We meet at lunch as usual and discuss the arrangements. Everything seems to promise well; the day is fine, telephone messages from Ryddelton have announced the arrival of the band and of the Very Important Person who is to declare the fête open. The only piece of bad news amongst the good is that the fortune-teller who was engaged by Erica to come from Glasgow and exercise her art for the benefit of the wounded soldiers has developed acute appendicitis and is even now in a Glasgow hospital having her appendix removed.
“It’s perfectly sickening,” says Erica fiercely. “The woman promised to come.”
“She can’t help having appendicitis,” says Betty reasonably.
“She’s that sort of person,” declares Erica. “She’s the sort of person who would have appendicitis at the wrong moment . . . if only we had known sooner we could have got somebody else. Everything is ready and we’ve advertised a fortune-teller so people will be disappointed—besides it’s always a tremendous draw and makes pounds at a fête like this.”
“Mummy could do it,” says Betty offering the suggestion hopefully.
“Indeed I couldn’t!” I cry in alarm.
“Could you, Hester?” enquires Erica.
“Of course she could,” declares Betty. “Mummy can tell marvellous fortunes with cards. It’s absolutely thrilling—all about dark men and journeys and things.”
“I couldn’t, possibly.”
“I believe you could,” says Erica, looking at me with a gleam in her eye.
“No!” I cry. “No, you don’t understand. I can tell fortunes to amuse the children, but—”
“That’s settled, then,” says Erica firmly.
I assure Erica it is anything but settled. How can I possibly tell fortunes to complete strangers? I am not nearly good enough for that. People will see through me and be furious; they will demand their money back. There will be a riot—
“Nonsense,” says Erica, interrupting. “You can do it perfectly well. Just tell them what they want to know, that’s all.”
“How shall I know what they want to know?”
Erica does not hear this, of course. “Nobody will recognize you,” she continues. “You’re the very person for the job. I’ve got a black wig and we can do up your face—and the tent will be dark. Where did I put those curtains? I believe they’re in the attic—”
I interrupt to enquire whether I was engaged to help to run a hotel or to tell fortunes disguised in a black wig. I point out that this is my afternoon off. I complain of a headache. I assert that my husband would object most strongly to the whole affair. I remind Erica that I have already put in four hours work and cannot complete my duties in less than three more hours . . . but Erica has an answer to most of my objections, and the ones to which she can find no answer she pretends not to hear.
Thus it is that at three o’clock on this beautiful sunny afternoon I find myself immured in a dimly lit tent, heavily disguised in a black wig and spectacles, and draped in a red cloak. The tent is extremely stuffy and it is all the more stuffy because of the blackout curtains which Erica has unearthed from the attics of Tocher House and brought along with her to produce the necessary atmosphere of gloom and mystery. Erica has done everything with her usual force and thoroughness. She has clothed and painted me and brought me to the scene of action in a closed car. I have been provided with a helper (a fat girl attired in a curious medley of garments which is Erica’s idea of what a gypsy should wear). I have been provided with a name—Madame Katinka; I have been provided with a very ancient and dog-eared pack of cards.
“Speak with a foreign accent,” says Erica as she arranges the folds of my cloak.
“What kind of accent?”
“Any kind—except German, of course. To Ryddelton people all foreigners are much the same.”
“I don’t like it, Erica. I feel the most awful imposter.”
“You are an imposter,” says Erica. “All fortune-tellers are imposters and everybody knows they are. It’s just a joke.”
“As long as everybody knows it’s a joke . . .” I remark feebly.
