The Moving Finger. Agatha Christie
I could think of nothing more insufferable than members of one’s own gang dropping in full of sympathy and their own affairs.
‘But Jerry, you’re looking marvellous—isn’t he? Absolutely. Darling, I must tell you—What do you think Buster has done now?’
No, none of that for me. Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.
So it came about that Joanna and I, sorting wildly through house-agents’ glowing eulogies of properties all over the British Isles, selected Little Furze, Lymstock, as one of the ‘possibles’ to be viewed, mainly because we had never been to Lymstock, and knew no one in that neighbourhood.
And when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once that it was just the house we wanted.
It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to the moors. It was a prim low white house, with a sloping Victorian veranda painted a faded green. It had a pleasant view over a slope of heather-covered land with the church spire of Lymstock down below to the left.
It had belonged to a family of maiden ladies, the Misses Barton, of whom only one was left, the youngest, Miss Emily.
Miss Emily Barton was a charming little old lady who matched her house in an incredible way. In a soft apologetic voice she explained to Joanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never have thought of doing so, ‘but you see, my dear, things are so different nowadays—taxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe, as I always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommended some of them, but they seem to be paying nothing at all these days—foreign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (I’m sure you will understand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind) like the idea of letting one’s house to strangers—but something must be done, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you being here—it needs, you know, young life. And I must confess I did shrink from the idea of having Men here!’
At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily rallied well.
‘Oh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men. Still, your brother will be practically an invalid—’
The thought seemed to soothe the gentle little lady. Presumably I should not be indulging in those grosser masculine activities which Emily Barton feared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.
‘Like a chimney,’ said Joanna. ‘But then,’ she pointed out, ‘so do I.’
‘Of course, of course. So stupid of me. I’m afraid, you know, I haven’t moved with the times. My sisters were all older than myself, and my dear mother lived to be ninety-seven—just fancy!—and was most particular. Yes, yes, everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ash-trays in the house.’
Joanna said that we would bring lots of ash-trays, and she added with a smile, ‘We won’t put down cigarette ends on your nice furniture, that I do promise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.’
So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months, with an option of another three, and Emily Barton explained to Joanna that she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was going into rooms kept by an old parlourmaid, ‘my faithful Florence’, who had married ‘after being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl, and her husband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Street and two beautiful rooms on the top floor where I shall be most comfortable, and Florence so pleased to have me.’
So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement was signed and in due course Joanna and I arrived and settled in, and Miss Emily Barton’s maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were well looked after with the assistance of a ‘girl’ who came in every morning and who seemed to be half-witted but amiable.
Partridge, a gaunt dour female of middle age, cooked admirably, and though disapproving of late dinner (it having been Miss Emily’s custom to dine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to our ways and went so far as to admit that she could see I needed my strength building up.
When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Barton came solemnly and left cards. Her example was followed by Mrs Symmington, the lawyer’s wife, Miss Griffith, the doctor’s sister, Mrs Dane Calthrop, the vicar’s wife, and Mr Pye of Prior’s End.
Joanna was very much impressed.
‘I didn’t know,’ she said in an awestruck voice, ‘that people really called—with cards.’
‘That is because, my child,’ I said, ‘you know nothing about the country.’
‘Nonsense. I’ve stayed away for heaps of week-ends with people.’
‘That is not at all the same thing,’ I said.
I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the big white shabby untidy house we had with the fields running down to the river. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes unseen by the gardener, and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an orange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs kicking something in the stables.
But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London with an aunt, and thereafter our Christmas and Easter holidays were spent there with pantomimes and theatres and cinemas and excursions to Kensington Gardens with boats, and later to skating rinks. In August we were taken to an hotel by the seaside somewhere.
Reflecting on this, I said thoughtfully to Joanna, and with a feeling of compunction as I realized what a selfish, self-centred invalid I had become:
‘This is going to be pretty frightful for you, I’m afraid. You’ll miss everything so.’
For Joanna is very pretty and very gay, and she likes dancing and cocktails, and love affairs and rushing about in high-powered cars.
Joanna laughed and said she didn’t mind at all.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad to get away from it all. I really was fed up with the whole crowd, and although you won’t be sympathetic, I was really very cut up about Paul. It will take me a long time to get over it.’
I was sceptical over this. Joanna’s love affairs always run the same course. She has a mad infatuation for some completely spineless young man who is a misunderstood genius. She listens to his endless complaints and works like anything to get him recognition. Then, when he is ungrateful, she is deeply wounded and says her heart is broken—until the next gloomy young man comes along, which is usually about three weeks later!
So I did not take Joanna’s broken heart very seriously. But I did see that living in the country was like a new game to my attractive sister.
‘At any rate,’ she said, ‘I look all right, don’t I?’
I studied her critically and was not able to agree.
Joanna was dressed (by Mirotin) for le Sport. That is to say she was wearing a skirt of outrageous and preposterous checks. It was skin-tight, and on her upper half she had a ridiculous little short-sleeved jersey with a Tyrolean effect. She had sheer silk stockings and some irreproachable but brand new brogues.
‘No,’ I said, ‘you’re all wrong. You ought to be wearing a very old tweed skirt, preferably of dirty green or faded brown. You’d wear a nice cashmere jumper matching it, and perhaps a cardigan coat, and you’d have a felt hat and thick stockings and old shoes. Then, and only then, you’d sink into the background of Lymstock High Street, and not stand out as you do at present.’ I added: ‘Your face is all wrong, too.’
‘What’s wrong with that? I’ve got on my Country Tan Make-up No. 2.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘If you lived in Lymstock, you would have on just a little powder to