Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [45]
‘I never imagined you actually typed your books yourself,’ said Rhoda. ‘I thought you’d have a secretary.’
‘I did have a secretary, and I used to try and dictate to her, but she was so competent that it used to depress me. I felt she knew so much more about English and grammar and full stops and semi-colons than I did, that it gave me a kind of inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary, but, of course, that didn’t answer very well, either.’
‘It must be so wonderful to be able to think of things,’ said Rhoda.
‘I can always think of things,’ said Mrs Oliver happily. ‘What is so tiring is writing them down. I always think I’ve finished, and then when I count up I find I’ve only written thirty thousand words instead of sixty thousand, and so then I have to throw in another murder and get the heroine kidnapped again. It’s all very boring.’
Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs Oliver with the reverence felt by youth for celebrity—slightly tinged by disappointment.
‘Do you like the wallpaper?’ asked Mrs Oliver waving an airy hand. ‘I’m frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel it’s a hot day, even when it’s freezing. I can’t do anything unless I feel very, very warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!’
‘I think it’s all marvellous,’ said Rhoda. ‘And it’s awfully nice of you to say I’m not interrupting you.’
‘We’ll have some coffee and toast,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Very black coffee and very hot toast. I can always eat that any time.’
She went to the door, opened it and shouted. Then she returned and said:
‘What brings you to town—shopping?’
‘Yes, I’ve been doing some shopping.’
‘Is Miss Meredith up, too?’
‘Yes, she’s gone with Major Despard to a solicitor.’
‘Solicitor, eh?’
Mrs Oliver’s eyebrows rose inquiringly.
‘Yes. You see, Major Despard told her she ought to have one. He’s been awfully kind—he really has.’
‘I was kind, too,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but it didn’t seem to go down very well, did it? In fact, I think your friend rather resented my coming.’
‘Oh, she didn’t—really she didn’t.’ Rhoda wriggled on her chair in a paroxysm of embarrassment. ‘That’s really one reason why I wanted to come today—to explain. You see, I saw you had got it all wrong. She did seem very ungracious, but it wasn’t that, really. I mean, it wasn’t your coming. It was something you said.’
‘Something I said i?’
‘Yes. You couldn’t tell, of course. It was just unfortunate.’
‘What did I say?’
‘I don’t expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said something about an accident and poison.’
‘Did I?’
‘I knew you’d probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne had a ghastly experience once. She was in a house where a woman took some poison—hat paint, I think it was—by mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was an awful shock to Anne. She can’t bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldn’t say anything in front of her. But I did want you to know that it wasn’t what you thought. She wasn’t ungrateful.’
Mrs Oliver looked at Rhoda’s flushed eager face. She said slowly:
‘I see.’
‘Anne’s awfully sensitive,’ said Rhoda. ‘And she’s bad about—well, facing things. If anything’s upset her, she’d just rather not talk about it, although that isn’t any good, really—at least, I don’t think so. Things are there just the same—whether you talk about them or not. It’s only running away from them to pretend they don’t exist. I’d rather have it all out, however painful it would be.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Oliver quietly. ‘But you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn’t.’
Rhoda flushed.
‘Anne’s a darling.’
Mrs Oliver smiled.
She said, ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t. I only said she hadn’t got your particular brand of courage.’
She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl: