Читать книгу Absent in the Spring - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 8

Joan stopped writing and glanced at her watch.

A quarter past twelve.

She had written three letters and her pen had now run out of ink. She noted, too, that she had nearly finished her writing pad. Rather annoying, that. There were several more people she could have written to.

Although, she mused, there was a certain sameness in writing after a while … The sun and the sand and how lovely it was to have time to rest and think! All quite true—but one got tired of trying to phrase the same facts slightly differently each time …

She yawned. The sun had really made her feel quite sleepy. After lunch she would lie on her bed and have a sleep.

She got up and strolled slowly back towards the rest house.

She wondered what Blanche was doing now. She must have reached Baghdad—she had joined her husband. The husband sounded rather a dreadful kind of man. Poor Blanche—dreadful to come down in the world like that. If it hadn’t been for that very good-looking young vet, Harry Marston—if Blanche had met some nice man like Rodney. Blanche herself had said how charming Rodney was.

Yes, and Blanche had said something else. What was it? Something about Rodney’s having a roving eye. Such a common expression—and quite untrue! Quite untrue! Rodney had never—never once—

The same thought as before, but not so snakelike in its rapidity, passed across the surface of Joan’s mind.

The Randolph girl …

Really, thought Joan indignantly, walking suddenly just a little faster as though to outpace some unwelcome thought, I can’t imagine why I keep thinking of the Randolph girl. It’s not as though Rodney …

I mean, there’s nothing in it …

Nothing at all …

It was simply that Myrna Randolph was that kind of a girl. A big, dark, luscious-looking girl. A girl who, if she took a fancy to a man, didn’t seem to have any reticence about advertising the fact.

To speak plainly, she’d made a dead set at Rodney. Kept saying how wonderful he was. Always wanted him for a partner at tennis. Had even got a habit of sitting at parties devouring him with her eyes.

Naturally Rodney had been a little flattered. Any man would have been. In fact, it would have been quite ridiculous if Rodney hadn’t been flattered and pleased by the attentions of a girl years younger than he was and one of the best-looking girls in the town.

Joan thought to herself, if I hadn’t been clever and tactful about the whole thing …

She reviewed her conduct with a gentle glow of self-approbation. She had handled the situation very well—very well indeed. The light touch.

‘Your girl friend’s waiting for you, Rodney. Don’t keep her waiting … Myrna Randolph of course … Oh yes, she is, darling … Really she makes herself quite ridiculous sometimes.’

Rodney had grumbled.

‘I don’t want to play tennis with the girl. Put her in that other set.’

‘Now don’t be ungracious, Rodney. You must play with her.’

That was the right way to handle things—lightly—playfully. Showing quite well that she knew that there couldn’t be anything serious in it …

It must have been rather nice for Rodney—for all that he growled and pretended to be annoyed. Myrna Randolph was the kind of girl that practically every man found attractive. She was capricious and treated her admirers with deep contempt, saying rude things to them and then beckoning them back to her with a sideways glance of the eyes.

Really, thought Joan (with a heat that was unusual in her) a most detestable girl. Doing everything she could to break up my married life.

No, she didn’t blame Rodney. She blamed the girl. Men were so easily flattered. And Rodney had been married then about—what—ten years? Eleven? Ten years was what writers called a dangerous period in married life. A time when one or the other party had a tendency to run off the rails. A time to get through warily until you settled down beyond it into comfortable, set ways.

As she and Rodney had …

No she didn’t blame Rodney—not even for that kiss she had surprised.

Under the mistletoe indeed!

That was what the girl had had the impudence to say when she came into the study.

‘We’re christening the mistletoe, Mrs Scudamore. Hope you don’t mind.’

Well, Joan thought, I kept my head and didn’t show anything.

‘Now, hands off my husband, Myrna! Go and find some young man of your own.’

And she had laughingly chivvied Myrna out of the room. Taking it all as a joke.

And then Rodney had said, ‘Sorry, Joan. But she’s an attractive wench—and it’s Christmas time.’

