N or M_ - Agatha Christie [11]
Miss Minton cast an expert eye over the khaki mass. Gently she pointed out just what had gone wrong. Thankfully, Tuppence handed the faulty helmet over. Miss Minton exuded kindness and patronage. Oh, no, it wasn’t a trouble at all. She had knitted for so many years.
‘I’m afraid I’ve never done any before this dreadful war,’ confessed Tuppence. ‘But one feels so terribly, doesn’t one, that one must do something.’
‘Oh yes, indeed. And you actually have a boy in the Navy, I think I heard you say last night?’
‘Yes, my eldest boy. Such a splendid boy he is–though I suppose a mother shouldn’t say so. Then I have a boy in the Air Force and Cyril, my baby, is out in France.’
‘Oh dear, dear, how terribly anxious you must be.’
Tuppence thought:
‘Oh Derek, my darling Derek…Out in the hell and mess–and here I am playing the fool–acting the thing I’m really feeling…’
She said in her most righteous voice:
‘We must all be brave, mustn’t we? Let’s hope it will all be over soon. I was told the other day on very high authority indeed that the Germans can’t possibly last out more than another two months.’
Miss Minton nodded with so much vigour that all her bead chains rattled and shook.
‘Yes, indeed, and I believe’–(her voice lowered mysteriously)–‘that Hitler is suffering from a disease–absolutely fatal–he’ll be raving mad by August.’
Tuppence replied briskly:
‘All this Blitzkrieg is just the Germans’ last effort. I believe the shortage is something frightful in Germany. The men in the factories are very dissatisfied. The whole thing will crack up.’
‘What’s this? What’s all this?’
Mr and Mrs Cayley came out on the terrace, Mr Cayley putting his questions fretfully. He settled himself in a chair and his wife put a rug over his knees. He repeated fretfully:
‘What’s that you are saying?’
‘We’re saying,’ said Miss Minton, ‘that it will all be over by the autumn.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Cayley. ‘This war is going to last at least six years.’
‘Oh, Mr Cayley,’ protested Tuppence. ‘You don’t really think so?’
Mr Cayley was peering about him suspiciously.
‘Now I wonder,’ he murmured. ‘Is there a draught? Perhaps it would be better if I moved my chair back into the corner.’
The resettlement of Mr Cayley took place. His wife, an anxious-faced woman who seemed to have no other aim in life than to minister to Mr Cayley’s wants, manipulating cushions and rugs, asking from time to time: ‘Now how is that, Alfred? Do you think that will be all right? Ought you, perhaps, to have your sun-glasses? There is rather a glare this morning.’
Mr Cayley said irritably:
‘No, no. Don’t fuss, Elizabeth. Have you got my muffler? No, no, my silk muffler. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I dare say this will do–for once. But I don’t want to get my throat overheated, and wool–in this sunlight–well, perhaps you had better fetch the other.’ He turned his attention back to matters of public interest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I give it six years.’
He listened with pleasure to the protests of the two women.
‘You dear ladies are just indulging in what we call wishful thinking. Now I know Germany. I may say I know Germany extremely well. In the course of my business before I retired I used to be constantly to and fro. Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, I know them all. I can assure you that Germany can hold out practically indefinitely. With Russia behind her–’
Mr Cayley plunged triumphantly on, his voice rising and falling in pleasurably melancholy cadences, only interrupted when he paused to receive the silk muffler his wife brought him and wind it round his throat.
Mrs Sprot brought out Betty and plumped her down