Unfortunately my first victim is a young man—obviously a farmer—and as I had prepared myself for a woman this necessitates a rapid rearrangement of ideas. Instead of prattling gaily about dark men and cradles I must think of something to interest a man. His cards are no help, they are full of horrors and, as I have decided to avoid frightening people with coffins and bad news from across the sea, I cannot read them to him as they fall. I do my best for him but I can see he is not particularly pleased with his half crown’s worth and is slightly sceptical of the fair lady whom I have invented for his benefit. My second and third victims are girls and very much easier to do. They help me a good deal by asking leading questions and giggle delightedly when I supply the answers they desire. Soon I begin to get into my stride and when Mrs. Maloney appears and takes her seat opposite to me I am ready for a little fun. The patience with which I have listened to Mrs. Maloney’s stories is now rewarded and—secure in my impenetrable disguise—I delve into her past and reveal many curious incidents which have happened to her. As regards her character and her future I tell her exactly what she wants to know and she leaves the tent with a dazed expression upon her large fat face. Mrs. Maloney will be a good advertisement for Madame Katinka and my fame will be spread amongst the other guests of Tocher House.
Victim follows victim in swift succession and my helper is kept very busy ushering them in and letting them out. The people I know are much the most fun, of course. It is amusing to tell Miss Dove that she has a large circle of friends with whom she corresponds and to advise her that in her particular case the morning is the luckiest time for writing letters. Somewhat to my surprise Miss Dove is followed by Hope, dressed in her best clothes and looking a good deal less disagreeable than usual. Annie has told me quite a lot about Hope so it is easy to recreate her past and establish belief in my mysterious powers. The cards fall well for Hope, they are lucky cards. A dark man is coming towards her across the water with money in his pockets; there is a letter in the post which will bring her good news—all this I tell her faithfully and Hope is suitably impressed—but the last hand is different, the cards are all black, foretelling death and disaster, and as I have no wish to depress the woman and add to her gloom I must make up something more cheerful. I hesitate for a moment and then I say that lately a fair woman has come into Hope’s life, the woman wishes her well and should be treated with consideration.
Poor Hope is somewhat taken aback at this pronouncement and goes away looking extremely thoughtful.
Time goes on and I begin to feel quite dazed . . . and then suddenly Mr. Elden appears and sits down in the victim’s chair. He is wearing an indulgent smile; it is obvious that he does not believe in Madame Katinka’s occult powers and is merely having his fortune told for a joke, or perhaps because Sheila urged him to try it. The indulgent smile annoys me—quite unreasonably, of course—and I decide to be very serious. The cards are shuffled and spread out upon the table; I study them carefully.
“What do you see?” enquires Mr. Elden.
I tell him that I see a tall slim lady with golden-red hair.
This surprises my victim a good deal and the indulgent smile vanishes. But I must not seem too clever so I play for safety with the usual patter about money and journeys and letters in the post.
Mr. Elden is bored. He interrupts to ask if there is any more about the lady.
I reply by telling him that the future is very vague. “Vague?” he repeats questioningly.
I shake my head doubtfully and say that the cards cannot tell. It may be that the lady is going on a long journey in the near future . . . but it is not certain.
“Would another half crown help to clear things up at all?” enquires Mr. Elden.
At this I pretend to be annoyed and declare that I am telling him all I can. He may shuffle the cards again if he likes and wish a wish.
He shuffles the cards and I lay them out on
the table. “Do I get my wish?” asks Mr. Elden quite eagerly.
This gives me a grand opportunity and I seize it at once. I tell him that it remains in his own hands whether or not he will attain his wish. Prompt and vigorous action will bring him his heart’s desire.
“Prompt and vigorous action!” repeats Mr. Elden in surprise.
I tell him there are obstacles to be overcome but happiness lies ahead if he can overcome them. He must not let things drift.
“Do you really see all that in the cards?” asks Mr. Elden incredulously.
“How else should I see?” I reply in sulky tones.
“Heaven knows!” exclaims Mr. Elden. He puts down a ten-shilling note and goes away.
