Absent in the Spring

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

  If William didn’t want to talk about it, perhaps Barbara might be less reticent.

  But instead of that Barbara had said quite clearly and rather disagreeably:

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him, Mother, do you mind?’

  Barbara, Joan reflected, never did want to talk about anything. She had been quite incredibly reticent and touchy about her illness, and its cause. Some form of poisoning had started it all, and naturally Joan had taken it to be food poisoning of some kind. Ptomaine poisoning was very common in hot climates, so she believed. But both William and Barbara had been most unwilling to go into details – and even the doctor to whom she had naturally applied for information as Barbara’s mother, had been taciturn and uncommunicative. His principal care was to stress the point that young Mrs Wray must not be questioned or encouraged to dwell on her illness.

  ‘All she needs now is care and building up. Whys and wherefores are very unprofitable subjects of discussion and talking about all that will do the patient no good. That’s just a hint I’m giving you, Mrs Scudamore.’

  An unpleasant, dour kind of man, Joan had found him, and not at all impressed, as he easily might have been, by the devotion of a mother in rushing out from England post haste.

  Oh well, Barbara had been grateful, at all events. At least Joan supposed so … She had certainly thanked her mother very prettily. William, too, had said how good of her it was.

  She had said how she wished she could have stayed on, and William had said, Yes, he wished so too. And she had said now they mustn’t press her – because it was really too tempting and she’d love to have a winter in Baghdad – but after all there was Barbara’s father to consider, and it wouldn’t be fair on him.

  And Barbara, in a faint little voice had said, ‘Darling Dads,’ and after a moment or two had said, ‘Look here, Mother, why don’t you stay?’

  ‘You must think of your father, darling.’

  Barbara said in that rather curious dry voice she used sometimes that she was thinking of him, but Joan said, no, she couldn’t leave poor dear Rodney to servants.

  There was a moment, a few days before her departure, when she had almost changed her mind. She might, at any rate, stay another month. But William had pointed out so eloquently the uncertainties of desert travel if she left it too late in the season that she had been quite alarmed and had decided that it was best to stick to her original plan. After that William and Barbara had been so nice to her that she almost changed her mind again – but not quite.

  Though really, however late in the season she had left it, nothing could be much worse than this.

  Joan looked at her watch again. Five minutes to eleven. One seemed to be able to think a great deal in quite a short space of time.

  She rather wished she’d brought The Power House out here with her, though perhaps as it was the only thing she had to read it was wise to keep it back – something in reserve.

  Two hours to put in before lunch time. She had said she would have lunch at one o’clock today. Perhaps she had better walk on a little, only it seemed rather silly just walking aimlessly with nowhere particular to walk to. And the sun was quite hot.

  Oh well, how often she had wished she could have just a little time to herself, to think things out. Now, if ever, was her opportunity. What things were there that she had wanted to think out so urgently?

  Joan searched her mind – but they seemed mostly to have been matters of local importance – remembering where she had put this, that or the other, deciding how to arrange the servants’ summer holidays, planning the redecorating of the old schoolroom.

  All these things seemed now rather remote and unimportant. November was rather far in advance to plan the servants’ holidays, and besides, she had to know when Whitsuntide was and that needed next year’s almanac. She could, however, decide about the schoolroom. The walls a light shade of beige and oatmeal covers with some nice bright cushions? Yes, that would do very well.

  Ten minutes past eleven. Redecorating and doing up the schoolroom hadn’t taken long!

  Joan thought vaguely, If I’d only known, I could have brought along some interesting book on modern science and discoveries, something that would explain things like the quantum theory.

  And then she wondered what had put the quantum theory into her head and thought to herself, Of course – the covers – and Mrs Sherston.

  For she remembered that she had once been discussing the vexed questions of chintzes or cretonnes for drawing-room covers with Mrs Sherston, the bank manager’s wife – and right in the middle of it Mrs Sherston had said in her abrupt way, ‘I do wish I was clever enough to understand the quantum theory. It’s such a fascinating idea, isn’t it, energy all done up in little parcels.’

  Joan had stared at her, for she really couldn’t see what scientific theories had to do with chintzes, and Mrs Sherston had got rather red and said, ‘Stupid of me, but you know the way things come into your head quite suddenly – and it is an exciting idea, isn’t it?’

  Joan hadn’t thought the idea particularly exciting and the conversation had ended there. But she remembered quite well Mrs Sherston’s own cretonne – or rather hand-printed linen covers. A design of leaves in browns and greys and reds. She had said, ‘These are very unusual, were they very expensive?’ And Mrs Sherston had said yes, they were. And she had added that she had got them because she loved woods and trees and the dream of her life was to go somewhere like Burma or Malaya where things grew really fast! Really fast, she had added, in an anxious tone, and making a rather clumsy gesture with her hands to express impatience.

  Those linens, reflected Joan now, must have cost at least eighteen and six a yard, a fantastic price for those days. One ought, by realizing what Captain Sherston gave his wife for housekeeping and furnishing, to have had at least an inkling of what was to come out later.