He had stood there smiling at her, apologizing, but not looking really sheepish or upset. It showed that the thing hadn’t really gone far.

And it shouldn’t go any farther! She had made up her mind to that. She had taken every care to keep Rodney out of Myrna Randolph’s way. And the following Easter Myrna had got engaged to the Arlington boy.

So really the whole incident amounted to exactly nothing at all. Perhaps there had been just a little fun in it for Rodney. Poor old Rodney—he really deserved a little fun. He worked so hard.

Ten years—yes, it was a dangerous time. Even she herself, she remembered, had felt a certain restlessness …

That rather wild-looking young man, that artist—what was his name now? Really she couldn’t remember. Hadn’t she been a little taken with him herself?

She admitted to herself with a smile that she really had been—yes—just a little silly about him. He had been so earnest—had stared at her with such disarming intensity. Then he had asked if she would sit for him.

An excuse, of course. He had done one or two charcoal sketches and then torn them up. He couldn’t ‘get’ her on canvas, he had said.

Joan remembered her own subtly flattered, pleased feelings. Poor boy, she had thought, I’m afraid he really is getting rather fond of me …

Yes, that had been a pleasant month …

Though the end of it had been rather disconcerting. Not at all according to plan. In fact, it just showed that Michael Callaway (Callaway, that was his name, of course!) was a thoroughly unsatisfactory sort of person.

They had gone for a walk together, she remembered, in Haling Woods, along the path where the Medaway comes twisting down from the summit of Asheldown. He had asked her to come in a rather gruff, shy voice.

She had envisaged their probable conversation. He would tell her, perhaps, that he loved her, and she would be very sweet and gentle and understanding and a little—just a little—regretful. She thought of several charming things she might say, things that Michael might like to remember afterwards.

But it hadn’t turned out like that.

It hadn’t turned out like that at all!

Instead, Michael Callaway had, without warning, seized her and kissed her with a violence and a brutality that had momentarily deprived her of breath, and letting go of her had observed in a loud and self-congratulatory voice:

‘My God, I wanted that!’ and had proceeded to fill a pipe, with complete unconcern and apparently deaf to her angry reproaches.

He had merely said, stretching his arms and yawning, ‘I feel a lot better now.’

It was exactly, thought Joan, remembering the scene, what a man might say after downing a glass of beer on a thirsty day.

They had walked home in silence after that—in silence on Joan’s part, that is. Michael Callaway seemed, from the extraordinary noises he made, to be attempting to sing. It was on the outskirts of the wood, just before they emerged on to the Crayminster Market Wopling high road, that he had paused and surveyed her dispassionately, and then remarked in a contemplative tone:

‘You know, you’re the sort of woman who ought to be raped. It might do you good.’

And, whilst she had stood, speechless with anger and astonishment, he had added cheerfully:

‘I’d rather like to rape you myself—and see if you looked the least bit different afterwards.’

Then he had stepped out on to the high road, and giving up trying to sing had whistled cheerfully.

Naturally she had never spoken to him again and he had left Crayminster a few days later.

A strange, puzzling and rather disturbing incident. Not an incident that Joan had cared to remember. In fact, she rather wondered that she had remembered it now …

Horrid, the whole thing had been, quite horrid.

She would put it out of her mind at once. After all, one didn’t want to remember unpleasant things when one was having a sun and sand rest cure. There was so much to think of that was pleasant and stimulating.

Perhaps lunch would be ready. She glanced at her watch, but saw that it was only a quarter to one.

When she got back to the rest house, she went to her room and hunted in her suitcase to see if she had any more writing paper with her. No, she hadn’t. Oh, well, it didn’t matter really. She was tired of writing letters. There wasn’t much to say. You couldn’t go on writing the same thing. What books had she got? Lady Catherine, of course. And a detective story that William had given her last thing. Kind of him, but she didn’t really care for detective stories. And The Power House by Buchan. Surely that was a very old book. She had read it years ago.

Oh well, she would be able to buy some more books at the station at Aleppo.

