by M C Beaton
Agatha hesitated and then asked, “How much?”
“Fourteen pounds.”
Again Agatha hesitated. It was very cheap. It might wrinkle or even fall apart. She had been prepared to spend a couple of hundred pounds. “Tell you what,” said the trader wearily, “you can have it for twelve.”
“Okay, I’ll take it.”
He stuffed the dress in an old plastic bag.
“Hot, isn’t it?” Agatha handed over the money.
“And don’t tell me I ought to be used to it,” he said gloomily. “I was born in Birmingham.”
Agatha was about to say, “So was I,” but then left the words unsaid. She was ashamed of her background.
She tried on the dress as soon as she got home. It was very attractive and, once she had added a thick gold necklace, looked quite expensive.
Now for Mr. John.
Evesham seemed even hotter than Mircester. Agatha suddenly wished she had her old, simple hair-style which she could wash and arrange herself.
But there was Mr. John, cool and handsome as ever. “Got a date?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Anyone special?”
Agatha could not resist bragging.
“Actually, he’s a baronet.”
“Very grand. Which baronet?”
“Sir Charles Fraith.”
“And how did you come to meet him?”
Agatha was about to say, “On a case,” but she did not like the implication that such as Agatha Raisin could not know anyone with a title, so she said airily, “He’s in my set.”
And hope that shuts you up, she thought.
“Pity,” he said.
“What’s a pity?”
“You’ll think this very forward of me, but I was thinking of asking you out myself.”
“Why?” asked Agatha in surprise.
“You’re a very attractive woman.”
And a rich one, thought Agatha cynically. But then Mr. John was so very handsome with his intense blue eyes and blond hair. If James came back and if James saw them going out together, perhaps he would be jealous; perhaps he would be prompted into saying huskily, “I always loved you, Agatha.”
“Sorry.” Mr. John dug a pin into the back of Agatha’s hair and her rosy dream burst like a brightly coloured soap bubble.
“Perhaps some evening,” said Agatha cautiously. “Let me think about it.”
But his invitation gave her a warm little glow, and he was a wizard at fashioning her hair into that elegant style.
Agatha made her way out to her car which she had parked on a double yellow line. “Look where that car’s parked!” hissed a woman at her ear.
Agatha swung round. A dumpy, frumpy woman with thick glasses was glaring at her. Agatha shrugged, walked to her car and opened the door.
“It’s yours!” gasped the woman. “Don’t you know it’s illegal to park there?”
Agatha turned and faced her. “I am not obstructing the traffic or getting in anyone’s way,” she said evenly. “Nor am I responsible for the mad parking arrangements of Evesham or for the stupid one-way system. But I wonder where someone like you gets off on this hot day abusing motorists. Go home, have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Get a life!”
And deaf to the insults that began to pour about her ears, Agatha got in and drove off.
Charles arrived promptly at eight o’clock. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Like the hair, Aggie. And the dress. In fact, I bought a dress like that in the market in Mircester this afternoon for my aunt. She’s was grumbling about not having anything cool to wear.”
“I bought this one in Harrods,” lied Agatha. “The one in the market must have been a cheap copy.” But her pleasure in her appearance had diminished. “Where are we eating?”
“I thought we would go to the Little Chef.” The Little Chef is a chain of eateries, rather like Howard Johnson’s in the States, reliable, but hardly glamorous.
“I am not being taken out to a Little Chef. You are cheap, Charles.”
“I like the food,” he said defensively. “I suppose you want foreign muck. Well, give me a whisky while I think of something.”
Agatha poured him a whisky and he settled in a chair cradling his glass between small, well-manicured hands. He was a slight, fair-haired man. Agatha had never known his age. He had mild, sensitive features and she had originally thought he might be only in his late thirties. But she had later decided he was probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a shirt open at the neck and had slung his jacket over a chair.
“I know,” he said. “The Jolly Roger at Ancombe, that new pub.”
