I had no such knowledge in those days. I knew I was desperately tired, and that the sorrow of losing my mother was still there deep down, though I tried–perhaps too much–to put it out of my mind. If only Archie would come, or Punkie, or someone, to be with me.
I had Rosalind, but of course I could not say anything to upset her, or talk to her about being unhappy, worried or ill. She was particularly happy herself, enjoying Ashfield very much, as she always did–and extremely helpful in my chores. She loved carrying things down the stairs and stuffing them into the dustbin, and occasionally allocating something to herself. ‘I don’t think anyone wants this–and it might be rather fun.’
Time went on, things got almost straight, and at last I could look forward to the end of my drudgery. August came–Rosalind’s birthday was on the 5th of August. Punkie came down two or three days before it, and Archie arrived on the 3rd. Rosalind was very contented at the prospect of having her Auntie Punkie with her during the two weeks Archie and I were in Italy.
V
What shall I do to drive awayRemembrance from mine eyes?
wrote Keats. But should one drive it away? If one chooses to look back over the journey that has been one’s life, is one entitled to ignore those memories that one dislikes? Or is that cowardice?
I think, perhaps, one should take one brief look, and say: ‘Yes, this is part of my life; but it’s done with. It is a strand in the tapestry of my existence. I must recognise it because it is part of me. But there is no need to dwell upon it.’
When Punkie arrived at Ashfield I felt wonderfully happy. Then Archie came.
I think the nearest I can get to describing what I felt at that moment is to recall that old nightmare of mine–the horror of sitting at a tea table, looking across at my best loved friend, and suddenly realising that the person sitting there was a stranger. That, I think, describes best what Archie was like when he came.
He went through the motions of ordinary greetings, but he was, quite simply, not Archie. I did not know what was the matter with him. Punkie noticed, and said, ‘Archie seems very queer–is he ill, or something?’ I said perhaps he might be. Archie, however, said he was quite all right. But he spoke little to us, and went off by himself. I asked him about our tickets for Alassio and he said, ‘Oh yes, well–well, that’s all settled. I’ll tell you about it later.’
Still he was a stranger. I racked my brains to think what could have happened. I had a momentary fear that something had gone wrong in the firm. It wasn’t possible that Archie could have embezzled any money? No, I couldn’t believe that. But had he, perhaps, embarked on some transaction for which he had not had proper authority? Could he be in a hole financially? Something he didn’t mean to tell me about? I had to ask him in the end.
What is the matter, Archie?’
‘Oh, nothing particular.’
‘But there must be something.’
‘Well, I suppose I’d better tell you one thing. We–I–haven’t got any tickets for Alassio. I don’t feel like going abroad.’
‘We’re not going abroad?’
‘No. I tell you I don’t feel like it.’
‘Oh, you want to stay here, do you, and play with Rosalind? Is that it? Well, I think that would be just as nice.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said irritably. It was, I think, another twenty-four hours before he told me, straight out.
‘I’m desperately sorry,’ he said, ‘that this thing has happened. You know that dark girl who used to be Belcher’s secretary? We had her down for a weekend once, a year ago with Belcher, and we’ve seen her in London once or twice.’ I couldn’t remember her name, but I knew who he meant. ‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Well, I’ve been seeing her again since I’ve been alone in London. We’ve been out together a good deal…’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘why shouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, you still don’t understand,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve fallen in love with her, and I’d like you to give me a divorce as soon as it can be arranged.’ I suppose, with those words, that part of my life–my happy, successful confident life–ended. It was not as quick as that, of course–because I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was something that would pass. There had never been any suspicion of anything of that kind in our lives. We had been happy together, and harmonious. He had never been the type who looked much at other women. It was triggered off, perhaps–by the fact that he had missed his usual cheerful companion in the last few months. He said: ‘I did tell you once, long ago, that I hate it when people are ill or unhappy–it spoils everything for me.’ Yes, I thought, I should have known that. If I’d been cleverer, if I had known more about my husband–had troubled to know more about him, instead of being content to idealise him and consider him more or less perfect–then perhaps I might have avoided all this. If I had been given a second chance, could I have avoided what had happened? If I had not gone to Ashfield and left him in London he would probably never have become interested in this girl. Not with this particular girl. But it might have happened with someone else, because I must in some way have been inadequate to fill Archie’s life. He must have been ripe for falling in love with someone else, though he perhaps didn’t even know it himself. Or was it just this particular girl? Was it just fate with him, falling in love with her quite suddenly? He had certainly not been in love with her on the few occasions we had met her previously. He had even objected to my asking her down to stay, he said it would spoil his golf. Yet when he did fall in love with her, he fell with the suddenness with which he had fallen in love with me. So perhaps it was bound to be. Friends and relations are of little use at a time like this. Their point of view was, ‘But it’s absurd. You’ve always been so happy together. He’ll get over it. Lots of husbands this happens with. They get over it.’ I thought so too. I thought he would get over it. But he didn’t. He left Sunningdale. Carlo had come back to me by then–the English specialists had declared that her father did not have cancer after all–and it was a terrific comfort to have her there. But she was clearer sighted than I was. She said Archie wouldn’t get over it. When he finally packed up and went I had a feeling almost of relief–he had made up his mind. However, he came back after a fortnight. Perhaps, he said, he had been wrong. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do. I said I was sure it was as far as Rosalind was concerned. After all, he was devoted to her, wasn’t he? Yes, he admitted, he really did love Rosalind.
