Unfinished Portrait

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

  Celia had indeed quite a ritual. The proceedings were as follows. You started from the house and crossed the lawn, which was a flowing river. Then you tethered your river horse to the rose arch, picked your offering, and proceeded solemnly up the path to the wood. You made your offering and wished and dropped a curtsey and backed away. And your wish would come true. Only you mustn’t have more than one wish a week. Celia had always wished the same wish – inspired by Nannie. Wishbones, boy in wood, piebald horse, it was always the same – she wished to be good! It wasn’t right, Nannie said, to wish for things. The Lord would send you what was necessary for you to have, and since God had behaved with great generosity in the matter (via Grannie and Mummy and Daddy) Celia adhered honourably to her pious wish.

  Now she thought: ‘I must, I must, I must, I simply must bring him an offering.’ She would do it the old way – across the river of the lawn on the sea horse, tether the horse to the rose arch, now up the path, and now lay the offering – two ragged dandelions, in the basket and wish …

  But alas, shades of Nannie, Celia forsook that pious aspiration which had been hers so long.

  ‘I want to be always happy,’ wished Celia.

  Then to the kitchen garden – ah! there was Rumbolt, the gardener – very gloomy-looking and cross.

  ‘Hullo, Rumbolt, I’ve come home.’

  ‘So I see, missie. And I’ll trouble you not to stand on the young lettuces as you’re doing at the minute.’

  Celia shifted her feet.

  ‘Are there any gooseberries to eat, Rumbolt?’

  ‘They’re over. Poor crop this year. There might be a raspberry or two –’

  ‘Oh!’ Celia danced off.

  ‘But don’t you be eating them all,’ called Rumbolt after her. ‘I want a nice dish for dessert.’

  Celia was moving between the raspberry canes eating vigorously. A raspberry or two – why, there were hundreds!

  With a final sigh of repletion Celia abandoned the raspberries. Next to visit her private niche by the wall looking down on the road. It was hard now to find the entrance to it, but she got it at last –

  Next, to the kitchen and Rouncy. Rouncy looking very clean and larger than ever, her jaws, as always, moving rhythmically. Dear, dear Rouncy, smiling as though her face was cut in two, giving the old soft throaty chuckle …

  ‘Well, I never, Miss Celia, you have got a big girl.’

  ‘What are you eating, Rouncy?’

  ‘I’ve just been making some rock cakes for the kitchen tea.’

  ‘Oh! Rouncy, give me one!’

  ‘’Twill spoil your tea.’

  Not a real protest that. Rouncy’s bulk is moving towards the oven even as she speaks. She whips open the oven door.

  ‘They’re just done. Now, mind, Miss Celia, it’s hot.’

  Oh, lovely home! Back into the cool dim corridors of the house, and there, through the landing window, the green glow of the beech tree.

  Her mother, coming out of her bedroom, found Celia standing ecstatically at the top of the stairs, her hands pressed firmly to her middle.

  ‘What is it, child? Why are you holding your tummy?’

  ‘It’s the Beech Tree, Mummy. It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘I believe you feel everything in your tummy, Celia.’

  ‘I get a sort of queer pain there. Not a real pain, Mummy, a sort of nice pain.’

  ‘Then you’re glad to be home again?’

  ‘Oh, Mummy!’

  3

  ‘Rumbolt’s gloomier than ever,’ said Celia’s father at breakfast.

  ‘Oh, how I hate having that man,’ cried Miriam. ‘I wish we hadn’t got him.’

  ‘Well, my dear, he’s a first-class gardener. The best gardener we’ve ever had. Look at the peaches last year.’

  ‘I know. I know. But I never wanted him.’

  Celia had hardly ever heard her mother so vehement. Her hands were pressed together. Her father was looking at her indulgently, rather in the same way that he looked at Celia herself.

  ‘Well, I gave in to you, didn’t I?’ he said good-humouredly. ‘I turned him down in spite of his references and took that lazy lout of a Spinaker instead.’

