Unfinished Portrait

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

  ‘I’m particularly beautiful just now!’

  ‘You will be again. Look at Gladys Cooper. She’s had two children, and she’s just as lovely as ever. It’s a great consolation to me to think of that.’

  ‘Dermot, I wish you wouldn’t insist so on beauty. It – it frightens me.’

  ‘But why? You’re going to be beautiful for years and years and years …’

  Celia gave a slight grimace and moved uncomfortably.

  ‘What is it? Pain?’

  ‘No, a sort of stitch in my side – very tiresome. Like something knocking.’

  ‘It isn’t it, I suppose. It says in that last book that after the fifth month –’

  ‘Oh, but, Dermot, do you mean that “flutter under the heart”? It always sounded so poetical and lovely. I thought it would be a lovely feeling. It can’t be this.’

  But it was this!

  Her child, Celia said, must be a very active one. It spent its time kicking.

  Because of this athletic activity they christened him Punch.

  ‘Punch been very active today?’ Dermot would ask as he returned.

  ‘Terrible,’ Celia would reply. ‘Not a minute’s peace, but I think he’s gone to sleep for a bit now.’

  ‘I expect,’ said Dermot, ‘that he’s going to be a professional pugilist.’

  ‘No, I don’t want his nose broken.’

  What Celia wished for most was that her mother should come to her, but Grannie had not been well – a touch of bronchitis (attributed by her to having inadvertently opened a window in her bedroom), and though longing to come to Celia, Miriam did not like to leave the old lady.

  ‘I feel I am responsible for Grannie and mustn’t leave her – especially as she mistrusts the servants, but – oh, my darling, I want to be with you so much. Can’t you come here?’

  But Celia would not leave Dermot – at the back of her mind that faint shadowy fear – ‘I might die.’

  It was Grannie who took the matter into her own hands. She wrote to Celia in her thin spidery handwriting – now erratically astray on the paper owing to her failing sight.

  Dearest Celia: I have insisted on your mother going to you. It is very bad for you in your condition to have desires that are not satisfied. Your dear mother wants to go, I know, but doesn’t like leaving me alone with servants. I will not say anything about that, as one never knows who reads one’s letters.

  Be sure, dear child, to keep your feet up a good deal, and remember not to put your hand to your skin if you are looking at a piece of salmon or lobster. My mother put her hand to her neck when she was expecting and was looking at a piece of salmon at the time, and so your aunt Caroline was born with a mark like a piece of salmon on the side of her neck.

  I enclose a five-pound note (half – the other half follows separately), and be sure you buy yourself any little delicacy you fancy.

  With fond love,

  Your loving Grannie.

  Miriam’s visit was a great delight to Celia. They made her a bed in the sitting-room on the divan, and Dermot was particularly charming to her. It was doubtful if that would have affected Miriam, but his tenderness to Celia did.

  ‘I think perhaps it was jealousy that made me not like Dermot,’ she confessed. ‘You know, darling, even now, I can’t like anyone who has taken you away from me.’

  On the third day of her visit Miriam got a telegram and hurried home. Grannie died a day later – almost her last words being to tell Celia never to jump off or on a bus. ‘Young married women never think of these things.’

  Grannie had no idea that she was dying. She fretted because she was not getting on with the little bootikins she was knitting for Celia’s baby … She died without it having entered her head that she would not live to see her great grandchild.

  8

  Grannie’s death made little difference financially to Miriam and Celia. The larger part of her income had been a life interest from her third husband’s estate. Of the remaining money, various small legacies accounted for more than half of it. The remainder was left to Miriam and Celia. While Miriam was worse off (since Grannie’s income had helped to keep up the house) Celia was the possessor of a hundred a year of her own. With Dermot’s consent and approval she turned this over to Miriam to help with the upkeep of ‘home’. More than ever, now, she hated the idea of selling it, and her mother agreed. A country home to which Celia’s children could come – so Miriam visualized it.

