A Daughter's a Daughter

by Agatha Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott

  ‘Seen a doctor?’

  ‘Not lately. They just give you bromide and tell you not to overdo things.’

  ‘Very good advice.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all so absurd. I’ve never been a nervy woman, Laura, you know I haven’t. I’ve never known what nerves were.’

  Laura Whitstable was silent for a moment, remembering the Ann Prentice of just over three years ago. Her gentle placidity, her repose, her enjoyment of life, her sweetness and evenness of temper. She felt deeply grieved for this friend of hers.

  She said:

  ‘It’s all very well to say you’ve never been a nervy woman. After all, a man who has a broken leg has very likely never had a broken leg before!’

  ‘But why should I have nerves?’

  Laura Whitstable was careful in her answer.

  She said evenly: ‘Your doctor was right. You probably do too much.’

  Ann said sharply:

  ‘I can’t sit at home moping all day.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as sitting at home without moping,’ said Dame Laura.

  ‘No,’ Ann’s hands fluttered nervously. ‘I – I can’t sit about and do nothing.’

  ‘Why not?’ The question came sharp as a probe.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ann’s fluttering increased. ‘I can’t be alone. I can’t …’ She threw a despairing glance at Laura. ‘I suppose you’d think I was quite mad if I said I was afraid of being alone?’

  ‘Most sensible thing you’ve said yet,’ returned Dame Laura promptly.

  ‘Sensible?’ Ann was startled.

  ‘Yes, because it’s the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ Ann’s eyelids fell. ‘I don’t know what you mean by the truth.’

  ‘I mean that we shan’t get anywhere without the truth.’

  ‘Oh, but you won’t be able to understand. You’ve never been afraid of being alone, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you just can’t understand.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can.’ Laura went on gently: ‘Why did you send for me, my dear?’

  ‘I had to talk to someone … I had to … and I thought perhaps you could do something?’

  She looked hopefully at her friend.

  Laura nodded her head and sighed.

  ‘I see. You want a conjuring trick.’

  ‘Couldn’t you do one for me, Laura? Psychoanalysis, or hypnotism, or something.’

  ‘Mumbo jumbo in modern terms, in fact?’ Laura shook her head decisively. ‘I can’t take the rabbits out of the hat for you, Ann. You must do that for yourself. And you’ve got to find out, first, exactly what’s in the hat.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Laura Whitstable waited a minute before saying: ‘You’re not happy, Ann.’

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  Ann replied quickly, too quickly perhaps.

  ‘Oh yes, I am – at least I am in a way. I enjoy myself a good deal.’

  ‘You’re not happy,’ said Dame Laura ruthlessly.

  Ann made a gesture with her shoulders and her hands.

  ‘Is anybody happy?’ she threw out.

  ‘Quite a lot of people are, thank God,’ said Dame Laura cheerfully. ‘Why aren’t you happy, Ann?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to help you but the truth, Ann. You know the answer quite well really.’

  Ann was silent a moment, then as though taking her courage in her hands, she burst out:

  ‘I suppose – if I’m to be honest – because I’m growing old. I’m middle-aged, I’m losing my looks, I’ve nothing to look forward to in the future.’

  ‘Oh, my dear! Nothing to look forward to? You’ve excellent health, adequate brains – there is so much in life that one hasn’t really time to attend to until one is past middle-age. I told you so once. Books, flowers, music, pictures, people, sunshine – all the interwoven inextricable pattern that we call Life.’

  Ann was silent a moment, then she said defiantly:

  ‘Oh I daresay it’s all a question of sex. Nothing else really matters when one isn’t attractive to men any longer.’

  ‘That is possibly true of some women. It isn’t true of you, Ann. You’ve seen the Immortal Hour – or read it perhaps? Do you remember those lines: “There is an Hour wherein a man might be happy all his life could he but find it?” You came near to finding it once, didn’t you?’

  Ann’s face changed – softened. She looked suddenly a much younger woman.

  She murmured: ‘Yes. There was that hour. I could have known it with Richard. I could have grown old happily with Richard.’