  ‘It seems so extraordinary,’ said Miriam. ‘My dislike of him, and then our letting the house when we went to Pau, and Mr Rogers writing that Spinaker had given notice and that he was getting another gardener who had excellent references, and coming home to find this man installed, after all.’

  ‘I can’t think why you don’t like him, Miriam. He’s a little on the sad side, but a perfectly decent fellow.’

  Miriam shivered.

  ‘I don’t know what it is. It’s something.’

  Her eyes stared out in front of her.

  The parlourmaid entered the room.

  ‘Please, sir, Mrs Rumbolt would like to speak to you. She’s at the front door.’

  ‘What does she want? Oh, well, I’d better go and see.’

  He flung down his table napkin, went out. Celia was staring at her mother. How very funny Mummy looked – as though she were very frightened.

  Her father came back.

  ‘Seems Rumbolt never went home last night. Odd business. They’ve had several rows lately, I fancy.’

  He turned to the parlourmaid who was in the room.

  ‘Is Rumbolt here this morning?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him, sir. I’ll ask Mrs Rouncewell.’

  Her father left the room again. It was five minutes before he returned. As he opened the door and came in, Miriam uttered an exclamation, and even Celia was startled.

  Daddy looked so queer – so very queer – like an old man. He seemed to have difficulty in getting his breath.

  Like a flash her mother had jumped up off her seat and run round to him.

  ‘John, John, what is it? Tell me. Sit down. You’ve had some terrible shock.’

  Her father had gone a queer blue colour. He gasped out words with difficulty.

  ‘Hanging – in the stable … I’ve cut him down – but there’s no – he must have done it last night …’

  ‘The shock – it’s so bad for you.’ Her mother jumped up, fetched the brandy from the sideboard.

  She cried:

  ‘I knew – I knew there was something –’

  She knelt down beside her husband, holding the brandy to his lips. Her glance caught Celia.

  ‘Run upstairs, darling, to Jeanne. It’s nothing to be frightened about. Daddy’s not feeling very well.’ She murmured in a lower tone to him: ‘She mustn’t know. That sort of thing might haunt a child for life.’

  Very puzzled, Celia left the room. On the landing upstairs Doris and Susan were talking together.

  ‘Carried on with her, he did, so they say, and his wife got wind of it. Well, it’s always the quietest are the worst.’

  ‘Did you see him? Was his tongue hanging out?’

  ‘No, the master said no one was to go there. I wonder if I could get a bit of the rope – they say it’s ever so lucky.’

  ‘The master had a proper shock, and him with a weak heart and all.’

  ‘Well, it’s an awful thing to happen.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Celia.

  ‘Gardener’s hanged himself in the stables,’ said Susan with relish.

  ‘Oh!’ said Celia not very impressed. ‘Why do you want a bit of the rope?’

  ‘If you have a bit of the rope a man’s hanged himself with it brings you luck all your life through.’

  ‘That’s so,’ agreed Doris.

  ‘Oh!’ said Celia again.

  She accepted Rumbolt’s death as just one more of those facts that happened every day. She was not fond of Rumbolt, who had never been particularly nice to her.

  That evening when her mother came to tuck her up in bed, she asked:

  ‘Mummy, can I have a bit of the rope Rumbolt hanged himself with?’

  ‘Who told you about Rumbolt?’ Her mother’s voice sounded angry. ‘I gave par
ticular orders.’

  Celia’s eyes opened very wide.

  ‘Susan told me. Mummy, can I have a bit of the rope? Susan says it’s very lucky.’

  Suddenly her mother smiled – the smile deepened into a laugh.

  ‘What are you laughing at, Mummy?’ asked Celia suspiciously.

  ‘Because it’s so long since I was nine years old that I’ve forgotten what it feels like.’

  Celia puzzled a little before she went to sleep. Susan had once been nearly drowned when she went to the sea for a holiday. The other servants had laughed and said: ‘You’re born to be hanged, my girl.’

  Hanging and drowning – there must be some connection between them …

  ‘I’d much, much, much rather be drowned,’ thought Celia sleepily.