This exciting interview is the climax of the afternoon, after it comes boredom and exhaustion. My head aches and I have no more ideas left; the tent becomes hotter and hotter and I can feel the grease paint melting and running down my face. At last I can stand it no longer and we shut up shop. My helper closes the doors and puts up a notice to say that Madame Katinka has finished for the afternoon. I clean my face, doff my disguise and emerge from the tent into the brilliant sunshine ravening for a cup of tea.
The first person I see on approaching the tea tent is Hope. I take action to avoid her of course (it is our habit to avoid one another whenever possible) but Hope pursues me and instead of glowering at me in her usual thunderous manner she smiles at me pleasantly and says it is a nice day for the fête, a change of heart so astounding that I can find no words in which to reply. Fortunately Hope does not seem to mind, she says she has had a very good tea and advises me to ask for chocolate cake which is kept “under the counter”.
The discovery that Madame Katinka has made such a profound impression upon Hope is rather alarming, for it places an enormous responsibility upon my shoulders—a responsibility from which I shrink. Hope has taken my words to heart and has lost no time in acting upon them—will others do the same? I sip tea and munch chocolate cake and reflect upon my afternoon’s work with growing disquiet. Have my idle words altered lives, brought unsuitable people together and roused expectations of wealth which can never be satisfied?
THURSDAY, 18TH APRIL
So far Betty has behaved in an exemplary manner, but today she is late for lunch. She rushes in, panting, her hands unwashed, her hair unbrushed and her shoes covered with mud. I am quite horrified of course and reprimand her severely.
“Sorry,” says Betty with a gasp. “I found a ruin and I was so busy exploring I forgot the time.”
“Salvers Castle,” suggests Erica, who seems quite oblivious of Betty’s appearance. “Yes, it’s a very interesting old place, it belonged to a Border Chief.”
This is my castle, of course—the ruin which Mr. Elden and I discovered. I am delighted to hear that my Border Chief existed in fact. Erica says she has a book about the castle and will lend it to me, but Betty is more interested in the present than the past.
“It’s a huge place,” says Betty. “It’s all covered with ivy. I expect there are jackdaws and owls—could we have a picnic there, Miss Clutterbuck? That would be gorgeous.”
Erica replies that she does not care for picnics, but Betty can take her food and eat it in the ruins with the jackdaws if that’s what she wants.
“It isn’t,” says Betty frankly. “I want you and Mummy to come, too. Perhaps Sheila would come and we could all play hide-and-seek.”
Erica says she does not care for hide-and-seek. She’s too old and fat.
“You’re not old at all!” cries Betty indignantly. “And you’re not fat, either. Fat people are wobbly like Mrs. Maloney. I bet your muscles are as hard as anything,” and the temerarious child stretches out her hand and feels Miss Clutterbuck’s biceps in a professional manner. “Hard as anything,” she repeats, nodding her head.
Far from being resentful of this liberty Miss Clutterbuck smiles in a deprecating manner and admits that her biceps are not bad considering.
It is possible that Erica thinks she will hear no more of Betty’s project of a picnic at Salvers Castle, or at any rate that she will hear no more of it for some little time, but knowing my child’s persevering and importunate nature I am not in the least surprised when the subject is raised again at the dinner table.
“Could we have it tomorrow, Miss Clutterbuck?” enquires Betty with a persuasive smile.
“Have what?” says Erica.
“The picnic, of course. The weather is so lovely we ought to take advantage of it; we really ought. I could telephone to Sheila and ask her to come over—I’ll organize everything if you just say yes.”
“Oh well—” says Erica weakly.
“And you’ll come!” cries Betty with flattering eagerness.
“I suppose so,” says Erica, suitably flattered.
FRIDAY, 19TH APRIL
As this is the day for my bi-weekly shopping expedition it is arranged that I shall pick up Sheila in Ryddelton and bring her back to lunch at Tocher House, Betty, true to her word, has made all the necessary arrangements and Sheila is waiting for me at the post office at half-past twelve. Somehow or other she looks younger today, perhaps it is because she is happy and excited at the prospect of the picnic. She climbs into the car and sits down beside me and off we go.