‘And she is fond of you. She loves you better than she loves me. Oh, she wants me if she’s ill, but you are the parent that she really loves and depends upon; you have the same sense of humour and are better companions than she and I are. You must try to get over it. I do know these things happen.’ But his coming back was, I think, a mistake, because it brought home to him how keen his feeling was. Again and again he would say to me:
‘I can’t stand not having what I want, and I can’t stand not being happy. Everybody can’t be happy–somebody has got to be unhappy.’ I managed to forbear saying, ‘But why should it be me and not you?’ Those things don’t help. What I could not understand was his continued unkindness to me during that period. He would hardly speak to me or answer when he was spoken to. I understand it much better now, because I have seen other husbands and wives and learned more about life. He was unhappy because he was, I think, deep down fond of me, and he did really hate to hurt me–so he had to assure himself that this was not hurting me, that it would be much better for me in the end, that I should have a happy life, that I should travel, that I had my writing, after all, to console me. Because his conscience troubled him he could not help behaving with a certain ruthlessness. My mother had always said he was ruthless. I had always seen so clearly his many acts of kindness, his good nature, his helpfulness when Monty came home from Kenya, the trouble he would take for people. But he was ruthless now, because he was fighting for his happiness. I had admired his ruthlessness before. Now I saw the other side of it. So, after illness, came sorrow
, despair and heartbreak. There is no need to dwell on it. I stood out for a year, hoping he would change. But he did not. So ended my first married life.
VI
In February of the following year Carlo, Rosalind and I went to the Canary Islands. I had some difficulty in getting my way over this, but I knew that the only hope of starting again was to go right away from all the things that had wrecked life for me. There could be no peace for me in England now after all I had gone through. The bright spot in my life was Rosalind. If I could be alone with her and my friend Carlo, things would heal again, and I could face the future. But life in England was unbearable.
From that time, I suppose, dates my revulsion against the Press, my dislike of journalists and of crowds. It was unfair, no doubt, but I think it was natural under the circumstances. I had felt like a fox, hunted, my earths dug up and yelping hounds following me everywhere. I had always hated notoriety of any kind, and now I had had such a dose of it that at some moments I felt I could hardly bear to go on living.
‘But you could live quietly at Ashfield,’ my sister suggested.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t. If I am quiet there and all alone I shall do nothing but remember–remember every happy day I ever had there and every happy thing I did.’ The important thing, once you have been hurt, is not to remember the happy times. You can remember the sad times–that doesn’t matter–but something that reminds you of a happy day or a happy thing–that’s the thing that almost breaks you in two. Archie continued to live at Styles for a time, but he was trying to sell it–with my consent, of course, since I owned half of it. I needed the money badly now, because I was in serious financial trouble again. Ever since my mother’s death I had been unable to write a word. A book was due this year, and having spent so much on Styles I had no money in hand: what little capital I had had was gone in the purchase of the house. I had no money coming in now from anywhere except what I could make or had made myself. It was vital that I should write another book as soon as possible, and get an advance on it. My brother-in-law, Archie’s brother Campbell Christie, who had always been a great friend and was a kind and lovable person, helped me here. He suggested that the last twelve stories published in The Sketch should be run together, so that they would have the appearance of a book. That would be a stop-gap. He helped me with the work–I was still unable to tackle anything of the kind. In the end it was published under the title of The Big Four, and turned out to be quite popular. I thought now that once I got away and had calmed down I could perhaps, with Carlo’s help, write another book. The one person who was entirely on my side, and reassured me in all that I was doing, was my brother-in-law, James.