  Darling Grannie [wrote Celia the next day]: Thank you so much for sending me the Pink Fairy book. It is very good of you. Goldie is well and sends his love. Please give my love to Sarah and Mary and Kate and Poor Miss Bennett. There is an Iceland poppy come out in my garden. The gardener hanged himself in the stable yesterday. Daddy is in bed but not very ill Mummy says. Rouncy is going to let me make twists and cottages too.

  Lots and lots and lots of love and kisses

  from

  Celia.

  4

  Celia’s father died when she was ten years old. He died in his mother’s house at Wimbledon. He had been in bed for several months, and there had been two hospital nurses in the house. Celia had got used to Daddy being ill. Her mother was always talking of what they would do when Daddy was better.

  That Daddy could die had never entered her head. She had just been coming up the stairs when the door of the sick-room opened and her mother came out. A mother she had never seen before …

  Long afterwards she thought of it like a leaf driven before the wind. Her mother’s arms were thrown up to heaven, she was moaning, and then she burst open the door of her own room and disappeared within. A nurse followed her out on to the landing, where Celia was staring open-mouthed.

  ‘What has happened to Mummy?’

  ‘Hush, my dear. Your father – your father has gone to Heaven.’

  ‘Daddy? Daddy dead and gone to Heaven?’

  ‘Yes, now you must be a good little girl. Remember, you’ll have to comfort your mother.’

  The nurse disappeared into Miriam’s room.

  Stricken dumb, Celia wandered out into the garden. It took her a long time to take it in. Daddy. Daddy gone – dead …

  Momentarily her world was shattered.

  Daddy – and everything looked just the same. She shivered. It was like the Gun Man – everything all right and then he was there … She looked at the garden, the ash tree, the paths – all the same and yet, somehow different. Things could change – things could happen …

  Was Daddy in Heaven now? Was he happy?

  Oh, Daddy …

  She began to cry.

  She went into the house. Grannie was there – she was sitting in the dining-room; the blinds were all down. She was writing letters. Occasionally a tear ran down her cheek, and she attended to it with a handkerchief.

  ‘Is that my poor little girl?’ she said when she saw Celia. ‘There, there, my dear, you mustn’t fret. It’s God’s will.’

  ‘Why are the blinds down?’ asked Celia.

  She didn’t like the blinds being down – it made the house dark and queer, as though it too were different.

  ‘It’s a mark of respect,’ said Grannie.

  She began rummaging in her pocket and produced a blackcurrant and glycerine jujube of which she knew Celia was fond.

  Celia took it and said thank you. But she did not eat. She did not feel it would go down properly.

  She sat there holding it and watching Grannie.

  Grannie went on writing – writing – letter after letter on black-edged notepaper.

  5

  For two days Celia’s mother was very ill. The starched hospital nurse murmured phrases to Grannie.

  ‘The long strain – wouldn’t allow herself to believe – shock all the worse in the end – must be roused.’

  They told Celia she could go in and see Mummy.

  The room was darkened. Her mother lay on her side, her brown hair with its grey strands lying wildly all around her. Her eyes looked queer, very bright – they stared at something – something beyond Celia.

  ‘Here’s your dear little girl,’ said the nurse in her high irritating ‘I know best’ voice.

  Mummy smiled at Celia then – but not a real smile – not the kind of smile as if Celia were really there.

  Nurse had talked to Celia beforehand. So had Grannie.

  Celia spoke in her prim good little girl’s voice.

  ‘Mummy, darling, Daddy’s happy – he’s in Heaven. You wouldn’t want to call him back.’

  Suddenly her mother laughed.

  ‘Oh, yes, I would! If I could call him back, I’d never stop calling – never – day or night. John – John, come back to me.’

  She had raised herself up on one elbow, her face was wild and beautiful but strange.

  The nurse hustled Celia out of the room. Celia heard her go back to the bed and say:

  ‘You’ve got to live for your children, remember, my dear.’

  And she heard her mother say in a strange docile voice:

  ‘Yes, I’ve got to live for my children. You needn’t tell me that. I know it.’