Sheila is quite different from Betty, she doesn’t chatter, she is much more reserved; in fact I find it a little difficult to make suitable conversation.
“Is your father fishing today?” I enquire.
Sheila hesitates and then says, “No, not today, Mrs. Christie.”
“What is he doing, then?”
She hesitates even longer, this time, and then replies that he is going out.
I ask if she and Betty have decided what we are to do at the picnic—is it to be hide-and-seek.
“No, not hide-and-seek,” says Sheila in a final sort of tone.
After that I decide that suitable conversation cannot be maintained and we accomplish the remainder of the drive in silence.
We all lunch together at Erica’s table, and—as is to be expected—we discuss the arrangements which are now complete. Erica, who was very half-hearted before (and prophesied thunder and torrents of rain) has now changed her attitude completely and is as keen as the girls.
“It’s a splendid day for a picnic,” Erica says. “Couldn’t be better—and there won’t be any midges so early in the year.”
“What about food?” I enquire.
“You mind your own business,” says Erica jovially. “Betty and I and Cook have arranged all that. Leave it to us.”
I leave it to them with the greatest of pleasure for I have plenty of other things to do—especially as I am to be out for tea and must cram all my work into the early part of the afternoon.
“I’ll meet you at the castle about half-past four,” I remark, as I rise from my seat at the table.
“No, Mummy!” cries Betty in urgent tones. “You must leave here at four o’clock. It’s very important indeed.”
“Important?”
“Everything is timed. We want you to arrive separately. Please don’t be late. Sheila and I are going early because we’ve got to arrange things before you come.”
“Is it a game?” I enquire.
“Sort of,” says Betty mysteriously.
I am hard at work in the office when Erica looks in and says she’s just off to the picnic and I am to follow at four.
“If I’m ready—”
“Whether you’re ready or not,” says Erica firmly.
“What is the mystery?” I ask with interest.
“I don’t know, but Betty has taken a lot of trouble over it, so don’t be late.”
Erica vanishes and a few moments later I see her pounding across the lawn towards the woods . . . I can’t help smiling to myself at the sight; Betty can now wind Erica round her finger with the greatest ease.
At four o’clock precisely I leave the house and wend my way towards the rendezvous. It really is a beautiful
afternoon, the trees are budding and the birds are singing and the sun is shining like burnished gold. Sheila is waiting for me at the entrance to the castle—her eyes are shining like stars and she is a good deal more talkative than usual.
“Oh, Mrs. Christie!” cries Sheila, bounding towards me and taking my hand. “You’ll do what we tell you, won’t you? It’s a sort of game, you see. Betty said you wouldn’t mind—I hope it’s all right.”
I assure her that I am willing to play any part assigned to me, and so I am, for it is good to see Sheila looking happy and childlike, nothing could be better for her than to play childish games. I suggest to Sheila that we might have tea on the little terrace overlooking the Rydd but this is not to be.
“No,” says Sheila. “That’s where—well anyhow we can’t. You’re to go through the door and up the steps of the tower. Betty said so.”
She leads me to the crumbling steps and releases my hand.
“Are you sure they’re safe?” I enquire doubtfully.
“Oh yes,” she replies. “Miss Clutterbuck went up and she’s twice as heavy as you are.”
Thus reassured I mount the stair and discover Erica sitting on a little platform halfway up the tower. The platform has a parapet, waist-high, and from here the view is magnificent, even better than from the terrace.
“How much do you weigh?” enquires Erica. “More than six stone, I’ll be bound.”
“Much more,” I reply. “It was merely a façon de parler. As a matter of fact Sheila is so excited that she scarcely knows what she’s saying. It’s lovely here, isn’t it? I suppose this was a lookout tower in the days of the Border Chief. The stones are quite warm with the sun; but I still think it would be nicer to have tea down there on the terrace, the turf is so soft and—”
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