The Moving Finger. Agatha Christie
agreed.
‘Of course I’m pretty stupid,’ said Megan. ‘And such a lot of things seem to me such rot. History, for instance. Why, it’s quite different out of different books!’
‘That is its real interest,’ I said.
‘And grammar,’ went on Megan. ‘And silly compositions. And all the blathering stuff Shelley wrote, twittering on about skylarks, and Wordsworth going all potty over some silly daffodils. And Shakespeare.’
‘What’s wrong with Shakespeare?’ I inquired with interest.
‘Twisting himself up to say things in such a difficult way that you can’t get at what he means. Still, I like some Shakespeare.’
‘He would be gratified to know that, I’m sure,’ I said.
Megan suspected no sarcasm. She said, her face lighting up:
‘I like Goneril and Regan, for instance.’
‘Why these two?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re satisfactory, somehow. Why do you think they were like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like they were. I mean something must have made them like that?’
For the first time I wondered. I had always accepted Lear’s elder daughters as two nasty bits of goods and had let it go at that. But Megan’s demand for a first cause interested me.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter. I just wondered. Anyway, it’s only English Literature, isn’t it?’
‘Quite, quite. Wasn’t there any subject you enjoyed?’
‘Only Maths.’
‘Maths?’ I said, rather surprised.
Megan’s face had lit up.
‘I loved Maths. But it wasn’t awfully well taught. I’d like to be taught Maths really well. It’s heavenly. I think there’s something heavenly about numbers, anyway, don’t you?’
‘I’ve never felt it,’ I said truthfully.
We were now entering the High Street. Megan said sharply:
‘Here’s Miss Griffith. Hateful woman.’
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘I loathe her. She’s always at me to join her foul Guides. I hate Guides. Why dress yourself up and go about in clumps, and put badges on yourself for something you haven’t really learnt to do properly? I think it’s all rot.’
On the whole, I rather agreed with Megan. But Miss Griffith had descended on us before I could voice my assent.
The doctor’s sister, who rejoiced in the singularly inappropriate name of Aimée, had all the positive assurance that her brother lacked. She was a handsome woman in a masculine weather-beaten way, with a deep hearty voice.
‘Hallo, you two,’ she bayed at us. ‘Gorgeous morning, isn’t it? Megan, you’re just the person I wanted to see. I want some help addressing envelopes for the Conservative Association.’
Megan muttered something elusive, propped up her bicycle against the kerb and dived in a purposeful way into the International Stores.
‘Extraordinary child,’ said Miss Griffith, looking after her. ‘Bone lazy. Spends her time mooning about. Must be a great trial to poor Mrs Symmington. I know her mother’s tried more than once to get her to take up something—shorthand-typing, you know, or cookery, or keeping Angora rabbits. She needs an interest in life.’
I thought that was probably true, but felt that in Megan’s place I should have withstood firmly any of Aimée Griffith’s suggestions for the simple reason that her aggressive personality would have put my back up.
‘I don’t believe in idleness,’ went on Miss Griffith. ‘And certainly not for young people. It’s not as though Megan was pretty or attractive or anything like that. Sometimes I think the girl’s half-witted. A great disappointment to her mother. The father, you know,’ she lowered her voice slightly, ‘was definitely a wrong ’un. Afraid the child takes after him. Painful for her mother. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world, that’s what I say.’
‘Fortunately,’ I responded.
Aimée Griffith gave a ‘jolly’ laugh.
‘Yes, it wouldn’t do if we were all made to one pattern. But I don’t like to see anyone not getting all they can out of life. I enjoy life myself and I want everyone to enjoy it too. People say to me you must be bored to death living down there in the country all the year round. Not a bit of it, I say. I’m always busy, always happy! There’s always something going on in the country. My time’s taken up, what with my Guides, and the Institute and various committees—to say nothing of looking after Owen.’
At this minute, Miss Griffith saw an acquaintance on the other side of the street, and uttering a bay of recognition she leaped across the road, leaving me free to pursue my course to the bank.
I always found Miss Griffith rather overwhelming, though I admired her energy and vitality, and it was pleasant to see the beaming contentment with her lot in life which she always displayed, and which was a pleasant contrast to the subdued complaining murmurs of so many women.
My business at the bank transacted satisfactorily, I went on to the offices of Messrs Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington. I don’t know if there were any Galbraiths extant. I never saw any. I was shown into Richard Symmington’s inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm.
Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, William Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate long-established business.
Studying Mr Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought, it occurred to me that if Mrs Symmington had encountered disaster in her first marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Symmington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who would never give his wife a moment’s anxiety. A long neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindly man, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulses madly racing.
Presently Mr Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly, delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settled the matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so:
‘I walked down the hill with your step-daughter.’
For a moment Mr Symmington looked as though he did not know who his step-daughter was, then he smiled.
‘Oh yes, of course, Megan. She—er—has been back from school some time. We’re thinking about finding her something to do—yes, to do. But of course she’s very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes, so they tell me.’
I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writing slowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and pince-nez who was typing with some speed and dash.
If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passages between her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely.
I went into the baker’s and said my piece about the currant loaf. It was received with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, and a new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacement—‘fresh from the oven this minute’—as its indecent heat pressed against my chest proclaimed to be no less than truth.
I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to see Joanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awkward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf.
But there