell you a nice story, Celia,’ and had straight away embarked upon it—hissing and lisping about a ‘Printheth and poithoned thweth.’ Celia listened in an agony. Occasionally Margaret would stop and demand: ‘Ithn’t it a nithe thtory?’ Celia, concealing valiantly the fact that she had not the faintest idea what the story was about, would try to answer intelligently. And inwardly, as was her habit, she would have recourse to prayer.
‘Oh, please, please, God, let me get home soon—don’t let her know I don’t know. Oh, let’s get home soon—please, God.’
In some obscure way she felt that to let Margaret know that her speech was incomprehensible would be the height of cruelty. Margaret must never know.
But the strain was awful. She would reach home white and tearful. Everyone thought that she didn’t like Margaret. And really it was the opposite. It was because she liked Margaret so much that she could not bear Margaret to know.
And nobody understood—nobody at all. It made Celia feel queer and panic stricken and horribly lonely.
On Thursdays there was dancing class. The first time Celia went she was very frightened. The room was full of children—big dazzling children in silken skirts.
In the middle of the room, fitting on a long pair of white gloves, was Miss Mackintosh, who was quite the most awe-inspiring but at the same time fascinating person that Celia had ever seen. Miss Mackintosh was very tall—quite the tallest person in the world, so Celia thought. (In later life it came as a shock to Celia to realize that Miss Mackintosh was only just over medium height. She had achieved her effect by billowing skirts, her terrific uprightness, and sheer personality.)
‘Ah!’ said Miss Mackintosh graciously. ‘So this is Celia. Miss Tenderden?’
Miss Tenderden, an anxious-looking creature who danced