  Laura said with deep sympathy:

  ‘I know.’

  Ann went on. ‘And now – I can’t even regret losing him! I saw him again, you know – oh, just about a year ago – and he meant nothing to me at all – nothing. That’s what’s so tragic, so absurd. It had all gone. We meant nothing to each other any more. He was just an ordinary middle-aged man – a little pompous, rather dull, inclined to be fatuous about his new, pretty, empty-headed meretricious little wife. Quite nice, you know, yet definitely boring. And yet – and yet – if we had married – I think we’d have been happy together. I know we should have been happy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura thoughtfully, ‘I think you would.’

  ‘I was so near happiness – so near it –’ Ann’s voice trembled with self-pity – ‘and then – I had to let it all go.’

  ‘Had you?’

  Ann paid no attention to the question.

  ‘I gave it all up – for Sarah!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dame Laura. ‘And you’ve never forgiven her for it, have you?’

  Ann came out of her dream – startled.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Laura Whitstable gave a venomous snort.

  ‘Sacrifices! Blood sacrifices! Just realize for a moment, Ann, what a sacrifice means. It isn’t just the one heroic moment when you feel warmed and generous and willing to immolate yourself. The kind of sacrifice where you offer your breast to the knife is easy – for it ends there, in the moment when you are greater than yourself. But most sacrifices you have to live with afterwards – all day and every day – and that’s not so easy. One has to be very big for that. You, Ann, weren’t quite big enough …’

  Ann flushed angrily.

  ‘I gave up my whole life, my one chance of happiness, for Sarah’s sake, and all you say is that it wasn’t enough!’

  ‘That isn’t what I said.’

  ‘Everything’s my fault, I suppose!’ Ann was still angry.

  Dame Laura said earnestly: ‘Half the troubles in life come from pretending to oneself that one is a better and finer human being than one is.’

  But Ann was not listening. Her unassimilated resentment came pouring out.

  ‘Sarah’s just like all these modern girls, wrapped up in herself. Never thinks of anybody else! Do you know that just over a year ago, when he rang up, she didn’t even remember who Richard was? His name meant nothing to her – nothing at all.’

  Laura Whitstable nodded her head gravely with the air of one who sees her diagnosis proved correct.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I see …’

  Ann went on: ‘What could I do? They never stopped fighting. It was nerve-racking! If I’d gone on with it there wouldn’t have been a moment’s peace.’

  Laura Whitstable spoke crisply and unexpectedly:

  ‘If I were you, Ann, I should make up your mind whether you gave up Richard Cauldfield for Sarah’s sake, or for the sake of your own peace.’

  Ann looked at her resentfully.

  ‘I loved Richard,’ she said, ‘but I loved Sarah more …’

  ‘No, Ann, it isn’t nearly as simple as that. I think that there was actually a moment when you loved Richard better than you loved Sarah. I think your inner unhappiness and resentment springs from that moment. If you’d given up Richard because you loved Sarah more, you wouldn’t be in the state
you are today. But if you gave up Richard out of weakness, because Sarah bullied you – because you wanted to escape from the bickering and the quarrels, if it was a defeat and not a renunciation – well, that’s a thing one never likes admitting to oneself. But you did care for Richard very deeply.’

  Ann said bitterly:

  ‘And now he means nothing to me!’

  ‘What about Sarah?’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes. What does Sarah mean to you?’

  Ann shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Since her marriage I’ve hardly seen her. She’s very busy and gay, I believe. But as I say, I hardly see anything of her.’

  ‘I saw her last night …’ Laura paused, then went on: ‘In a restaurant with a party of people.’ She paused again and then said bluntly: ‘She was drunk.’

  ‘Drunk?’ Ann sounded momentarily startled. Then she laughed. ‘Laura dear, you mustn’t be old-fashioned. All young people drink a good deal nowadays, and it seems a party’s hardly a success unless everybody’s half-seas over, or “high” or whatever you like to call it.’

  Laura was unruffled.

