A Daughter's a Daughter

by Agatha Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott

  Ann shook her head.

  ‘No, never again. We both said things that neither of us can ever forget.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Hard words break no bones, and that’s a true saying.’

  Ann said:

  ‘There are some things, fundamental things, that can never be forgotten.’

  Edith picked up the tray.

  ‘Never’s a big word,’ she said.

  Chapter Four

  1

  Sarah, when she arrived home, went to the big room at the back of the house which Lawrence called his studio.

  He was there, unpacking a statuette that he had recently purchased – the work of a young French artist.

  ‘What do you think of it, Sarah? Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  His fingers sensitively caressed the lines of the nude twisted body.

  Sarah shivered a little, as though at some memory.

  She said, frowning:

  ‘Yes, beautiful – but obscene!’

  ‘Oh, come now – how surprising that there is still that touch of the Puritan in you, Sarah. Interesting that it should persist.’

  ‘That figure is obscene.’

  ‘Slightly decadent, perhaps … But very clever. And highly imaginative – Paul takes hashish, of course – that probably accounts for the spirit of the thing.’

  He put it down and turned to Sarah.

  ‘You are looking very much en beauté – my charming wife – and you are upset over something. Distress always suits you.’

  Sarah said: ‘I’ve just had a terrific row with Mother.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Lawrence raised his eyebrows in some amusement. ‘How very unlikely! I can hardly imagine it. The gentle Ann.’

  ‘She wasn’t so gentle today! I was rather horrible to her, I admit.’

  ‘Domestic disputes are very uninteresting, Sarah. Don’t let’s talk about them.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to. Mother and I are all washed up – that’s what it amounts to. No, I want to talk to you about something else. I think I’m – leaving you, Lawrence.’

  Steene showed no particular reaction. He raised his eyebrows and murmured:

  ‘I think, you know, that would be rather unwise on your part.’

  ‘You make that sound like a threat.’

  ‘Oh, no – just a gentle warning. And why are you leaving me, Sarah? Wives of mine have done it before but you can hardly have their reasons. I have not, for instance, broken your heart. You have very little heart where I am concerned and you are still –’

  ‘The reigning favourite?’ said Sarah.

  ‘If you like to put it in that oriental manner. Yes, Sarah, I find you quite perfect – even the Puritan touch gives a spice to our – what shall I say – rather pagan mode of life? By the way, my first wife’s reason for leaving me cannot apply either. Moral disapprobation could hardly be your strong suit, all things considered.’

  ‘Does it matter why I’m leaving you? Don’t pretend that you’ll really mind!’

  ‘I shall mind very much! You are, at the moment, my most prized possession – better than all these.’

  He waved a hand round the studio.

  ‘I meant – you don’t love me?’

  ‘Romantic devotion, as I once told you, has never appealed to me – to give or to receive.’

  ‘The plain truth is – there’s someone else,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m going away with him.’

  ‘Ah! leaving your sins behind you?’

  ‘Do you mean –’

  ‘I wonder whether that will be as easy as you think. You’ve been an apt disciple, Sarah – the tide of life runs strongly in you – can you give up these sensations – these pleasures – these adventures of the senses? Think of that evening at the Mariana … remember Charcot and his Diversions … These things, Sarah, are not to be so lightly laid aside.’

  Sarah looked at him, and for a moment fear peeped out of her eyes.

  ‘I know … I know … but one can give it all up!’

  ‘Can one? You’re rather deep in, Sarah …’

  ‘But I shall get out … I mean to get out …’

  Turning, she went hurriedly out of the room.

  Lawrence put down the statuette with a bang.

  He was seriously annoyed. He was not yet tired of Sarah. He doubted that he would ever tire of her – a creature of temperament, capable of resistance – of struggle, a creature of enchanting beauty. A Collector’s Piece of extreme rarity.

  Chapter Five

  1

  ‘Why, Sarah.’ Dame Laura looked up from her desk in surprise.