  ‘And besides, darling, you may need it yourself one of these days – when I am gone. I should like to feel it was there to be a refuge to you.’

  Celia thought refuge was a funny word to use, but she liked the idea of some day going to live at home with Dermot.

  Dermot, however, saw the matter differently.

  ‘Naturally you’re fond of your own home, but, all the same, I don’t suppose it will ever be of much use to us.’

  ‘We might go and live there some day.’

  ‘Yes, when we’re about a hundred and one. It’s too far from London to be any practical use.’

  ‘Not when you retire from the army?’

  ‘Even then I shan’t want to sit down and stagnate. I shall want a job. And I’m not so sure about staying in the army after the war, but we needn’t talk about that now.’

  Of what use to look forward? Dermot might still be ordered out to France again at any minute. He might be killed …

  ‘But I shall have his child,’ thought Celia.

  But she knew that no child could replace Dermot in her heart. Dermot meant more to her than anyone in the world and always would.

  11 Motherhood

  1

  Celia’s child was born in July, and it was born in the same room where she had been born twenty-two years ago.

  Outside the deep green branches of the beech tree tapped against the window.

  Putting his fears (curiously intense ones) for Celia out of sight, Dermot had resolutely regarded the role of an expectant mother as a highly amusing one. No attitude could so well have helped Celia through the weary time. She remained strong and active but obstinately seasick.

  She went home about three weeks before the baby was due. At the end of that time Dermot got a week’s leave and joined her. Celia hoped her baby would be born while he was there. Her mother hoped it would be born after he departed. Men, in Miriam’s opinion, were nothing more nor less than a nuisance at such times.

  The nurse had arrived and was so briskly cheerful and reassuring that Celia was devoured by secret terrors.

  One night at dinner Celia dropped her knife and fork and cried: ‘Oh, Nurse!’

  They went out of the room together. Nurse came back in a minute or two. She nodded to Miriam.

  ‘Very punctual,’ she said smiling. ‘A model patient.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to telephone for the doctor?’ demanded Dermot fiercely.

  ‘Oh, there’s no hurry. He won’t be needed for many hours yet.’

  Celia came back and went on with her dinner. Afterwards Miriam and the nurse went off together. They murmured of linen, and jingled keys …

  Celia and Dermot sat looking at each other desperately. They had joked and laughed, but now their fear was upon them:

  Celia said: ‘I’ll be all right. I know I’ll be all right.’

  Dermot said violently: ‘Of course you will.’

  They stared at each other miserably.

  ‘You’re very strong,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Very strong. And women have babies every day – one a minute isn’t it?’

  A spasm of pain contorted her face. Dermot cried out: ‘Celia!’

  ‘It’s all right. Let’s go out. The house seems like a hospital somehow.’

  ‘It’s that damned nurse does it.’

  ‘She’s very nice, really.’

  They went out into the summer night. They felt curiously isolated. Inside the house was bustle, preparation – they heard Nurse at the telephone, her ‘Yes, Doctor … No, Doctor
… Oh, yes, about ten o’clock will do nicely … Yes, quite satisfactory.’

  Outside the night was cool and green … The beech tree rustled …

  Two lonely children wandered there hand in hand – not knowing how to console each other …

  Celia said suddenly:

  ‘I just want to say – not that anything will happen – but in case it did – that I’ve been so wonderfully happy that nothing in the world matters. You promised you’d make me happy, and you have … I didn’t dream anyone could be so happy.’

  Dermot said brokenly:

  ‘I’ve brought this on you …’

  ‘I know. It’s worse for you … But I’m terribly happy about it – about everything …’

  She added:

  ‘And afterwards – we’ll always love each other.’

  ‘Always, all our lives …’

  Nurse called from the house.

  ‘You’d better come in now, my dear.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  It was upon them now. They were being torn apart. That was the worst of it, Celia felt. Having to leave Dermot to face this new thing alone.