  Celia went downstairs and into the drawing-room, to a place on the wall where there hung two coloured prints. They were called The Distressed Mother and The Happy Father. Of the latter, Celia did not think much. The ladylike person in the print did not look in the least like Celia’s idea of a father – happy or otherwise. But the distraught woman, her hair flying, her arms clasping children in every direction – yes, that was how Mummy had looked. The Distressed Mother. Celia nodded her head with a kind of queer satisfaction.

  6

  Things happened rapidly – some of them rather exciting things – like being taken by Grannie to buy black clothes.

  Celia couldn’t help rather enjoying those black clothes. Mourning! She was in mourning! It sounded very important and grown up. She fancied people looking at her in the street. ‘See that child all dressed in black?’ ‘Yes, she’s just lost her father.’ ‘Oh! dear, how sad. Poor child.’ And Celia would strut a little as she walked and droop her head sadly. She felt a little ashamed of feeling like this, but she couldn’t help feeling an interesting and romantic figure.

  Cyril was at home. He was very grown up now, but occasionally his voice did peculiar things, and then he blushed. He was gruff and uncomfortable. Sometimes there were tears in his eyes, but he was furious if you noticed them. He caught Celia preening herself in front of the glass in her new clothes and was openly contemptuous.

  ‘That’s all a kid like you thinks of. New clothes. Oh, well, I suppose you’re too young to take things in.’

  Celia cried and thought he was very unkind.

  Cyril shrank from his mother. He got on better with Grannie. He played the man of the family to Grannie, and Grannie encouraged him. She consulted him about the letters she wrote and appealed to his judgment about various details.

  Celia was not allowed to go to the funeral, which she thought very unfair. Grannie did not go either. Cyril went with his mother.

  She came down for the first time on the morning of the funeral. She looked very unfamiliar to Celia in her widow’s bonnet – rather sweet and small – and – and – oh, yes, helpless looking.

  Cyril was very manly and protective.

  Grannie said: ‘I’ve got a few white carnations here, Miriam. I thought perhaps you might like to throw them on the coffin as it is being lowered.’

  But Miriam shook her head, and said in a low voice:

  ‘No, I’d rather not do anything like that.’

  After the funeral the blinds were pulled up, and life went on as usual.

  7

  C
elia wondered whether Grannie really liked Mummy and whether Mummy really liked Grannie. She didn’t quite know what put the idea into her head.

  She felt unhappy about her mother. She moved about so quietly, so silently, speaking very little.

  Grannie spent a long part of the day receiving letters and reading them. She would say:

  ‘Miriam, I’m sure you’d like to hear this. Mr Pike speaks so feelingly of John.’

  But her mother would wince back, and say:

  ‘Please, no, not now.’

  And Grannie’s eyebrows would go up a little and she would fold the letter, saying dryly: ‘As you please.’

  But when the next post came in the same thing would happen.

  ‘Mr Clark is a truly good man,’ she would say, sniffing a little as she read. ‘Miriam, you really should hear this. It would help you. He speaks so beautifully of how our dead are always with us.’

  And suddenly roused from her quiescence Miriam would cry out:

  ‘No, no!’

  It was that sudden cry that made Celia feel she knew what her mother was feeling. Her mother wanted to be let alone.

  One day a letter came with a foreign stamp on it … Miriam opened it and sat reading it – four sheets of delicate sloping handwriting. Grannie watched her.

  ‘Is that from Louise?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was silence. Grannie watched the letter hungrily.

  ‘What does she say?’ she asked at last.

  Miriam was folding up the letter.

  ‘I don’t think it’s meant for any one but me to see,’ she said quietly. ‘Louise – understands.’

  That time Grannie’s eyebrows rose right up into her hair.

  A few days later Celia’s mother went away with Cousin Lottie for a change. Celia stayed with Grannie for a month.

  When Miriam came back, she and Celia went home.

  And life began again – a new life. Celia and her mother alone in the big house and garden.

  5 Mother and Daughter