“I haven’t been there and I don’t like the sound of it.”
“Friend of mine went the other week. Said the food was good. Besides, they’ve got a garden with tables. By the way, I saw that detective friend of yours in Mircester; what’s his name, Chinese chap?”
“Bill Wong. But he’s on holiday!”
“I suppose he’s taking it at home. Had a girl on his arm.”
And he hasn’t phoned me, thought Agatha. Bill had been her first friend, the old, tougher Agatha, driven by career and ambition, never having had any time before to make friends. She could feel the old black edges of that depression hovering on the horizon of her mind.
They set out for Ancombe and parked outside the Jolly Roger, formerly called the Green Man. Inside it was everything that shouted poor food to Agatha-fishing nets, murals of pirates, and waiters and barmen dressed in striped tops and knee-breeches with plastic “silver” buckles. Charles led the way through to the garden, which was at least a fraction cooler than the inside. A roguish waiter who introduced himself as Henry handed them two large, gaudily coloured menus.
“Oh, shit,” grumbled Agatha. “Listen to this. Captain Hook’s scrumptious potato dip. And what about Barbary Coast Chicken with sizzling Long John corn fritters?”
Henry the waiter was hovering. “Do you remember when they were called hens, and chickens were the fluffy little yellow things?” asked Agatha.
“And now all mutton is lamb, dear,” said Henry with a giggle.
Agatha eyed him with disfavour. “Just shove off and stop twitching and grinning and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”
“Well, really, I never did.” Henry tossed his head.
“The fact that you haven’t lost your virginity is nothing to do with me. Go away.”
“You’ve hurt his feelings, Aggie,” said Charles equably.
“Don’t care,” muttered Agatha. Bill hadn’t even bothered to phone her. “What are you having?”
“I’ll have the all-day breakfast. The Dead-Eye Dick Special, and I hope it comes with lots of chips.”
“No starter? Oh well, I’ll have a ham salad.”
“They can’t have anything described simply as ham salad.”
“It’s described as South Sea Roast pig, sliced and on a bed of crunchy salad with Hard Tack croutons.”
“Oh. Wine?”
“Why not?”
Charles signalled to the waiter, ordered their meals and a carafe of house wine.
“No vintage for me?” asked Agatha.
“I wouldn’t bother in a place like this.”
“So why did you bring me to a place like this?”
“God, you’re sour this evening, Agatha. Am I to assume that James is not around?”
“No, he’s away somewhere.”
“And didn’t even say goodbye? Yes, I can see by the look on your face.”
“Men are so immature.”
“That’s what you women always throw at us.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“It’s a necessary part of the masculine make-up. It enables us to dream greater dreams and bring them about. Have you ever wondered why all the great inventors are men?”
“Because women never had a chance.”
“Wrong. Women are pragmatic. They have to be to bring up children. 1 shall illustrate what I mean with a
story.” He rested his chin on his hands and gazed dreamily across at her.
“A chap goes to Cambridge University. The girls there terrify him and they’re only interested in rugger-buggers anyway and he’s the academic type. So he falls in love with a fluffy little barmaid, and gets her pregnant and marries her. He gets a first in physics but he has to support his new family, so he takes a job in an insurance office and there he is, up to his neck in a mortgage and car payments and the wife has twins. A few years pass and he begins to spend every weekend down in the garden shed. Wife begins to whine and complain. ‘We never see you. Sharon and Tracey are missing their dad. What are you doing?’ At last he tells her. He’s building a time machine. Then the shit hits the fan. Will this pay the bills? she rages at him. The Joneses next door have a new deep freeze. When are they going to get one? And so on. So he locks himself into his shed and hammers away while she screams outside.
“Well, he builds his time machine and becomes a billionaire and runs off with a little bit of fluff in the office who is the only woman who really understands him and has supported him, which of course she has, not knowing one word he’s been talking about, but likes the excitement of being involved with a married man. He divorces his wife and marries the office girl and the money goes to her head and she joins the Eurotrash and runs off with a racing driver and they all live unhappily ever after. And the moral of that is, men and women are different and should start to accept the differences.”