Lunch consisted of an omelette (rather tough and overcooked), curried eggs, and a dish of salmon (tinned) and baked beans and tinned peaches.

It was rather a heavy meal. After it Joan went and lay down on her bed. She slept for three quarters of an hour, then woke up and read Lady Catherine Dysart until tea time.

She had tea (tinned milk) and biscuits and went for a stroll and came back and finished Lady Catherine Dysart. Then she had dinner: omelette, curried salmon and rice, a dish of eggs and baked beans and tinned apricots. After that she started the detective story and finished it by the time she was ready for bed.

The Indian said cheerfully:

‘Good night, Memsahib. Train come in seven-thirty tomorrow morning but not go out till evening, half past eight.’

Joan nodded.

There would be another day to put in. She’d got The Power House still. A pity it was so short. Then an idea struck her.

‘There will be travellers coming in on the train? Oh, but they go straight off to Mosul, I suppose?’

The man shook his head.

‘Not tomorrow, I think. No cars arrive today. I think track to Mosul very bad. Everything stick for many days.’

Joan brightened. There would be travellers off the train in the rest house tomorrow. That would be rather nice—there was sure to be someone to whom it would be possible to talk.

She went to bed feeling more cheerful than she had ten minutes ago. She thought, There’s something about the atmosphere of this place—I think it’s that dreadful smell of rancid fat! It quite depresses one.

She awoke the next morning at eight o’clock and got up and dressed. She came out into the dining-room. One place only was laid at the table. She called, and the Indian came in.

He was looking excited.

‘Train not come, Memsahib.’

‘Not come? You mean it’s late?’

‘Not come at all. Very heavy rain down line—other side Nissibin. Line all wash away—no train get through for three four five six days perhaps.’

Joan looked at him in dismay.

‘But then—what do I do?’

‘You stay here, Memsahib. Plenty food, plenty beer, plenty tea. Very nice. You wait till train come.’

Oh dear, thought Joan, these Orientals. Time means nothing to them.

She said, ‘Couldn’t I get a car?’

He seemed amused.

‘Motor car? Where would you get motor car? Track to Mosul very bad, everything stuck other side of wadi.’

‘Can’t you telephone down the line?’

‘Telephone where? Turkish line. Turks very difficult people—not do anything. They just run train.’

Joan thought, rallying with what she hoped was amusement, This really is being cut off from civilization! No telephones or telegraphs, no cars.

The Indian said comfortingly:

‘Very nice weather, plenty food, all very comfortable.’

Well, Joan thought, it’s certainly nice weather. That’s lucky. Awful if I had to sit inside this place all day.

As though reading her thoughts, the man said:

‘Weather good here, very seldom rain. Rain nearer Mosul, rain down the line.’

Joan sat down at the laid place at the table and waited for her breakfast to be brought. She had got over her momentary dismay. No good making a fuss—she had much too much sense for that. These things couldn’t be helped. But it was rather an annoying waste of time.

She thought with a half smile: It looks as though what I said to Blanche was a wish that has come true. I said I should be glad of an interval to rest my nerves. Well, I’ve got it! Nothing whatever to do here. Not even anything to read. Really it ought to do me a lot of good. Rest cure in the desert.

The thought of Blanche brought some slightly unpleasant association—something that, quite definitely, she didn’t want to remember. In fact, why think of Blanche at all?

She went out after breakfast. As before, she walked a reasonable distance from the rest house and then sat down on the ground. For some time she sat quite still, her eyes half closed.

Wonderful, she thought, to feel this peace and quiet oozing into her. She could simply feel the good it was doing her. The healing air, the lovely warm sun—the peace of it all.

She remained so for a little longer. Then she glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes past ten.

She thought: The morning is passing quite quickly …

Supposing she were to write a line to Barbara? Really it was extraordinary that she hadn’t thought of writing to Barbara yesterday instead of those silly letters to friends in England.

She got out the pad and her pen.