  Sarah was breathless and in a state of considerable emotion.

  Laura Whitstable said:

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, god-daughter.’

  ‘No, I know … Oh, Laura, I’m in such a mess.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Laura Whitstable drew her gently to a couch. ‘Now then, tell me all about it.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you could help me … Can one, does one – is it possible to stop taking things – when, I mean – when you’ve got used to taking them.’

  She added hastily:

  ‘Oh, dear, I don’t suppose you even know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do. You mean dope?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah felt an enormous relief at the matter-of-fact way in which Laura Whitstable reacted.

  ‘Well, now, the answer depends on a lot of things. It’s not easy – it’s never easy. Women find it harder to break a habit of that kind than men do. It depends very much on how long you have been taking the stuff, how dependent you have got on it, how good your general health is, how much courage and resolution and willpower you have got, under what conditions you are going to pass your daily life, what you have to look forward to, and, if you are a woman, if you have someone at hand to help you in the fight.’

  Sarah’s face brightened.

  ‘Good. I think – I really think it will be all right then.’

  ‘Too much time on your hands isn’t going to help,’ Laura warned her.

  Sarah laughed.

  ‘I shall have very little time on my hands! I shall be working like mad every minute of the day. I shall have someone to – to get tough with me and make me toe the line, and as for looking forward – I’ve got everything to look forward to – everything!’

  ‘Well, Sarah, I think you’ve got a good chance.’ Laura looked at her – and added unexpectedly: ‘You seem to have grown up at last.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been rather a long time about it … I realize that. I called Gerry weak, but I’m really the weak one. Always wanting to be bolstered up.’

  Sarah’s face clouded over.

  ‘Laura – I’ve been simply horrible to Mother. I only found out today that she’d really minded about Cauliflower. I know now that when you were warning me about sacrifices and burnt offerings I just wouldn’t listen. I was so horribly pleased with myself, with my plan for getting rid of poor old Richard – and all the time I can see now I was just being jealous and childish and spiteful. I made Mother give him up; and then naturally she hated me, only she never said so, but things just seemed to go all wrong. Today we had a terrific set to – and shouted at each other, and I said the most beastly things to her, and blamed her for everything that had happened to me. Really, all the time, I was feeling awful about her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And now –’ Sarah looked miserable – ‘I don’t know what to do. If only I could make up to her in some way – but I suppose it’s too late.’

  Laura Whitstable rose briskly to her feet.

  ‘There is no greater waste of time,’ she said didactically, ‘than saying the right thing to the wrong person …’

  Chapter Six

  1

  With rather the air of someone who handles dynamite, Edith picked up the telephone receiver. She took a deep breath and dialled a number. When she heard the ringing at the other end, she turned her head uneasily over her shoulder. It was all ri
ght. She was alone in the flat. The brisk professional voice coming over the wire made her jump.

  ‘Welbeck 97438.’

  ‘Oh – is that Dame Laura Whitstable?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  Edith swallowed twice, nervously.

  ‘It’s Edith, ma’am. Mrs Prentice’s Edith.’

  ‘Good evening, Edith.’

  Edith swallowed again. She said obscurely: ‘Nasty things, telephones.’

  ‘Yes, I quite understand. You wanted to speak to me about something?’

  ‘It’s about Mrs Prentice, ma’am. I’m worried about her, I really am.’

  ‘But you’ve been worried about her for a long time, haven’t you, Edith?’

  ‘This is different, ma’am. It’s quite different. She’s lost her appetite, and she sits about doing nothing. And often I’ll find her crying. She’s calmer, if you take my meaning, none of that restlessness she used to have. And she don’t take me up sharp any more. She’s gentle and considerate like she used to be – but she’s just got no heart in her – no spirit any more. It’s dreadful, ma’am, really it’s dreadful.’

  The telephone said ‘Interesting,’ in a detached professional manner, which was not at all what Edith wanted.

  ‘It would make your heart bleed, really it would, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t use such ridiculous terms, Edith. Hearts don’t bleed unless they have received physical damage.’

