The Burden

by Agatha Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott

  But Laura had no doubts about Miss Weekes – it would not be Miss Weekes who would run things. Miss Weekes was a woman of intellect, with an enthusiasm that ran to passion for mathematics. Domestic administration would not interest her. The plan had worked well. Laura was splendidly educated, Miss Weekes had an ease of living formerly denied to her, Laura saw to it that no clashes occurred between Mr Baldock and Miss Weekes. The choice of new servants if needed, the decision for Shirley to attend, first a kindergarten school, later a convent in a nearby town, though apparently all originated by Miss Weekes, were in reality Laura’s suggestions. The household was a harmonious one. Later Shirley was sent to a famous boarding school. Laura was then twenty-two.

  A year after that, the war broke out, and altered the pattern of existence. Shirley’s school was transferred to new premises in Wales. Miss Weekes went to London and obtained a post in a Ministry. The house was requisitioned by the Air Ministry to house officers; Laura transferred herself to the gardener’s cottage, and worked as a land-girl on an adjacent farm, managing at the same time to cultivate vegetables in her own big walled garden.

  And now, a year ago, the war with Germany had ended. The house had been de-requisitioned with startling abruptness. Laura had to attempt the reestablishment of it as something faintly like a home. Shirley had come home from school for good, declining emphatically to continue her studies by going to a university.

  She was not, she said, the brainy kind! Her headmistress in a letter to Laura confirmed this statement in slightly different terms:

  ‘I really do not feel that Shirley is the type to benefit by a university education. She is a dear girl, and very intelligent, but definitely not the academic type.’

  So Shirley had come home, and that old stand-by, Ethel, who had been working in a factory which was now abandoning war work, gave up her job and arrived back, not as the correct house-parlourmaid she had once been, but as a general factotum and friend. Laura continued and elaborated her plans for vegetable and flower production. Incomes were not what they had been with present taxation. If she and Shirley were to keep their home, the garden must be made to pay for itself and, it was to be hoped, show a profit.

  That was the picture of the past that Laura saw in her mind, as she unfastened her apron and went into the house to wash. All through the years, the central figure of the pattern had been Shirley.

  A baby Shirley, staggering about, telling Laura in stuttering unintelligible language what her dolls were doing. An older Shirley, coming back from kindergarten, pouring out confused descriptions of Miss Duckworth, of Tommy this and Mary that, of the naughty things Robin had done, and what Peter had drawn in his reading-book, and what Miss Duck had said about it.

  An older Shirley had come back from boarding school, brimming over with information: the girls she liked, the girls she hated, the angelic disposition of Miss Geoffrey, the English mistress, the despicable meannesses of Miss Andrews, the mathematics mistress, the indignities practised by all on the French mistress. Shirley had always chatted easily and unselfconsciously to Laura. Their relationship was in a way a curious one – not quite that of sisters, since the gap in years separated them, yet not removed by a generation, as a parent and child would be. There had never been any need for Laura to ask questions. Shirley would be bubbling over – ‘Oh, Laura, I’ve got such lots to tell you!’ And Laura would listen, laugh, comment, disagree, approve, as the case might be.

  Now that Shirley had come home for good, it had seemed to Laura that everything was exactly the same. Every day saw an interchange of comment on any separate activities they had pursued. Shirley talked unconcernedly of Robin Grant, of Edward Westbury; she had a frank affectionate nature, and it was natural to her, or so it had seemed, to comment daily on what happened.

  But yesterday she had come back from tennis at the Hargreaves’ and had been oddly monosyllabic in her replies to Laura’s questions.

  Laura wondered why. Of course, Shirley was growing up. She would have her own thoughts, her own life. That was only natural and right. What Laura had to decide was how best that could be accomplished. Laura sighed, looked at her watch again, and decided to go and see Mr Baldock.

  Chapter Two

  1

  Mr Baldock was busy in his garden when Laura came up the path. He grunted and immediately asked:

  ‘What do you think of my begonias? Pretty good?’