  They clung together – all the terror of separation in their kiss.

  Celia thought: ‘We’ll never forget this night – never …’ It was the fourteenth of July.

  She went into the house.

  2

  So tired … so tired … so very tired …

  The room, spinning, hazy – then broadening out and settling into reality. The nurse smiling at her, the doctor washing his hands in a corner of the room. He had known her all her life, and he called out to her jocularly:

  ‘Well, Celia, my dear, you’ve got a baby.’

  She had got a baby, had she?

  It didn’t seem to matter.

  She was so tired.

  Just that … tired …

  They seemed to be expecting her to do or say something …

  But she couldn’t.

  She just wanted to be let alone …

  To rest …

  But there was something … someone …

  She murmured: ‘Dermot?’

  3

  She had dozed off. When she opened her eyes he was there.

  But what had happened to him? He looked different – so queer. He was in trouble – had had bad news or something.

  She said: ‘What is it?’

  He answered in a queer, unnatural voice: ‘A little daughter.’

  ‘No, I mean – you? What’s the matter?’

  His face crumpled up – puckered queerly. He was crying – Dermot crying!

  He said brokenly: ‘It’s been so awful – so long … You don’t know how ghastly it’s been …’

  He knelt by the bed, burying his face there. She laid a hand on his head.

  How much he cared …

  ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘It’s all right now …’

  4

  Here was her mother. Instinctively, at the sight of that sweet smiling face, Celia felt better – stronger. As in nursery days she felt ‘everything would be all right now that Mummy was here.’

  ‘Don’t go away, Mummy.’

  ‘No, darling. I’m going to sit here by you.’

  Celia fell asleep holding her mother’s hand. When she woke up, she said:

  ‘Oh, Mummy, it feels just wonderful not to be sick!’

  Miriam laughed.

  ‘You’re going to see your baby now. Nurse is bringing her.’

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t a boy?’

  ‘Quite sure. Girls are much nicer, Celia. You’ve always meant much more to me than Cyril has.’

  ‘Yes, but I was so sure it was a boy … Well, Dermot will be pleased. He wanted a girl. He’s got his own way.’

  ‘As usual,’ said Miriam dryly. ‘Here comes Nurse.’

  Nurse came in very starched and stiff and important – carrying something on a pillow.

  Celia steeled herself. New-born babies were very ugly – frightfully ugly. She must be prepared.

  ‘Oh!’ she said in a tone of great surprise.

  Was this little creature her baby? She felt excited and frightened as Nurse laid her gently within the crook of her arm. This funny little Red Indian squaw with her dark thatch of hair? Nothing raw beef-like about her. A funny, adorable, comic little face.

  ‘Eight and a half pounds,’ said Nurse with great satisfaction.

  As often before in her life, Celia felt unreal. She was now definitely playing the part of the Young Mother.

  But she did not feel at all like either a wife or a mother. She felt like a little girl come home after an exciting but tiring party.

  5

  Celia called the baby Judy – as being the next best thing to Punch!

  Judy was a most satisfactory baby. She put on the requisite weight every week and indulged in the minimum amount of crying. When she did cry it was the angry roar of a miniature tigress.

  Having, as Grannie would have put it, ‘taken her month’, Celia left Judy with Miriam and went up to London to look about for a suitable home.

  Her reunion with Dermot was particularly joyous. It was like a second honeymoon. Part of Dermot’s satisfaction arose from the fact (Celia discovered) that she had left Judy to come up to him.

  ‘I’ve been so afraid you’d get all domestic and not bother about me any longer.’

  His jealousy allayed, Dermot joined her energetically in flat hunting whenever he could. Celia now felt quite experienced in the house-hunting business – no longer was she the complete nincompoop who had been frightened away by the efficiency of Miss Banks. She might have been renting flats all her life.