  Edith pressed on.

  ‘It’s to do with Miss Sarah, ma’am. Proper dust-up they had, and now Miss Sarah’s not been nigh the place for nearly a month.’

  ‘No, she’s been away from London – in the country.’

  ‘I wrote to her.’

  ‘No letters have been forwarded to her.’

  Edith brightened a little.

  ‘Ah, well, then. Once she’s back in London –’

  Dame Laura cut her short.

  ‘I’m afraid, Edith, you’d better prepare yourself for a shock. Miss Sarah is going away with Mr Gerald Lloyd to Canada.’

  Edith made a noise like a disapproving soda-water siphon. ‘That’s downright wicked. Leaving her husband!’

  ‘Don’t be sanctimonious, Edith. Who are you to judge other people’s conduct? She’ll have a hard life of it out there – none of the luxuries she’s been accustomed to.’

  Edith sighed: ‘That does seem to make it a little less sinful … And if you’ll excuse me saying so, ma’am, Mr Steene always has given me the creeps. The sort of gentleman you could fancy has sold his soul to the devil.’

  In a dry voice Dame Laura said:

  ‘Allowing for the inevitable difference in our phraseology, I’m inclined to agree with you.’

  ‘Won’t Miss Sarah come and say good-bye?’

  ‘It seems not.’

  Edith said indignantly: ‘I call that downright hardhearted of her.’

  ‘You don’t understand in the least.’

  ‘I understand how a daughter ought to behave to a mother. I’d never have believed it of Miss Sarah! Can’t you do something about it, ma’am?’

  ‘I never interfere.’

  Edith drew a deep breath.

  ‘Well, you’ll excuse me – I know you’re a very famous lady and very clever, and I’m only a servant – but this is a time that I think you ought to!’

  And Edith slammed down the receiver with a grim face.

  2

  Edith had spoken twice to Ann before the latter roused herself and answered.

  ‘What did you say, Edith?’

  ‘I said as how your hair was looking peculiar round the roots. You ought to do a bit more touching-up of it.’

  ‘I shan’t bother any more. It will look better grey.’

  ‘You’ll look more respectable, I agree. But it will look funny if it’s half-and-half.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Nothing mattered. What could matter in the dull procession of day that followed day? Ann thought, as she had thought again and again, ‘Sarah will never forgive me. And she’s quite right …’

  The telephone rang and Ann got up and went to it. She said: ‘Hullo?’ in a listless voice, then started a little as Dame Laura’s incisive voice spoke at the other end.

  ‘Ann?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I dislike interfering in other people’s lives, but – I think that there is something you perhaps ought to know. Sarah and Gerald Lloyd are leaving by the eight o’clock plane for Canada this evening.’

  ‘What?’ Ann gasped. ‘I – I haven’t seen Sarah for weeks.’

  ‘No. She has been in a nursing home in the country. She went there voluntarily to undergo a cure for drug-taking.’

  ‘Oh, Laura! Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s come through very well. You can probably appreciate that she suffered a good deal … Yes, I’m proud of my god-daughter. She’s got backbone.’

  ‘Oh, Laura.’ Words streamed from Ann. ‘Do you remember asking me if I knew Ann Prentice? I do now. I’ve ruined Sarah’s life through resentment and spite. She’ll never forgive me!’

  ‘Rubbish. Nobody can really ruin another person’s life. Don’t be melodramatic and don’t wallow.’

  ‘It’s the truth. I know just what I am and what I did.’

  ‘That’s all to the good then – but you’ve known it some time now, haven’t you? Wouldn’t it be as well to go on to the next thing?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Laura. I feel so conscience-stricken – so horribly remorseful …’

  ‘Listen, Ann, there are just two things that I’ve no use for whatever – someone telling me how noble they are and what moral reasons they have for the things they do, and the other is someone going on moaning about how wickedly they have behaved. Both statements may be true – recognize the truth of your actions, by all means, but having done so, pass on. You can’t put the clock back and you can’t usually undo what you’ve done. Continue living.’