  Mr Baldock was actually an exceedingly poor gardener, but was inordinately proud of the results he achieved and completely oblivious of any failures. It was expected of his friends not to refer to these latter. Laura gazed obediently on some rather sparse begonias and said they were very nice.

  ‘Nice? They’re magnificent!’ Mr Baldock, who was now an old man and considerably stouter than he had been eighteen years ago, groaned a little as he bent over once more to pull at some weeds.

  ‘It’s this wet summer,’ he grumbled. ‘Fast as you clear the beds, up the stuff comes again. Words fail me when it comes to what I think of bindweed! You may say what you like, but I think it is directly inspired by the devil!’ He puffed a little, then said, his words coming shortly between stertorous breaths: ‘Well, young Laura, what is it? Trouble? Tell me about it.’

  ‘I always come to you when I’m worried. I have ever since I was six.’

  ‘Rum little kid you were. Peaky face and great big eyes.’

  ‘I wish I knew whether I was doing right.’

  ‘Shouldn’t bother if I was you,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Garrrrr! Get up, you unspeakable brute!’ (This was to the bindweed.) ‘No, as I say, I shouldn’t bother. Some people know what’s right and wrong, and some people haven’t the least idea. It’s like an ear for music!’

  ‘I don’t think I really meant right or wrong in the moral sense, I think I meant was I being wise?’

  ‘Well, that’s quite a different thing. On the whole, one does far more foolish things than wise ones. What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s Shirley.’

  ‘Naturally it’s Shirley. You never think of anything or anyone else.’

  ‘I’ve been arranging for her to go to London and train in secretarial work.’

  ‘Seems to me remarkably silly,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Shirley is a nice child, but the last person in the world to make a competent secretary.’

  ‘Still, she’s got to do something.’

  ‘So they say nowadays.’

  ‘And I’d like her to meet people.’

  ‘Blast and curse and damn that nettle,’ said Mr Baldock, shaking an injured hand. ‘People? What d’you mean by people? Crowds? Employers? Other girls? Young men?’

  ‘I suppose really I mean young men.’

  Mr Baldock chuckled.

  ‘She’s not doing too badly down here. That mother’s boy, Robin, at the vicarage seems to be making sheep’s eyes at her, young Peter has got it badly, and even Edward Westbury has started putting brilliantine on what’s left of his hair. Smelt it in church last Sunday. Thought to myself: “Now, who’s he after?” And sure enough there he was when we came out, wriggling like an embarrassed dog as he talked to her.’

  ‘I don’t think she cares about any of them.’

  ‘Why should she? Give her time. She’s very young, Laura. Come now, why do you really want to send her away to London, or are you going too?’

  ‘Oh no. That’s the whole point.’

  Mr Baldock straightened up.

  ‘So that’s the point, is it?’ He eyed her curiously. ‘What exactly is in your mind, Laura?’

  Laura looked down at the gravel path.

  ‘As you said just now, Shirley is the only thing that matters to me. I – I love her so much that I’m afraid of – well, of hurting her. Of trying to tie her to me too closely.’

  Mr Baldock’s voice was unexpectedly gentle.

  ‘She’s ten years younger than you are, and in some ways she’s more like a daughter than a sister to you.’

  ‘I’ve mothered her, yes.
’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you realize, being intelligent, that maternal love is a possessive love?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. And I don’t want it to be like that. I want Shirley to be free and – well – free.’

  ‘And that’s at the bottom of pushing her out of the nest? Sending her out in the world to find her feet?’

  ‘Yes. But what I’m so uncertain about is – am I wise to do so?’

  Mr Baldock rubbed his nose in an irritable way.

  ‘You women!’ he said. ‘Trouble with all of you is, you make such a song and dance about things. How is one ever to know what’s wise or not? If young Shirley goes to London and picks up with an Egyptian student and has a coffee-coloured baby in Bloomsbury, you’ll say it’s all your fault, whereas it will be entirely Shirley’s and possibly the Egyptian’s. And if she trains and gets a good job as a secretary and marries her boss, then you’ll say you were justified. All bunkum! You can’t arrange other people’s lives for them. Either Shirley’s got some sense or she hasn’t. Time will show. If you think this London idea is a good plan, go ahead with it, but don’t take it so seriously. That’s the whole trouble with you, Laura, you take life seriously. It’s the trouble with a lot of women.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘I take bindweed seriously,’ said Mr Baldock, glaring down balefully at the heap on the path. ‘And greenfly. And I take my stomach seriously, because it gives me hell if I don’t. But I never dream of taking other people’s lives seriously. I’ve too much respect for them, for one thing.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I couldn’t bear it if Shirley made a mess of her life and was unhappy.’

