“You are brave,” says Mrs. Maloney. “Ah yes, believe me I can see how courageous you are—always so cheerful and bright. It’s so sad for you to be parted from your husband,” adds Mrs. Maloney, looking at me with large moist brown eyes—like a cow.
This remark surprises and annoys me (but surprise at the circumstances that Mrs. Maloney knows so much about my private affairs is almost completely swamped by annoyance)—how dare the woman tamper with my feelings! I am so annoyed that it is difficult to resist the temptation to shock her, to tell her that there is nothing I like better than to be severed from Tim, and that Tim is thoroughly enjoying his delightful holiday in Egypt.
“So dreadfully sad for you both,” continues Mrs. Maloney; she continues to probe, and to invite my confidence by telling me of other unhappy wives parted from their nearest and dearest, who have poured out their troubles to her. The fact is Mrs. Maloney is a professional sympathiser, her bosom is damp with tears . . . or so she would have me believe.
Already I am regretting my impulse to speak to the woman, but there seems little hope of escape. My unwillingness to confide in her is too obvious to be overlooked—even by Mrs. Maloney—but she has other means of approach.
“I am so glad you spoke to me,” she declares. “I’m sure we shall have lots of nice little chats and get to know each other better. We have much in common—I felt it the moment I saw you. Miss Clutterbuck is so different. Very capable indeed and quite a lady but rather unsympathetic—just a teeny weeny bit hard. Some people might not notice it, but I notice anything like that at once. I’m terribly sensitive—the least sign of hardness withers me.”
I commiserate suitably with Mrs. Maloney.
“Yes, that’s what I’m like,” she says sadly. “It’s a great handicap in life to be so sensitive, especially for anyone absolutely alone in the world, but there are compensations, of course. I mean if I happen to meet a kindred spirit I can recognize them at once, something goes out from me—a flow of sympathy.” She pauses for a moment but I can find nothing to say so she sighs heavily and continues, “Poor Miss Clutterbuck! One ought to be sorry for her, of course. It isn’t her fault at all. I often think spinsters get like that—just a teeny weeny bit hard—I expect you’ve noticed it.”
“No, I don’t think so, Mrs. Maloney.”
“You mean you haven’t noticed?”
“I mean I don’t agree.”
“They’re different,” says Mrs. Maloney smiling gently. “There’s something in marriage . . . it has such a softening effect.”
On the brain, perhaps, I think to myself.
She waits for my comment in vain and then, leaning forward, she places her hand on my knee. “Ah, you and I know, Mrs. Christie,” she says confidentially.
The hand is soft and fat and the fingers are heavily bedecked with rings—I can hardly bear it lying upon my knee, in fact I can’t bear it. I rise saying I must go and I go with all speed.
This attempt to get in touch with Miss Clutterbuck’s guests has not been a success—or perhaps it has been too successful. I decide to be more careful in future, to be less friendly and more dignified; in other words to keep myself to myself. But this intention is frustrated by my employer who announces at dinner that the American ladies have invited us to take coffee with them in the lounge. She adds that she, herself, prefers to have her coffee comfortably in her room, but I had better drink mine in their company. I suggest it is really Miss Clutterbuck they want, not her assistant, but Miss Clutterbuck pretends not to hear.
“I think you should come,” I tell her firmly, raising my voice a trifle.
“All right,” says Miss Clutterbuck. “I’ll come. I’ll pass a few remarks with them, but I’ll take my coffee upstairs as usual.”
The American ladies welcome us to their table with gracious smiles, and the elder, a really beautiful creature with fair wavy hair, makes the introductions, exhibiting a social aplomb which I admire but could never hope to emulate. She is Mrs. Dene Potting and her companion is Mrs. Wilbur Potting. They assure Miss Clutterbuck that they are enjoying their stay at her guesthouse and ask her to tell them the correct way to pronounce its name.
“Tocher,” says Miss Clutterbuck laconically.
Mrs. Wilbur smiles and says Scotch names are difficult.
“You could call it Dot,” suggests Miss Clutterbuck and with that she goes away.
The two ladies are somewhat surprised at her unceremonious departure and I find myself explaining that she has important business to transact, but my explanations are not very convincing because even important business could hardly excuse such peculiar behaviour. Mrs. Potting says she has very natural manners and Mrs. Wilbur adds she is a busy woman of course, but it is obvious they are not deceived.
The coffee comes and we talk about this and that. Mrs. Wilbur returns to the subject of Tocher and says she did not understand what Miss Clutterbuck meant. I explain that the house was built by one Sir Alexander Johnstone for his daughter and given to her as her marriage portion, or tocher.
“You hear that, Marley!” exclaims Mrs. Wilbur. “It was her dot.”
Mrs. Potting nods and says it’s very interesting indeed.
They are anxious to know further details of Tocher’s history, what year it was built and when the additions were made and whether it has always remained in the same family. In fact they are so eager for information and so surprised when I am unable to satisfy their thirst that I feel very much ashamed of myself and decide to ask Miss Clutterbuck all about it.
Soon after this Curry comes over to the table to collect the coffee cups and I remind her not to charge Mrs. Potting for my share.
Mrs. Potting says nonsense, she invited me to have coffee and wishes to pay for it. She never heard of a guest paying for her own entertainment—never in all her life.
There is something in this, of course, but I explain that as I get my food free—as part of my salary—there would be no sense in Mrs. Potting paying for it.
The two ladies consider the matter carefully (while Curry waits for the verdict). Finally Mrs. Wilbur laughs and says it’s very amusing, isn’t it Darthy. If they want to entertain Mrs. Christie they will have to take her to Edinburgh for the day, and Mrs. Potting says she never would have thought of it, and she must remember to tell Dene.
Curry goes away.
Feel that perhaps I have been a little ungracious, so begin to explain matters all over again, then suddenly have a feeling I am explaining too much and stop abruptly.
Mrs. Potting smiles at her sister-in-law and says she gets a kick out of the way I talk. Mrs. Wilbur agrees rapturously. This has the unfortunate effect of rendering me speechless—or nearly so—and, making my apologies with some difficulty, I escape upstairs to deal with the correspondence which I left unfinished this afternoon.
The office is quiet and pleasantly warm. I read the letters carefully, consult the plan of rooms, and indite tactful replies. Miss Clutterbuck has consented to have slips of paper printed urging her prospective guests to bring their own towels but until the slips are ready I am incorporating the request in my letters . . . “P.S. Please bring your own towel,” I write and smile to myself as I write it.
Miss Clutterbuck comes in and asks what I am doing. This is not the time for writing letters, and if I can’t get them done in the afternoon I can leave them till the next day. I had better go and talk to somebody, Miss Clutterbuck says.
Reply that I have talked enough for one day.
Miss Clutterbuck says she saw me talking to Mrs. Maloney, what a woman!; and the Americans are not much better.
Reply that the Americans are very much better, and add boldly that I think Miss Clutterbuck was somewhat rude.
“I know,” she replies. “I told you—I can’t talk to people who are living in my house and paying me for their food. That’s why you’re here, Mrs. Christie.”
“Surely there’s no need to be rude to them!” I exclaim.
“Hrrmph!” says
Miss Clutterbuck, with the usual clouds of smoke. “Well if you don’t want to talk take a book and read it. There are books in your room—”
“Yes, I’m reading Emma—for about the fifth time.”
“You are?” enquires Miss Clutterbuck with interest. “I’ve read it oftener than that. There’s nobody like Jane Austen to my way of thinking. I like the saltiness, the restrained satire. When I’m more than usually irritated and deived with the guests I get out Northanger Abbey or Persuasion or one of the others and have a good read. I find them soothing. Jane Austen had as little patience as I have with the vagaries of her kind.”
This is the longest speech I have heard from Miss Clutterbuck and easily the most interesting. I am anxious to hear more and suggest in a tentative manner that Miss Austen might have found the denizens of Tocher House an interesting study.
Miss Clutterbuck says she doubts it.