‘Darling Barbara,’ she wrote. ‘I’m not having a very lucky journey. Missed Monday night’s train and now I’m held up here for days apparently. It’s very peaceful and lovely sunshine so I’m quite happy.’

She paused. What to say next. Something about the baby—or William? What on earth could Blanche have meant—‘don’t worry about Barbara’. Of course! That was why Joan hadn’t wanted to think about Blanche. Blanche had been so peculiar in the things she had said about Barbara.

As though she, Barbara’s mother, wouldn’t know anything there was to know about her own child.

‘I’m sure she’ll be all right now.’ Did that mean that things hadn’t been all right?

But in what way? Blanche had hinted that Barbara was too young to have married.

Joan stirred uneasily. At the time, she remembered, Rodney had said something of the kind. He had said, quite suddenly, and in an unusually peremptory way:

‘I’m not happy about this marriage, Joan.’

‘Oh, Rodney, but why? He’s so nice and they seem so well suited.’

‘He’s a nice enough young fellow—but she doesn’t love him, Joan.’

She’d been astonished—absolutely astonished.

‘Rodney—really—how ridiculous! Of course she’s in love with him! Why on earth would she want to marry him otherwise?’

He had answered—rather obscurely: ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘But, darling—really—aren’t you being a little ridiculous?’

He had said, paying no attention to her purposely light tone, ‘If she doesn’t love him, she mustn’t marry him. She’s too young for that—and she’s got too much temperament.’

‘Well, really, Rodney, what do you know about temperament?’

She couldn’t help being amused.

But Rodney didn’t even smile. He said, ‘Girls do marry sometimes—just to get away from home.’

At that she had laughed outright.

‘Not homes like Barbara’s! Why, no girl ever had a happier home life.’

‘Do you really think that’s true, Joan?’

‘Why, of course. Everything’s always been perfect for the children here.’

He said slowly, ‘They don’t seem to bring their friends to the house much.’

‘Why, darling, I’m always giving parties and asking young people! I make a point of it. It’s Barbara herself who’s always saying she doesn’t want parties and not to ask people.’

Rodney had shaken his head in a puzzled, unsatisfied way.

And later, that evening, she had come into the room just as Barbara was crying out impatiently:

‘It’s no good, Daddy, I’ve got to get away. I can’t stand it any longer—and don’t tell me to go and take a job somewhere, because I should hate that.’

‘What’s all this?’ Joan said.

After a pause, a very slight pause, Barbara had explained, a mutinous flush on her cheek.

‘Just Daddy thinking he knows best! He wants me to be engaged for years. I’ve told him I can’t stand that and I want to marry William and go away to Baghdad. I think it will be wonderful out there.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Joan anxiously. ‘I wish it wasn’t so far away. I’d like to have you under my eye as it were.’

‘Oh, Mother!’

‘I know, darling, but you don’t realize how young you are, how inexperienced. I should be able to help you so much if you were living somewhere not too far away.’

Barbara had smiled and had said, ‘Well, it looks as though I shall have to paddle my own canoe without the benefit of your experience and wisdom.’

And as Rodney was going slowly out of the room, she had rushed after him and had suddenly flung her arms round his neck hugging him and saying, ‘Darling Dads. Darling, darling, darling …’

Really, thought Joan, the child is becoming quite demonstrative. But it showed, at any rate, how entirely wrong Rodney was in his ideas. Barbara was just revelling in the thought of going out East with her William—and very nice it was to see two young things in love and so full of plans for the future.

Extraordinary that an idea should have got about Baghdad that Barbara had been unhappy at home. But it was a place that seemed absolutely full of gossip and rumours, so much so that one hardly liked to mention anyone.

Major Reid, for instance.

She herself had never met Major Reid, but he had been mentioned quite often in Barbara’s letters home. Major Reid had been to dinner. They were going shooting with Major Reid. Barbara was going for the summer months up to Arkandous. She and another young married woman had shared a bungalow and Major Reid had been up there at the same time. They had had a lot of tennis. Later, Barbara and he had won the mixed doubles at the club.