‘You’re doing quite right, Agatha,’ he said in his quiet voice. ‘You know what is best for yourself, and I would do the same in your place. You must get away. It is possible that Archie may change his mind and come back–I hope so–but I don’t really think so. I don’t think he is that kind of person. When he makes up his mind it is definite, so I shouldn’t count on it.’ I said no, I wasn’t counting on it, but I thought it only fair to Rosalind to wait at least a year so that he could be quite sure that he knew what he was doing. I had been brought up, of course, like everyone in my day, to have a horror of divorce, and I still have it. Even today I have a sense of guilt because I acceded to his persistent demand and did agree to divorce him. Whenever I look at my daughter. I feel still that I ought to have stood out, that I ought perhaps to have refused. One is so hampered when one doesn’t want a thing oneself. I didn’t want to divorce Archie–I hated doing it. To break up a marriage is wrong–I am sure of it–and I have seen enough marriages broken up, and heard enough of the inner stories of them, to know that while it matters little if there are no children, it does matter if there are. I came back to England myself again–a hardened self, a self suspicious of the world, but better attuned now to deal with it. I took a small flat in Chelsea, with Rosalind and Carlo and went with my friend Eileen Morris, whose brother was now Headmaster of Horris Hill School, to look at various girls’ preparatory schools. I felt that as Rosalind had been uprooted from her home and friends, and as there were few children of her own age whom I now knew in Torquay, it would be better for her to go to boarding school. It was what she wanted to do anyway. Eileen and I saw about ten different schools. My head was quite addled by the time we had finished, though some of them had made us laugh. Nobody, of course, could have known less about schools than I did, for I had never been near one. I had no feeling about schooling one way or the other. I had never missed it myself. But after all, I said to myself, you may have missed something–you don’t know. Perhaps it would be better to give your daughter the chance. Since Rosalind was a person of the utmost good sense, I consulted her on the subject. She was quite enthusiastic. She enjoyed the day school she was going to in London, but she thought it would be nice to go to a preparatory school the following autumn. After that, she said, she would like to go to a very large school–the largest school there was. We agreed that I should try to find a nice preparatory school, and we settled tentatively on Cheltenham, which was the largest school I could think of, for the future. The first school I liked was at Bexhill: Caledonia, run by a Miss Wynne and her partner, Miss Barker. It was conventional, obviously well run, and I liked Miss Wynne. She was a person of authority and personality. All the school rules seemed to be cut and dried, but sensible, and Eileen had heard through friends of hers that the food was exceptionally good. I liked the look of the children too. The other school I liked was of a completely opposite type. Girls could have their own ponies and keep their own pets, if they liked, and more or less choose what subjects to study. There was a great deal of latitude in what they did, and if they did not want to do a thing they were not pressed to do it, because, so the Headmistress said, they then came to want to do things of their own accord. There was a certain amount of artistic training, and, again, I liked the Headmistress. She was an original-minded person, warm-hearted, enthusiastic, and full of ideas. I went home, thought about it, and finally decided to take Rosalind with me and visit each of them once more. We did this. I left Rosalind to consider for a couple of days, then said: ‘Now, which do you think you’d like?’ Rosalind, thank goodness, has always known her own mind. ‘Oh, Caledonia,’ she said, ‘every time. I shouldn’t like the other; it would be too much like being at a party. One doesn’t want being at school to be like being at a party, does one?’ So we settled on Caledonia, and it was a great success. The teaching was extremely good, and the children were interested in what they learned. It was highly organised, but Rosalind was the kind of child who liked to be highly organised. As she said with gusto in the holidays, ‘There’s never a moment’s leisure for anyone.’ Not at all what I should have liked. Sometimes the answers I would get to questions seemed quite extraordinary:
‘What time do you get up in the morning, Rosalind?’
‘I don’t know, really. A bell rings.’
‘Don’t you want to know the time the bell rings?’
‘Why should I?’ said Rosalind. ‘It’s to get us up, that’s all. And then we have breakfast about half an hour afterwards, I suppose.’ Miss Wynne kept parents in their place. I asked her once if Rosalind could come out with us on Sunday dressed in her everyday clothes instead of her Sunday silk frock, because we were going to have a picnic and a ramble over the downs. Miss Wynne replied: ‘All my pupils go out on Sunday in their Sunday clothes.’ And that was that. However, Carlo and I would pack a small bag with Rosalind’s rougher country clothes, and in a convenient wood or copse she would change from her silk Liberty frock, straw hat and neat shoes into something more suitable to the rough and tumble of our picnic. No one ever found us out. She was a woman of remarkable personality. Once I asked her what she did on Sports Day if it rained. ‘Rain?’ said Miss Wynne in a tone of surprise, ‘It has never rained on Sports Day that I can remember.’ She could, it seemed, dictate even to the elements: or, as one of Rosalind’s friends
said, ‘I expect, you know, God would be on Miss Wynne’s side.’ I had managed to write the best part of a new book, The Mystery of The Blue Train, while we were in the Canary Islands. It had not been easy, and had certainly not been rendered easier by Rosalind. Rosalind, unlike her mother, was not a child who could amuse herself by any exercise of imagination: she required something concrete. Give her a bicycle and she would go off for half an hour. Give her a difficult puzzle when it was wet, and she would work on it. But in the garden of the hotel at Oratava in Tenerife there was nothing for Rosalind to do but walk around the flower-beds, or occasionally bowl a hoop–and a hoop meant little to Rosalind, again unlike her mother. To her it was only a hoop.