  ‘That may be so – and I admit I’m old-fashioned enough not to like seeing a young woman I know drunk in a public place. But there’s more than that, Ann. I spoke to Sarah. The pupils of her eyes were dilated.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘One of the things it could mean is cocaine.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Yes. I told you once that I suspected Lawrence Steene was mixed up with the drug racket. Oh, not for money – purely for sensation.’

  ‘He always seems quite normal.’

  ‘Oh, drugs won’t hurt him. I know his type. They enjoy experimenting with sensation. His sort don’t become addicts. A woman’s different. If a woman’s unhappy, these things get a hold on her – a hold that she can’t break.’

  ‘Unhappy?’ Ann sounded incredulous. ‘Sarah?’

  Watching her closely, Laura Whitstable said dryly:

  ‘You should know. You’re her mother.’

  ‘Oh, that! Sarah doesn’t confide in me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Ann got up, went over to the window, then came back slowly towards the fireplace. Dame Laura sat quite still and watched her. As Ann lit a cigarette, Laura asked quietly:

  ‘What does it mean to you exactly, Ann, that Sarah should be unhappy?’

  ‘How can you ask? It upsets me – terribly.’

  ‘Does it?’ Laura rose. ‘Well, I must be going. I’ve got a committee meeting in ten minutes’ time. I can just make it.’

  She went towards the door. Ann followed her.

  ‘What do you mean by saying “Does it?” like that, Laura?’

  ‘I had some gloves somewhere – Now where did I put them?’

  The bell of the front door sounded. Edith padded out of the kitchen to answer it.

  Ann persisted: ‘You meant something?’

  ‘Ah, here they are.’

  ‘Really, Laura, I think you’re being horrible to me – quite horrible!’

  Edith came in announcing with something that might almost have been a smile:

  ‘Now here’s a stranger. It’s Mr Lloyd, ma’am.’

  Ann stared at Gerry Lloyd for a moment as though she could hardly take him in.

  It was over three years since she had seen him and Gerry looked a good deal more than three years older. He had a battered look about him, and his face showed the tired lines of the unsuccessful. He was wearing a rather rough country tweed suit, obviously a reach-me-down, and his shoes were shabby. It was clear that he had not prospered. The smile with which he greeted her was a grave one and his whole manner was serious, not to say perturbed.

  ‘Gerry, this is a surprise!’

  ‘It’s good that you remember me, anyway. Three and a half years is a long time.’

  ‘I remember you, too, young man, but I don’t suppose you remember me,’ said Dame Laura.

  ‘Oh, but of course I do, Dame Laura. No one could forget you.’

  ‘Nicely put – or isn’t it? Well, I must be on my way. Good-bye, Ann; good-bye, Mr Lloyd.’

  She went out and Gerry followed Ann over to the fireplace. He sat down and took the cigarette she offered him.

  Ann spoke gaily and cheerfully.

  ‘Well, Gerry, tell me all about yourself and what you have been doing. Are you in England for long?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  His level gaze, fixed on her, made Ann feel slightly uncomfortable. She wondered what was in his mind. It was a look very unlike the Gerry she remembered.

  ‘Have a drink. What will you have – gin and orange – or pink gin –?’

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t want one. I came – just to talk to you.’

  ‘How nice of you. Have you seen Sarah? She’s married, you know. To a man called Lawrence Steene.’

  ‘I know that. She wrote and told me. And I’ve seen her. I saw her last night. That’s really why I’ve come here to see you.’ He paused for a moment and then said: ‘Mrs Prentice, why did you let her marry that man?’

  Ann was taken back.

  ‘Gerry, my dear – really!’

  His earnestness was unabated by her protest. He spoke seriously and quite simply.

  ‘She isn’t happy. You know that, don’t you? She isn’t happy.’

  ‘Did she tell you so?’

  ‘No, of course not. Sarah wouldn’t do a thing like that. It wasn’t necessary to tell me. I saw it at once. She was with a crowd of people – I only had a few words with her. But it sticks out a mile. Mrs Prentice, why did you let such a thing happen?’