FRIDAY 8TH MARCH
Today I receive a letter from Tony Morley. To think Tim’s and my very great friend is now a Brigadier, and as such, a Very Important Person. It is six years since I saw Tony, but we correspond occasionally and his letters are so vivid and so much a part of himself that he remains very clear in my thoughts and today as I hold his letter in my hand I can see Tony quite distinctly, “Tall and fair and devil-may-care” as the old song has it. Tony’s Brigade is in Bombay at the moment, or at least it was in Bombay when he wrote to me last, but this letter is headed “A camp in the hills” and runs as follows:
“You will be surprised, my dear Hester, to see the address from which I am writing, and may even think it slightly vague. This vagueness is not due to military necessity (we need no longer shroud our movements from Hitler’s or from Hirohito’s all-seeing eyes) nor is it due to a desire upon my part to tantalize you by keeping you in the dark as to my whereabouts. The fact is I, myself, am slightly vague as to my whereabouts. The Powers That Be, always so considerate and thoughtful of those who have served them faithfully and well, decided that it was time this particular servant had a spot of leave, so this particular servant decided to betake himself to the hills, being somewhat weary of the sight of his fellow creatures and particularly of his Brigade Major, a most worthy and estimable person but addicted to a squeaking pipe. India has its compensations and amongst these the excellence of one’s retainers ranks high. I expressed a wish for solitude and peace to Dost Mohammed and left the troublesome details in his most capable hands. Bearers, mules, tents and provisions, even the itinerary of our journey were left to him, and here we are encamped somewhere in the hills, encompassed with solitude and peace. Hester, I wish you could be here—and Tim, too, of course (for you would not be completely happy without Tim and complete happiness is essential to the enjoyment of this carefree existence). Yes, I would willingly share the mountains with you and Tim. Let me tell you a little about our journey. There was one day when we camped on a hillside overlooking the plains, and there was a sea of mist over the plains but through the mist I could see the silver ribbon of the Ganges winding its way along. To the west rose the hills, grey and green, changing to purple and blue in the distance . . . but we did not linger there. We struck camp and climbed on. There were goats feeding in the little valleys. We met a goatherd, or perhaps it was Pan, himself. He had a reed pipe and he consented to play upon it for me—it was such a sad little wandering air. We passed scattered villages and terraced fields which were irrigated by runnels of spring water. Then we came to woods of Himalayan oak, stony ridges and enormous boulders—the Himalayas do everything on a giant scale, even their boulders. It was cold here, of course, but the sun was warm and in sheltered hollows I found gentians and milkwort and a red flower which Dost Mohammed says is the flower of Nepal. There were pine trees and cedars, and a tree which reminded me of our English holly, but with a leathery sort of leaf. These lower hills—though steep enough by any ordinary standards—stretch out towards the plains in long ridges with valleys in between them. Beyond these lower hills tower the mountains covered with snow and extraordinarily bright in the fierce bright sunshine. I must tell you about the hunting, though as a matter of fact I was not out for killing but only hunted for the pot. We saw bear and some pheasants which reminded me of home and of those terrific shoots we had at Charters Towers before the war. Somehow I don’t feel I shall want to do that again, even if it is going to be possible (which I doubt). Perhaps I have done enough killing to last me a lifetime, could that be the reason? Dost Mohammed was slightly annoyed with me when I refused to shoot more game than we could eat. Such weakness is beyond his understanding. I saw a panther, and would have shot it without compunction but unfortunately I hadn’t my rifle with me at the time. It was a beautiful creature, sleek and glossy and sinuous as a film star—it had that well-groomed look! We climbed higher still, through thick forests which smelt of damp rotting wood, and wound our way up by the side of mountain torrents and at last we reached a plateau of grass and rocks and boulders. That’s where I am now, Hester, so now you know! As far as I can make out we must be about ten thousand feet up, it’s magnificent. The wind blows all the time. The sun is hot and the nights are cold. The air! O Hester, the clear crystal air! After the hot dusty used-up stuff that we have to breathe in the plains this air is something to write home about . . . so I’m writing home about it!
Yours ever,
Tony”
For some reason Tony’s letter depresses me. It is a grand letter, of course, and a very cheerful letter and I ought to feel pleased that he is having such a good time, but instead of that I feel depressed. It is a grand letter—but what a lonely way of spending his hard-earned leave! Tony ought to be married, he ought to have a wife and children, he ought not to wander off into the Himalayas alone. The fact that he seems to be enjoying himself does not make it much better in my opinion. Long ago I tried to find a wife for Tony but my efforts were unavailing and I was told to mind my own business in no uncertain terms; since then I have minded my own business carefully!