  She herself had never really liked the man. She remembered sitting in his office at the bank, discussing the reinvestment of some shares, Sherston opposite her, behind his desk – a great big breezy man exuding bonhomie. A rather exaggeratedly social manner … ‘I’m a man of the world, dear lady,’ he seemed to be saying, ‘don’t think of me as just a money machine – I’m a tennis player, a golfer, a dancer, a bridge player. The real me is the chap you meet at a party, not the official who says “no further overdraft”.’

  A great overblown windbag, thought Joan indignantly. Crooked, always crooked. Even then he must have started on his falsification of the books, or whatever the swindle was. And yet nearly everyone had liked him, had said what a good sort old Sherston was, not at all the usual type of bank manager.

  Well, that was true enough. The usual type of bank manager doesn’t embezzle bank funds.

  Well, Leslie Sherston had, at any rate, got her handprinted linen covers out of it all. Not that anyone had ever suggested that an extravagant wife had led to Sherston’s dishonesty. You only had to look at Leslie Sherston to see that money meant nothing particularly to her. Always wearing shabby green tweeds and grubbing around in her garden or tramping through the countryside. She never bothered much about the children’s clothes, either. And once, much later, Joan remembered an afternoon when Leslie Sherston had given her tea, fetching a big loaf and a roll of butter and some homemade jam and kitchen cups and teapots – everything bundled anyhow on a tray and brought in. An untidy, cheerful, careless sort of woman, with a one-sided slouch when she walked and a face that seemed all on one side too, but that one-sided smile of hers was rather nice, and people liked her on the whole.

  Ah, well, poor Mrs Sherston. She’d had a sad life, a very sad life.

  Joan moved restlessly. Why had she let that phrase, a sad life, come into her mind? It reminded her of Blanche Haggard (though that was quite a different kind of sad life!) and thinking of Blanche brought her back again to Barbara and the circumstances surrounding Barbara’s illness. Was there nothing one could think of that did not lead in some painful and undesired directio
n?

  She looked at her watch once more. At any rate, hand-printed linens and poor Mrs Sherston had taken up nearly half an hour. What could she think about now? Something pleasant, with no disturbing sidelines.

  Rodney was probably the safest subject to think about. Dear Rodney. Joan’s mind dwelt pleasurably on the thought of her husband, visualizing him as she had last seen him on the platform at Victoria, saying goodbye to her just before the train pulled out.

  Yes, dear Rodney. Standing there looking up at her, the sun shining full on his face and revealing so mercilessly the network of little lines at the corners of his eyes – such tired eyes. Yes, tired eyes, eyes full of a deep sadness. (Not, she thought, that Rodney is sad. It’s just a trick of construction. Some animals have sad eyes.) Usually, too, he was wearing his glasses and then you didn’t notice the sadness of his eyes. But he certainly looked a very tired man. No wonder, when he worked so hard. He practically never took a day off. (I shall change all that when I get back, thought Joan. He must have more leisure. I ought to have thought of it before.)

  Yes, seen there in the bright light, he looked as old or older than his years. She had looked down on him and he up at her and they had exchanged the usual idiotic last words.

  ‘I don’t think you have to go through any Customs at Calais.’

  ‘No, I believe one goes straight through to the Simplon express.’

  ‘Brindisi carriage, remember. I hope the Mediterranean behaves.’

  ‘I wish I could stop off a day or two in Cairo.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Darling, I must hurry to Barbara. It’s only a weekly air service.’

  ‘Of course. I forgot.’

  A whistle blew. He smiled up at her.

  ‘Take care of yourself, little Joan.’

  ‘Goodbye, don’t miss me too much.’

  The train started with a jerk. Joan drew her head in. Rodney waved, then turned away. On an impulse she leaned out again. He was already striding up the platform.

  She felt a sudden thrill at seeing that well-known back. How young he looked suddenly, his head thrown back, his shoulders squared. It gave her quite a shock …

  She had an impression of a young, carefree man striding up the platform.

  It reminded her of the day she had first met Rodney Scudamore.

  She had been introduced to him at a tennis party and they had gone straight on to the court.

  He had said: ‘Shall I play at the net?’

  And it was then that she had looked after him as he strode up to take his place at the net and thought what a very attractive back he had … the easy confident way he walked, the set of his head and neck …

  Suddenly she had been nervous. She had served two lots of double faults running and had felt all hot and bothered.

  And then Rodney had turned his head and smiled at her encouragingly – that kind, friendly smile of his. And she had thought what a very attractive young man … and she had proceeded straight away to fall in love with him.

  Looking out from the train, watching Rodney’s retreating back until the sight of it was blotted out by the people on the platform, she relived that summer’s day so many years ago.

  It was as though the years had fallen away from Rodney, leaving him once more an eager, confident young man.

  As though the years had fallen away …

  Suddenly, in the desert, with the sun pouring down on her, Joan gave a quick uncontrollable shiver.

  She thought, No, no – I don’t want to go on – I don’t want to think about this …

  Rodney, striding up the platform, his head thrown back, the tired sag of his shoulders all gone. A man who had been relieved of an intolerable burden …

  Really, what was the matter with her? She was imagining things, inventing them. Her eyes had played a trick on her.

  Why hadn’t he waited to see the train pull out?