Agatha laughed. “Couldn’t he have escaped in his time machine?”
“Of course not. He got billions to destroy it. Can’t have people zipping around the centuries and messing up history.”
“I never know if you’re a male chauvinist oink or just being funny.”
“I’m never funny. Look at the wrinkles on my forehead, Aggie. Product of deep thought. So what about you? No nice, juicy murders?”
“Nothing at all. I am yesterday’s sleuth.”
“I should have thought your experiences in Cyprus would have given you enough death and mayhem for life.”
Cyprus. Where she had passed a night with Charles and James had found out about it and things had never been the same again. Agatha would not admit to herself that her relationship with James had been on the rocks for a long time before that.
Charles watched the shadow fall across her eyes and said gently. “It wouldn’t have worked, you know. James is a twenty-per-cent person.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“It’s like this. You are an eighty-five-per-cent person and James only gives twenty percent. It’s not a case of won’t, it’s a case of can’t. A lot of men are like that but women will never understand. They go on giving. And they think if they go to bed with the twenty-per-center, and they give that last fifteen per cent, they’ll miraculously wake up next to a hundred-per-center. Wrong. If they wake up next to him anyway, it’ll be a miracle. Probably find a note on the pillow saying, ‘Gone home to feed the dog,’ or something like that.”
Agatha remembered nights with James and mornings when he was always up first, when he never referred to the night before or hugged her or kissed her.
“Maybe I was just the wrong woman,” she conceded.
“Trust me, dearest. Any woman is the wrong woman for James.”
“Perhaps I would have been happy to settle for twenty per cent.”
“Liar. Here’s our food.”
To Agatha’s surprise, the ham was delicious and the salad fresh and crisp.
“So we’re never to go detecting again?” Charles asked, pouring ketchup on his chips.
“I can’t go around finding bodies to brighten up my life.”
“No more public relations work?”
“None. All my efforts are going towards providing tea and cakes for the ladies of Ancombe.”
“You’ll stir something up, Aggie. No new men on the horizon?”
“One very gorgeous man.”
“Who?”
“My hairdresser.”
“Ah, the one that’s responsible for the new elegance.”
“Him.”
“Hairdressers are fickle. I remember… Never mind.”
“What about your love life, Charles?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
They passed the meal reminiscing about their adventures in Cyprus and then he drove her home.
“Am I going to stay the night?” asked Charles as they stood together on Agatha’s doorstep.
“No, Charles, I’m not into casual sex.”
“Who says it would be casual?”
“Charles, you demonstrated in Cyprus that I am nothing more than a temporary amusement to you. Has it ever dawned on you that you might be a twenty-per-center yourself?”
“Ouch! But think on this, Aggie. Any eighty-five-percenter who hangs around with twenty-per-centers is just as afraid of commitment.”
He waved to her and went off to his car.
Agatha let herself in, feeling flat. No messages on the phone for her. And what had Bill Wong been thinking of not to phone her?
The sensible thing would be to phone him, and yet Agatha dreaded the idea of finding out she had lost the affection of her first friend.
Life went on. She had to keep moving. Perhaps she would accept Mr. John’s invitation after all.
TWO
THE heat mounted. Ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit was recorded at Pershore in Worcester. Incidents of road rage mounted, tar melted on the roads, and Agatha Raisin longed for her old shorter haircut.
She realized that the reason she had not the courage to ask for it to be cut was in case she was accused of having low self-worth. Having come to this conclusion, Agatha decided it was all too ridiculous and made another appointment with Mr. John. Back to Evesham, where the women had swapped their leggings for shorts. Acres of white, mottled flesh gleamed in the sunlight.
The hairdresser’s was as busy as ever. Mr. John had two male assistants, one female, and two juniors. Agatha asked if she could use the toilet. The window at the back of the toilet was open to a little weedy yard.