  Ann felt her anger rising.

  ‘My dear Gerry, aren’t you being rather absurd?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He considered a moment. His complete simplicity and sincerity were disarming. ‘You see, Sarah matters to me. She always has. More than anything else in the world. So naturally I care whether she’s happy or not. You know, you really shouldn’t have let her marry Steene.’

  Ann broke out angrily:

  ‘Really, Gerry, you talk like – like a Victorian. There was no question of my “letting” or “not letting” Sarah marry Larry Steene. Girls marry whoever they choose to marry and there’s nothing their parents can do about it. Sarah chose to marry Lawrence Steene. That’s all there is to it.’

  Gerry said with calm certainty:

  ‘You could have stopped it.’

  ‘My dear boy, if you try to stop people doing what they want to do, it just makes them more obstinate and pigheaded.’

  He raised his eyes to her face.

  ‘Did you try to stop it?’

  Somehow, under the frank inquiry of those eyes, Ann floundered and stammered.

  ‘I – I – of course he was much older than she was – and his reputation wasn’t good. I did point that out to her – but –’

  ‘He’s a swine of the worst description.’

  ‘You can’t really know anything about him, Gerry. You’ve been out of England for years.’

  ‘It’s pretty common knowledge. Everybody knows. I daresay you wouldn’t know all the unpleasant details – but surely, Mrs Prentice, you must have felt the kind of brute he is?’

  ‘He was always very charming and pleasant to me,’ said Ann defensively. ‘And a man with a past doesn’t always turn out such a bad husband. You can’t believe all the spiteful things people say. Sarah was attracted by him – in fact she was determined to marry him. He’s exceedingly well off –’

  Gerry interrupted her.

  ‘Yes, he’s well off. But you’re not the kind of woman, Mrs Prentice, who just wants her daughter to marry for money. You never were what I’d call – well – worldly. You would just have wanted Sarah to be happy – or so I should have thought.’

  He looked at her with a kind of puzzled curiosity.

  ‘Of course I wanted my only child to be happy. That goes without saying. But the point is, Gerry, that o
ne can’t interfere.’ She laboured the point. ‘You may think that what anyone is doing is all wrong, but you can’t interfere.’

  She gazed at him defiantly.

  He looked at her, still with that thoughtful, considering air.

  ‘Did Sarah really want to marry him so much?’

  ‘She was very much in love with him,’ Ann said defiantly.

  When Gerry did not speak, she went on:

  ‘I don’t expect it’s apparent to you, but Lawrence is exceedingly attractive to women.’

  ‘Oh yes, I quite realize that.’

  Ann rallied herself.

  ‘You know, Gerry,’ she said, ‘you’re really being quite unreasonable. Just because there was once a boy-0and-girl thing between you and Sarah, you come here and accuse me – as though Sarah’s marrying someone else was my fault –’

  He interrupted her.

  ‘I think it was your fault.’

  They stared at each other. Colour rose in Gerry’s face, Ann grew pale. The tension between them was strained to breaking point.

  Ann got up. ‘This is too much,’ she said coldly.

  Gerry rose too. He was quiet and polite, but she was aware of something implacable and remorseless behind the quietness of his manner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘if I’ve been rude –’

  ‘It’s unpardonable!’

  ‘Perhaps it is, in a way. But you see I mind about Sarah. She’s the only thing I do mind about. I can’t help feeling that you’ve let her in for an unhappy marriage.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘I’m going to take her out of it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to persuade her to leave that swine.’

  ‘What absolute nonsense. Just because there was once this girl-and-boy love affair between you two –’

  ‘I understand Sarah – and she understands me.’

  Ann gave a sudden hard laugh.

  ‘My dear Gerry, you’ll find that Sarah has changed a good deal since you used to know her.’

  Gerry went very pale.

  ‘I know she’s changed,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I saw that …’

  He hesitated a moment, then said quietly:

  ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’ve been impertinent, Mrs Prentice. But you see, with me, Sarah will always come first.’

  He went out of the room.