  Well, why should he? He was in a hurry to get through what business he had to do in London. Some people didn’t like to see trains go out of stations bearing away someone they loved.

  Really it was impossible that anyone could remember so clearly as she did exactly how Rodney’s back had looked!

  She was imagining –

  Stop, that didn’t make it any better. If you imagined a thing like that, it meant that such an idea was already in your head.

  And it couldn’t be true – the inference that she had drawn simply could not be true.

  She was saying to herself (wasn’t she?) that Rodney was glad she was going away …

  And that simply couldn’t be true!

  Chapter Four

  Joan arrived back at the rest house definitely overheated. Unconsciously she had increased her pace so as to get away from that last unwelcome thought.

  The Indian looked at her curiously and said:

  ‘Memsahib walk very fast. Why walk fast? Plenty time here.’

  Oh God, thought Joan, plenty time indeed!

  The Indian and the rest house and the chickens and the tins and the barbed wire were all definitely getting on her nerves.

  She went on into her bedroom and found The Power House.

  At any rate, she thought, it’s cool in here and dark.

  She opened The Power House and began to read.

  By lunch time she had read half of it.

  There was omelette for lunch and baked beans round it, and after it there was a dish of hot salmon with rice, and tinned apricots.

  Joan did not eat very much.

  Afterwards she went to her bedroom and lay down.

  If she had a touch of the sun from walking too fast in the heat, a sleep would do her good.

  She closed her eyes but sleep did not come.

  She felt particularly wide awake and intelligent.

  She got up and took three aspirins and lay down again.

  Every time she shut her eyes she saw Rodney’s back going away from her up the platform. It was insupportable!

  She pulled aside the curtain to let in some light and got The Power House. A few pages before the end she dropped asleep.

  She dreamt that she was going to play in a tournament with Rodney. They had difficulty in finding the balls but at last they got to the court. When she started to serve she found that she was playing against Rodney and the Randolph girl. She served nothing but double faults. She thought, Rodney will help me, but when she looked for him she could not find him. Everyone had left and it was getting dark. I’m all alone, thought Joan. I’m all alone.

  She woke up with a start.

  ‘I’m all alone,’ she said aloud.

  The influence of the dream was still upon her. It seemed to her that the words she had just said were terribly frightening.

  She said again, ‘I’m all alone.’

  The Indian put his head in.

  ‘Memsahib call?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Get me some tea.’

  ‘Memsahib want tea? Only three o’clock.’

  ‘Never mind, I want tea.’

  She heard him going away and calling out, ‘Chai-chai!’

  She got up from the bed and went over to the fly-spotted mirror. It was reassuring to see her own normal, pleasant-looking face.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Joan addressing her reflection, ‘whether you can be going to be ill? You’re behaving very oddly.’

  Perhaps she had got a touch of the sun?

  When the tea came she was feeling quite normal again. In fact the whole business was really very funny. She, Joan Scudamore, indulging in nerves! But of course it wasn’t nerves, it was a touch of the sun. She wouldn’t go out again until the sun was well down.

  She ate some biscuits and drank two cups of tea. Then she finished The Power House. As she closed the book, she was assailed by a definite qualm.

  She thought, Now I’ve got nothing to read.

  Nothing to read, no writing materials, no sewing with her. Nothing at all to do, but wait for a problematical train that mightn�
�t come for days.

  When the Indian came in to clear tea away she said to him:

  ‘What do you do here?’

  He seemed surprised by the question.

  ‘I look after travellers, Memsahib.’

  ‘I know.’ She controlled her impatience. ‘But that doesn’t take you all your time?’

  ‘I give them breakfast, lunch, tea.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean that. You have helpers?’

  ‘Arab boy – very stupid, very lazy, very dirty – I see to everything myself, not trust boy. He bring bath water – throw away bath water – he help cook.’

  ‘There are three of you, then, you, the cook, the boy? You must have a lot of time when you aren’t working. Do you read?’

  ‘Read? Read what?’

  ‘Books.’

  ‘I not read.’

  ‘Then what do you do when you’re not working?’

  ‘I wait till time do more work.’

  It’s no good, thought Joan. You can’t talk to them. They don’t know what you mean. This man, he’s here always, month after month. Sometimes, I suppose, he gets a holiday, and goes to a town and gets drunk and sees friends. But for weeks on end he’s here. Of course he’s got the cook and the boy … The boy lies in the sun and sleeps when he isn’t working. Life’s as simple as that for him. They’re no good to me, not any of them. All the English this man knows is eating and drinking and ‘Nice weather.’

  The Indian went out. Joan strolled restlessly about the room.

  ‘I mustn’t be foolish. I must make some kind of plan. Arrange a course of – of thinking for myself. I really must not allow myself to get – well – rattled.’

  The truth was, she reflected, that she had always led such a full and occupied life. So much interest in it. It was a civilized life. And if you had all that balance and proportion in your life, it certainly left you rather at a loss when you were faced with the barren uselessness of doing nothing at all. The more useful and cultured a woman you were, the more difficult it made it.

  There were some people, of course, even at home, who often sat about for hours doing nothing. Presumably they would take to this kind of life quite happily.