  They were going to take an unfurnished flat. It would be cheaper, and Miriam could easily supply them with nearly all the furniture they needed from home.

  Unfurnished flats, however, were few and far between. They nearly always had a snag attached to them in the shape of a monstrous premium. As day followed day, Celia got more and more depressed.

  It was Mrs Steadman who saved the situation.

  She appeared at breakfast one morning with a mysterious air of engaging in a conspiracy.

  ‘Apologizing, I’m sure, to you, sir,’ said Mrs Steadman, ‘for intruding at such a time, but it came to Steadman’s ears last night that No. 18 Lauceston Mansions – just round the corner – is to Be Had. They wrote to the agents about it last night, so if you was to nip round now, ma’am, before anybody Got Wind of it, so to speak –’

  There was no need for more. Celia sprang up from the table, pulled on a hat, and departed with the eagerness of a dog on the scent.

  At 18 Lauceston Mansions also breakfast was in progress. To the announcement by a slatternly maid of ‘Somebody to see over the flat, ma’am,’ Celia, standing in the hall, heard an agitated wail: ‘But they can hardly have got my letter yet. It’s only half-past eight.’

  A young woman in a kimono came out of the dining-room, wiping her mouth. A smell of kipper accompanied her.

  ‘Do you really want to see over the flat?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose …’

  Celia was taken round. Yes, it would do excellently. Four bedrooms, two sitting-rooms – everything pretty dirty, of course. Rent £80 a year (marvellously cheap). A premium (alas) of a hundred and fifty pounds, and the ‘lino’ (Celia abhorred lino) to be taken at a valuation. Celia offered a hundred premium. The young woman in the kimono refused scornfully.

  ‘Very well,’ said Celia firmly. ‘I’ll take it.’

  As she descended the stairs she was glad of her decision. Two separate women came up, each with a house agent’s order to view in her hand!

  Within three days Celia and Dermot had been offered a premium of two hundred to abdicate their right.

  But they stuck to it, paid over their hundred and fifty pounds, and entered into possession of 18 Lauceston Mansions. At last they had a home (a very dirty one) of their own.

  In a month’s time you
would hardly have known the place. Dermot and Celia did all the decorating themselves – they could not afford anything else. They learnt by experience interesting facts about distempering, painting, and papering. The finished result was charming, they thought. Cheap chintz papers brightened up the long dingy passages. Yellow distempered walls gave a sunny look to the rooms facing north. The sitting-rooms were pale cream – a background for pictures and china. The ‘lino surrounds’ were torn up and presented to Mrs Steadman, who received them greedily. ‘I do like a bit of nice lino, ma’am …’

  6

  In the meantime Celia had successfully passed through another ordeal – that of Mrs Barman’s Bureau. Mrs Barman’s Bureau provided children’s nurses.

  Arriving at this awe-inspiring establishment, Celia was received by a haughty yellow-haired creature, required to fill in thirty-four answers to questions on an imposing form – the questions being of a kind to induce acute humility in the filler in. She was then conducted to a small cubicle, rather medical in appearance, and there, curtained in, she was left to await those nurses whom the yellow-haired one saw fit to send her.

  By the time the first one came in, Celia’s sense of inferiority had deepened to complete abasement, not relieved by the first applicant, a big starched massive woman, aggressively clean and majestic in demeanour.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Celia weakly.

  ‘Good morning, madam.’ The majestic one took the chair opposite Celia and gazed at her steadily, conveying somehow as she did so, her sense that Celia’s situation was not likely to suit anyone who respected one’s self.

  ‘I want a nurse for a young baby,’ began Celia wishing that she did not feel and (she was afraid) sound amateurish.

  ‘Yes, madam. From the month?’

  ‘Yes, at least two months.’

  One mistake already – ‘from the month’ was a technical term – not a period of time. Celia felt she had gone down in the majestic one’s estimation.

  ‘Quite so, madam. Any other children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A first baby. How many in family?’