Curtain - Agatha Christie [27]
‘You, too, think she is selfish?’
‘Yes, but I can see her point of view. I – I understand invalids. I can understand, too, Dr Franklin’s giving way to her. Judith, of course, thinks he should park his wife anywhere and get on with the job. Your daughter’s a very enthusiastic scientific worker.’
‘I know,’ I said rather disconsolately. ‘It worries me sometimes. It doesn’t seem natural, if you know what I mean. I feel she ought to be – more human – more keen on having a good time. Amuse herself – fall in love with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one’s fling – not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn’t natural. In our young days we were having fun – flirting – enjoying ourselves – you know.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Miss Cole said in a queer cold voice: ‘I don’t know.’
I was instantly horrified. Unconsciously I had spoken as though she and I were contemporaries – but I realized suddenly that she was well over ten years my junior and that I had been unwittingly extremely tactless.
I apologized as best I could. She cut into my stammering phrases.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. Please don’t apologize. I meant just simply what I said. I don’t know. I was never what you meant by “young”. I never had what is called “a good time”.’
Something in her voice, a bitterness, a deep resentment, left me at a loss. I said, rather lamely, but with sincerity: ‘I’m sorry.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Don’t look so upset. Let’s talk about something else.’
I obeyed. ‘Tell me something about the other people here,’ I said. ‘Unless they’re all strangers to you.’
‘I’ve known the Luttrells all my life. It’s rather sad that they should have to do this – especially for him. He’s rather a dear. And she’s nicer than you’d think. It’s having had to pinch and scrape all her life that has made her rather – well – predatory. If you’re always on the make, it does tell in the end. The only thing I do rather dislike about her is that gushing manner.’
‘Tell me something about Mr Norton.’
‘There isn’t really much to tell. He’s very nice – rather shy – just a little stupid, perhaps. He’s always been rather delicate. He’s lived with his mother – rather a peevish, stupid woman. She bossed him a good deal, I think. She died a few years ago. He’s keen on birds and flowers and things like that. He’s a very kind person – and he’s the sort of person who sees a lot.’
‘Through his glasses, you mean?’
Miss Cole smiled. ‘Well, I wasn’t meaning it quite so literally as that. I meant more that he notices a good deal. Those quiet people often do. He’s unselfish – and very considerate for a man, but he’s rather – ineffectual, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I know.’
Elizabeth Cole said suddenly, and once more the deep bitter note was in her voice: ‘That’s the depressing part of places like this. Guest houses run by broken-down gentlepeople. They’re full of failures – of people who have never got anywhere and never will get anywhere, of people who – who have been defeated and broken by life, of people who are old and tired and finished.’
Her voice died away. A deep and spreading sadness permeated me. How true it was! Here we were, a collection of twilit people. Grey heads, grey hearts, grey dreams. Myself, sad and lonely, the woman beside me also a bitter and disillusioned creature. Dr Franklin, eager, ambitious, curbed and thwarted, his wife a prey to ill health. Quiet little Norton limping about looking at birds. Even Poirot, the once brilliant Poirot, now a broken, crippled old man.
How different it had been in the old days – the days when I had first come to Styles. The thought was too much for me – a stifled exclamation of pain and regret came to my lips.
My companion said quickly: ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I was just struck by the contrast – I was here, you know, many years ago, as a young man. I was thinking of the difference between then and now.’
‘I see. It was a happy house then? Everyone was happy here?