  ‘Fiddle de dee,’ said Mr Baldock rudely. ‘What does it matter if Shirley’s unhappy? Most people are, off and on. You’ve got to stick being unhappy in this life, just as you’ve got to stick everything else. You need courage to get through this world, courage and a gay heart.’

  He looked at her sharply.

  ‘What about yourself, Laura?’

  ‘Myself?’ said Laura, surprised.

  ‘Yes. Suppose you’re unhappy? Are you going to be able to bear that?’

  Laura smiled.

  ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘Well, why not? Think about yourself a bit more. Unselfishness in a woman can be as disastrous as a heavy hand in pastry. What do you want out of life? You’re twenty-eight, a good marriageable age. Why don’t you do a bit of manhunting?’

  ‘How absurd you are, Baldy.’

  ‘Thistles and ground elder!’ roared Mr Baldock. ‘You’re a woman, aren’t you? A not bad-looking, perfectly normal woman. Or aren’t you normal? What’s your reaction when a man tries to kiss you?’

  ‘They haven’t very often tried,’ said Laura.

  ‘And why the hell not? Because you’re not doing your stuff.’ He shook a finger at her. ‘You’re thinking the whole time of something else. There you stand in a nice neat coat and skirt looking the nice modest sort of girl my mother would have approved of. Why don’t you paint your lips pillar-box red and varnish your nails to match?’

  Laura stared at him.

  ‘You’ve always said you hated lipstick and red nails.’

  ‘Hate them? Of course I hate them. I’m seventy-nine! But they’re a symbol, a sign that you’re in the market and ready to play at Nature’s game. A kind of mating call, that’s what they are. Now look here, Laura, you’re not everybody’s fancy. You don’t flaunt a banner of sex, looking as though you weren’t able to help it, as some women do. There’s one particular kind of man who might come and hunt you out without your doing anything about it – the kind of man that has the sense to know that you’re the woman for him. But it’s long odds against that happening. You’ve got to do your bit. You’ve got to remember that you’re a woman, and play the part of a woman and look about for your man.’

  ‘Darling Baldy, I love your lectures, but I’ve always been hopelessly plain.’

  ‘So you want to be an old maid?’

  Laura flushed a little.

  ‘No, of course I don’t. I just don’t think it’s likely that I shall marry.’

  ‘Defeatism!’ roared Mr Baldock.

  ‘No, indeed it isn’t. I just think it’s impossible that anyone should fall in love with me.’

  ‘Men can fall in love with anything,’ said Mr Baldock rudely. ‘With hare lips, and acne, and prognathous jaws and with numskulls and cretins! Just think of half the married women you know! No, young Laura, you just don’t want to bother! You want to love – not to be loved – and I daresay you’ve got something there. To be loved is to carry a heavy burden.’

  ‘You think I do love Shirley too much? That I am possessive?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Baldock slowly, ‘I don’t think you are possessive. I acquit you of that.’

  ‘Then – can one love anyone too much?’

  ‘Of course one can!’ he roared. ‘One can do anything too much. Eat too much, drink too much, love too much …’

  He quoted:

  ‘I’ve known a thousand ways of love

  And each one made the loved one rue.

  ‘Put that in your pipe, young Laura, and smoke it.’

  2

  Laura walked home, smiling to herself. As she entered the house, Ethel appeared from the back premises, and spoke in a confidential whisper:

  ‘There’s a gentleman waiting for you – a Mr Glyn-Edwards, quite a young gentleman. I put him in the drawing-room. Said he’d wait. He’s all right – not vacuums I mean, or hard luck stories.’