‘Look here, Rosalind,’ I said, ‘you must not interrupt. I’ve got some work to do. I’ve got to write another book. Carlo and I are going to be busy for the next hour with that. You must not interrupt.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Rosalind, gloomily, and went away. I looked at Carlo, sitting there with pencil poised, and I thought, and thought, and thought–cudgelling my brain. Finally, hesitantly, I began. After a few minutes, I noticed that Rosalind was just across the path, standing there looking at us.
‘What is it, Rosalind?’ I asked. ‘What do you want?’
‘Is it half an hour yet,’ she said.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s exactly nine minutes. Go away.’
‘Oh, all right.’ And she departed. I resumed my hesitant dictation. Presently Rosalind was there again.
‘I’ll call you when the time is up. It’s not up yet.’
‘Well, I can stay here, can’t I? I can just stand here. I won’t interrupt.’
‘I suppose you can stand there,’ I said, unwillingly. And I started again. But Rosalind’s eye upon me had the effect of a Medusa. I felt more strongly than ever that everything I was saying was idiotic! (Most of it was, too.) I faltered, stammered, hesitated, and repeated myself. Really, how that wretched book ever came to be written, I don’t know! To begin with, I had no joy in writing, no elan. I had worked out the plot–a conventional plot, partly adapted from one of my other stories. I knew, as one might say, where I was going, but I could not see the scene in my mind’s eye, and the people would not come alive. I was driven desperately on by the desire, indeed the necessity, to write another book and make some money. That was the moment when I changed from an amateur to a professional. I assumed the burden of a profession, which is to write even when you don’t want to, don’t much like what you are writing, and aren’t writing particularly well. I have always hated The Mystery of the Blue Train, but I got it written, and sent off to the publishers. It sold just as well as my last book had done. So I had to content myself with that–though I cannot say I have ever been proud of it. Oratava was lovely. The big mountain towered up; there were glorious flowers in the hotel grounds–but two things about it were wrong. After a lovely early morning, mists and fog came down from the mountain at noon, and the rest of the day was grey. Sometimes it even rained. And the bathing, to keen bathers, was terrible. You lay on a sloping volcanic beach, on your face, and you dug your fingers in and let waves come up and cover you. But you had to be careful they did not cover you too much. Masses of people had been drowned there. It was impossible to get into the sea and swim; that could only be done by one or two of the very strongest swimmers, and even one of those had been drowned the year before. So after a week we changed, and moved to Las Palmas in Gran Canaria. Las Palmas is still my ideal of the place to go in the winter months. I believe nowadays it is a tourist resort and has lost its early charm. Then it was quiet and peaceful. Very few people came there except those who stayed for a month or two in winter and preferred it to Madeira. It had two perfect beaches. The temperature was perfect too: the average was about 70°, which is, to my mind, what a summer temperature should be. It had a nice breeze most of the day, and it was warm enough in the evenings to sit out of doors after dinner. It was in those evenings with Carlo that I made two close friends, Dr Lucas and his sister Mrs Meek. She was a good deal older than her brother, and had three sons. He was a tuberculosis specialist, was married to an Australian, and had a sanatorium on the east coast. He had himself been crippled in youth–whether by tuberculosis or by polio, I do not know–but he was slightly hunch-backed, and had a delicate constitution. He was by nature a born healer, though, and was extraordinarily successful with his patients. He said once: ‘My partner, you know, is a better doctor than I am–better in his qualifications, knows more than I do–but he cannot do for his patients what I can. When I go away, they droop and fall back. I just make them get well.’ He was always known as Father to all his family. Soon Carlo and I were calling him Father too. I had a bad ulcerated throat when we were there. He came to see me and said, ‘You are very unhappy about something, aren’t you? What is it? Husband trouble?’ I said yes it was, and told him something of what had happened. He was cheering and invigorating. ‘He’ll come back if you want him,’ he said. ‘Just give him time. Give him plenty of time. And when he does come back, don’t reproach him.’ I said I didn’t think he would come back, that he wasn’t the type. No, he agreed, some weren’t. Then he smiled and said: ‘But most of us are, I can tell you that. I’ve been away and come back. Anyway, whatever happens, accept it and go on. You’ve got plenty of strength and courage. You’ll make a good thing out of life yet.’ Dear Father. I owe him so much. He had enormous sympathy for all human ailments and failings. ‘When he died, five or six years later, I felt I had lost one of my best friends. Rosalind’s one fear in life was that the Spanish chamber-maid would speak to her!
Agahta Christie: An autobiography Page 45