But in addition to my depression on Tony’s account I am depressed myself—a black cloud has descended upon my spirits. His letter, by reminding me so vividly of him, has reminded me of the old happy life which now seems far away. I have been here for a week and although I am settling down and finding my way about I still feel terribly alone—I am homesick, I suppose. Before, when Tim was away, I had the children to care for, I had a definite home. Now I have nothing and nobody, I have never been so absolutely alone in all my life. As there is half an hour before dinner I am at liberty to indulge in an orgy of self-pity, and this I proceed to do. I miss Tim so badly; I miss Betty and Bryan; I miss Grace—I even miss her spoilt little boys. If only there were somebody, somebody from the old life, to whom I could talk, if Tony were here, or Pinkie could be torn away from her adoring husband to keep me company!
I am still very busy pitying myself when the door opens and Hope stalks in.
“Oh!” says Hope. “I’m sorry I’m sure. I didn’t think you’d be here.”
There seems no answer to this remark, so I say nothing.
Hope lingers. “Could I have the key of the linen closet,” she enquires.
Hitherto I have always complied with this request, but I have decided to comply no longer, for the linen is my responsibility and when Hope is let loose amongst the linen she rearranges it so that I can find nothing. Such is the havoc she wreaks that I am beginning to suspect she does it on purpose to bewilder me and make my task more difficult.
“The key of the linen closet,” repeats Hope, holding out her hand.
“What do you want it for, Hope?”
“Mrs. Ovens wants a towel,” declares Hope triumphantly.
“She must ask me—or Miss Clutterbuck. Mrs. Ovens has had three clean towels this week.”
Hope’s eyebrows are dark and thick, they meet across the bridge of her thin bony nose. Beneath them her eyes are almost black, black and shiny like boot buttons. “Are you staying here, Mrs. Christie?” she enquires.
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“Staying in my room?”
“Staying at Tocher.”
There is a moment’s silence.
“We did all right before you came,” continues Hope, in a mumbling tone. “Miss Clutterbuck and me can run the place ourselves.”
“Miss Clutterbuck doesn’t seem to think so.”
“We managed fine,” declares Hope.
It is not surprising to find that Hope dislikes me. She resents my presence and shows it in all her actions. The cup of tea which she brings me in the early morning is set down upon my bedside table with an ungracious clatter; my curtains are pulled roughly and crookedly across my windows, my hot-water bottle is always lukewarm. These may seem small details and unworthy of notice, but no servant has ever treated me like this before and the treatment hurts me and makes me unhappy. Isn’t there any way of getting at Hope, of finding out why she dislikes me, and putting things right?
“Hope,” I say, trying to speak in a friendly manner, “just listen to me a moment. You and I are both working for Miss Clutterbuck, there’s no difference between us except that we do different sorts of work. Why can’t we pull together?”
“There’s no need for you here, Mrs. Christie.”
“If Miss Clutterbuck wants me I shall stay.”
“She doesn’t,” says Hope in a low trembling voice. “I can do it all . . . I’m not afraid of work . . . I can do the linen and everything . . . she doesn’t need you.”
“In that case I feel sure Miss Clutterbuck will tell me so, herself,” I reply with a calmness which I am far from feeling.
SUNDAY, 10TH MARCH
Mrs. Wilbur Potting and I have a heart-to-heart talk. It is in the lounge, after tea. I am sitting there in a corner by myself and am run to earth by my American acquaintance. She asks if she may sit down beside me and on receiving permission sits down and lights a cigarette. Mrs. Wilbur says she is trying to understand the Spirit of English Womanhood as she is going to lecture upon that subject when she returns to the States, but so far the essence of the matter has eluded her. She has made copious notes, of course, but they cancel each other out in the most puzzling way and she feels she must be starting from the wrong end. She gazes at me as she speaks and her gaze is so intense that I am assailed by the uncomfortable sensation that Mrs. Wilbur looks upon me as the embodiment of her theme . . . I murmur that it is always difficult to generalize about people. You can’t put them all into one box and label it neatly. Mrs. Wilbur agrees but says there is something, she hasn’t got it yet, that’s the trouble.
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