  Laura smiled a little, but she trusted Ethel’s judgment.

  Glyn-Edwards? She could not recall the name. Perhaps it was one of the young flying officers who had been billeted here during the war.

  She went across the hall and into the drawing-room.

  The young man who rose quickly as she came in was a complete stranger to her.

  That, indeed, in the years to come, was to remain her feeling about Henry. He was a stranger. Never for one moment did he become anything else.

  The young man was smiling, an eager, rather charming smile which suddenly wavered. He seemed taken aback.

  ‘Miss Franklin?’ he said. ‘But you’re not –’ His smile suddenly widened again, confidently. ‘I expect she’s your sister.’

  ‘You mean Shirley?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Henry, with evident relief. ‘Shirley. I met her yesterday – at a tennis-party. My name’s Henry Glyn-Edwards.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Laura. ‘Shirley ought to be back soon. She went to tea at the vicarage. Won’t you have some sherry? Or would you rather have gin?’

  Henry said he would prefer sherry.

  They sat there talking. Henry’s manner was just right, it had that touch of diffidence that is disarming. A charm of manner that was too assured might have aroused antagonism. As it was, he talked easily and gaily, without awkwardness, but deferring to Laura in a pleasant well-bred manner.

  ‘Are you staying in Bellbury?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Oh no. I’m staying with my aunt over at Endsmoor.’

  Endsmoor was well over sixty miles away, the other side of Milchester. Laura felt a little surprised. Henry seemed to see that a certain amount of explanation was required.

  ‘I went off with someone else’s tennis-racket yesterday,’ he said. ‘Awfully stupid of me. So I thought I’d run over to return it and find my own. I managed to wangle some petrol.’

  He looked at her blandly.

  ‘Did you find your racket all right?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Henry. ‘Lucky, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I’m awfully vague about things. Over in France, you know, I was always losing my kit.’

  He blinked disarmingly.

  ‘So as I was over here,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d look up Shirley.’

  Was there, or was there not, some faint sign of embarrassment?

  If there was, Laura liked him none the worse
for it. Indeed, she preferred that to too much assurance.

  This young man was likeable, eminently so. She felt the charm he exuded quite distinctly. What she could not account for was her own definite feeling of hostility.

  Possessiveness again, Laura wondered? If Shirley had met Henry the day before, it seemed odd that she should not have mentioned him.

  They continued to talk. It was now past seven. Henry was clearly not bound by conventional hours of calling. He was obviously remaining here until he saw Shirley. Laura wondered how much longer Shirley was going to be. She was usually home before this.

  Murmuring an excuse to Henry, Laura left the room and went into the study where the telephone was. She rang up the vicarage.

  The vicar’s wife answered.

  ‘Shirley? Oh yes, Laura, she’s here. She’s playing clock golf with Robin. I’ll get her.’

  There was a pause, and then Shirley’s voice, gay, alive.

  ‘Laura?’

  Laura said drily:

  ‘You’ve got a follower.’

  ‘A follower? Who?’

  ‘His name’s Glyn-Edwards. He blew in an hour and a half ago, and he’s still here. I don’t think he means to leave without seeing you. Both his conversation and mine are wearing rather thin!’

  ‘Glyn-Edwards? I’ve never heard of him. Oh dear – I suppose I’d better come home and cope. Pity. I’m well on the way to beating Robin’s record.’

  ‘He was at the tennis yesterday, I gather.’

  ‘Not Henry?’

  Shirley’s voice sounded breathless, slightly incredulous. The note in it surprised Laura.

  ‘It could be Henry,’ she said drily. ‘He’s staying with an aunt over at –’

  Shirley, breathless, interrupted:

  ‘It is Henry. I’ll come at once.’

  Laura put down the receiver with a slight sense of shock. She went back slowly into the drawing-room.

  ‘Shirley will be back soon,’ she said, and added that she hoped Henry would stay to supper.

  3

  Laura leaned back in her chair at the head of the dinner-table and watched the other two. It was still only dusk, not dark, and the windows were uncurtained. The evening light was kind to the two young faces that bent towards each other so easily.