  ‘Laura, what do you think I ought to do about Sarah?’

  Laura Whitstable snorted.

  ‘I may have interfered – but I haven’t sunk so low as to give advice.’

  She rang off firmly.

  Ann, moving as though in a dream, crossed the room to the sofa and sat there, staring into space …

  Sarah – Gerry – would it work out? Would her child, her dearly loved child, find happiness at last? Gerry was fundamentally weak – would the record of failures go on – would he let Sarah down – would Sarah be disillusioned – unhappy? If only Gerry were a different type of man. But Gerry was the man that Sarah loved.

  Time passed. Ann still sat motionless.

  It was nothing to do with her any longer. She had forfeited all claim. Between her and Sarah yawned an impassable gulf.

  Edith looked in on her mistress once, then crept away again.

  But presently the door-bell rang and she went to answer it.

  ‘Mr Mowbray’s called for you, ma’am.’

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Mr Mowbray. Waiting downstairs.’

  Ann sprang up. Her eyes went to the clock. What had she been thinking about – to sit there, half paralysed?

  Sarah was going away – tonight – to the other side of the world …

  Ann snatched up her fur cape and ran out of the flat.

  ‘Basil.’ She spoke breathlessly. ‘Please – drive me to London Airport. As quick as you can.’

  ‘But Ann darling, what is all this about?’

  ‘It’s Sarah. She’s going to Canada. I haven’t seen her to say good-bye.’

  ‘But darling, haven’t you left it rather late?’

  ‘Of course I have. I’ve been a fool. But I hope it isn’t too late. Oh, go on – Basil – quick!’

  Basil Mowbray sighed, and started the engine.

  ‘I always thought you were such a reasonable woman, Ann,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I really am thankful that I shall never be a parent. It seems to make people behave so oddly.’
r />   ‘You must drive fast, Basil.’

  Basil sighed.

  Through the Kensington streets, avoiding the Hammersmith bottleneck by a series of intricate side streets, through Chiswick where traffic was heavy, out at last on the Great West Road, roaring along past tall factories and neon-lit buildings – then past rows of prim houses where people lived. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, husbands and wives. All with their problems and their quarrels and their reconciliations, ‘Just like me,’ thought Ann. She felt a sudden kinship, a sudden love and understanding for all the human race … She was not, could never be, lonely, for she lived in a world peopled with her own kind …

  3

  At Heathrow the passengers stood and sat in the lounge, awaiting the summons to embark.

  Gerry said to Sarah:

  ‘Not regretting?’

  She flashed a quick look of reassurance at him.

  Sarah was thinner and her face bore the lines that the endurance of pain puts there. It was an older face, not less lovely, but now fully mature.

  She was thinking: ‘Gerry wanted me to go and say good-bye to Mother. He doesn’t understand … If I could only make up to her for what I did – but I can’t …’

  She couldn’t give back Richard Cauldfield …

  No, the thing she had done to her mother was beyond forgiveness.

  She was glad to be with Gerry – going forward to a new life with him, but something in her cried forlornly …

  ‘I’m going away, Mother, I’m going away …’

  If only –

  The raucous note of the announcer made her jump. ‘Will passengers travelling by Flight oo346 for Prestwick, Gander and Montreal please follow the green light to Customs and Immigration …’

  The passengers picked up their hand luggage and went towards the end door. Sarah followed Gerry, lagging a little behind.

  ‘Sarah!’

  Through the outer door Ann, her fur cape slipping from her shoulders, came running towards her daughter. Sarah ran back to meet her, dropping her small travelling bag.

  ‘Mother!’

  They hugged each other, then drew back to look.

  All the things that Ann had thought of saying, had rehearsed saying, on the way down, died on her lips. There was no need of them. And Sarah, too, felt no need of speech. To have said ‘Forgive me, Mother,’ would have been meaningless.