N or M_ - Agatha Christie [19]
‘Yes, I hate patriotism, do you understand? All this country, country, country! Betraying your country–dying for your country–serving your country. Why should one’s country mean anything at all?’
Tommy said simply: ‘I don’t know. It just does.’
‘Not to me! Oh, it would to you–you go abroad and buy and sell in the British Empire and come back bronzed and full of clichés, talking about the natives and calling for Chota Pegs and all that sort of thing.’
Tommy said gently:
‘I’m not quite as bad as that, I hope, my dear.’
‘I’m exaggerating a little–but you know what I mean. You believe in the British Empire–and–and–the stupidity of dying for one’s country.’
‘My country,’ said Tommy dryly, ‘doesn’t seem particularly anxious to allow me to die for it.’
‘Yes, but you want to. And it’s so stupid! Nothing’s worth dying for. It’s all an idea–talk, talk–froth–high-flown idiocy. My country doesn’t mean anything to me at all.’
‘Some day,’ said Tommy, ‘you’ll be surprised to find that it does.’
‘No. Never. I’ve suffered–I’ve seen–’
She broke off–then turned suddenly and impetuously upon him.
‘Do you know who my father was?’
‘No!’ Tommy’s interest quickened.
‘His name was Patrick Maguire. He–he was a follower of Casement in the last war. He was shot as a traitor! All for nothing! For an idea–he worked himself up with those other Irishmen. Why couldn’t he just stay at home quietly and mind his own business? He’s a martyr to some people and a traitor to others. I think he was just–stupid!’
Tommy could hear the note of pent-up rebellion, coming out into the open. He said:
‘So that’s the shadow you’ve grown up with?’
‘Shadow’s right. Mother changed her name. We lived in Spain for some years. She always says that my father was half a Spaniard. We always tell lies wherever we go. We’ve been all over the Continent. Finally we came here and started this place. I think this is quite the most hateful thing we’ve done yet.’
Tommy asked:
‘How does your mother feel about–things?’
‘You mean–about my father’s death?’ Sheila was silent a moment, frowning, puzzled. She said slowly: ‘I’ve never really known…she never talks about it. It’s not easy to know what Mother feels or thinks.’
Tommy nodded his head thoughtfully.
Sheila said abruptly:
‘I–I don’t know why I’ve been telling you this. I got worked up. Where did it all start?’
‘A discussion on Edith Cavell.’
‘Oh yes–patriotism. I said I hated it.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting Nurse Cavell’s own words?’
‘What words?’
‘Before she died. Don’t you know what she said?’
He repeated the words:
‘Patriotism is not enough…I must have no hatred in my heart.’
‘Oh.’ She stood there stricken for a moment.
Then, turning quickly, she wheeled away into the shadow of the garden.
II
‘So you see, Tuppence, it would all fit in.’
Tuppence nodded thoughtfully. The beach around them was empty. She herself leaned against a breakwater, Tommy sat above her and the breakwater itself, from which post he could see anyone who approached along the esplanade. Not that he expected to see anyone, having ascertained with a fair amount of accuracy where people would be this morning. In any case his rendezvous with Tuppence had borne all the signs of a casual meeting, pleasurable to the lady and slightly alarming to himself.
Tuppence said:
‘Mrs Perenna?’
‘Yes. M not N. She satisfies the requirements.’
Tuppence nodded thoughtfully again.
‘Yes. She’s Irish–as spotted by Mrs O’Rourke–won’t admit the fact. Has done a good deal of coming and going on the Continent. Changed her name to Perenna, came here and started this boarding-house. A splendid bit of camouflage, full of innocuous bores. Her husband was shot as a traitor–she’s got every incentive for running a Fifth Column show in this country. Yes, it fits. Is the girl in it too, do you think?’
Tommy said finally:
‘Definitely not. She’d never have told me all this otherwise. I–I feel a bit of a cad, you know.’
Tuppence nodded with complete understanding.
‘Yes, one does. In a way it’s a foul job, this.’
‘But very necessary.’
‘Oh, of course.’
Tommy said,