Then Agatha heard a woman whisper urgently, “I can’t go on. You’ve got to let me off the hook.”
There was the answering mumble of a man’s voice.
“I’ll kill you!” shouted the woman, suddenly and violently.
Agatha poked her head out of the window, but she could not make out where the voices had come from.
She went back into the salon, had her hair washed and then braced herself to tell Mr. John that she wanted her hair cut short. She found herself wrapped into that anxiety of writing scripts of “I’ll say and then he’ll say.” It was the lawn-mower syndrome.
Mr. Jones goes out to mow the lawn but finds his lawn-mower has broken down. “Why don’t you ask that nice Mr. Smith next door if you can borrow his?” suggests his wife.
“I can’t do that,” protests Mr. Jones. “Bit of an imposition.”
“Don’t be silly,” says his wife. “You’re being childish. Mr. Smith is a very nice man.”
All afternoon Mr. Jones frets. He will ask Mr. Smith for the loan of his lawn-mower and Mr. Smith will say, “Sorry, old chap, I’m using it myself.” Mr. Smith will say, “I don’t like lending out things.” Mr. Smith will lie. Mr. Smith will look shifty and Mr. Smith will say, “Actually, mine’s broken as well.”
At last, nagged by his wife, Mr. Jones goes and knocks on Mr. Smith’s door.
When Mr. Smith answers the door, Mr. Jones shouts, “Fuck you and your lawn-mower,” and walks away.
So when Agatha barked at Mr. John that she wanted her hair cut, she blushed and felt ridiculous when he said mildly, “There’s no need to shout, Agatha.”
He set about snipping busily. Agatha glanced about the busy salon. It was done in American in Paris Brothel. Gilt mirrors, curtains with bobbles separating the rooms, ToulouseLautrec posters. Mr. John wore a white coat like an American dentist. His assistants wore pink smocks.
&nb
sp; “I heard a funny thing when I was in the toilet,” Agatha began.
“That sounds like the beginning of a dirty joke.”
“No, really. I heard a woman say something like, ‘I can’t go on. You’ve got to let me off the hook.’ She was answered by some man. Then she said, ‘I’ll kill you.’ ”
“It’s probably the couple who run the shop next door,” he said. “They’re always quarrelling. Their back shop is on the other side of our backyard and voices carry.”
“Oh,” said Agatha, a little disappointed that what had sounded like an intriguing mystery was only a marital quarrel. “Are you married yourself?”
“I was once,” said Mr. John. Those incredibly blue eyes of his glittered with humour. “Didn’t last long. Now I am free to enjoy the company of beautiful women. Speaking of which, when are you going to have dinner with me?”
“Tonight,” said Agatha, confident that he would not be free to make it.
“Tonight’s fine,” he said. “Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at eight.”
He put down his scissors and reached for a notepad. Agatha told him where she lived and he wrote it down. Agatha began to feel as nervous as a teenager. Would he expect her to have sex with him? She surreptitiously glanced at her wrist-watch. She would be home before the salon closed. She could always phone and say something had come up.
But when her hair was blow-dried into a simple shorter style she felt a wave of gratitude for this magician.
And when she got home and felt the silence, the loneliness of the cottage settling round her, as suffocating as the humid heat, she decided that she would be mad to throw away the chance of dinner with a handsome man.
If the climate had changed, thought Agatha, and hot summers were going to become the norm, she would need to think about getting air-conditioning. She had read that to install air-conditioning cost twenty thousand pounds. It was two thousand for a portable unit. The last time she had visited America, she had noticed air-conditioners sticking out of windows of ordinary houses. Surely the average American family could not afford, say, thirty thousand dollars for air-conditioning or even three thousand for a portable unit.
Her cats lay stretched out on the kitchen floor, lethargic in the heat. She sat down on the floor next to them and stroked their warm fur. Where was James Lacey, and would he ever come back again?
