Ordeal by Innocence - Agatha Christie [57]
Tina looked at the view with incurious eyes.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, perhaps it is.”
“But you don’t really know, do you?” said Micky, looking at her affectionately, “you don’t realize the beauty, Tina, you never have.”
“I do not remember,” said Tina, “in all the years we lived here that you ever enjoyed the beauty of this place. You were always fretting, longing to go back to London.”
“That was different,” said Micky shortly, “I didn’t belong here.”
“That is what is the matter, isn’t it?” said Tina, “you do not belong anywhere.”
“I don’t belong anywhere,” said Micky in a dazed voice. “Perhaps that’s true. My goodness, Tina, what a frightening thought. Do you remember that old song? Kirsten used to sing it to us, I believe. Something about a dove. O fair dove, O fond dove, O dove with the white, white breast. Do you remember?”
Tina shook her head.
“Perhaps she sang it to you, but—no, I do not remember.”
Micky went on, half speaking, half humming.
“O maid most dear, I am not here. I have no place, no part, No dwelling more by sea nor shore, But only in thy heart.” He looked at Tina. “I suppose that could be true.”
Tina put a small hand on his arm.
“Come, Micky, sit down here. It is out of the wind. It is not so cold.”
As he obeyed her she went on:
“Must you be so unhappy always?”
“My dear girl, you don’t begin to understand the first thing about it.”
“I understand a good deal,” said Tina. “Why can’t you forget about her, Micky?”
“Forget about her? Who are you talking about?”
“Your mother,” said Tina.
“Forget about her!” said Micky bitterly. “Is there much chance of forgetting after this morning—after the questions! If anyone’s been murdered, they don’t let you ‘forget about her’!”
“I did not mean that,” said Tina. “I meant your real mother.”
“Why should I think about her? I never saw her after I was six years old.”
“But, Micky, you did think about her. All the time.”
“Did I ever tell you so?”
“Sometimes one knows about these things,” said Tina.
Micky turned and looked at her.
“You’re such a quiet, soft little creature, Tina. Like a little black cat. I want to stroke your fur the right way. Nice pussy! Pretty little pussy!” His hand stroked the sleeve of her coat.
Tina, sitting very still, smiled at him as he did so. Micky said:
“You didn’t hate her, did you, Tina? All the rest of us did.”
“That was very unkind,” said Tina. She shook her head at him and went on with some energy. “Look what she gave you, all of you. A home, warmth, kindness, good food, toys to play with, people to look after you and keep you safe—”
“Yes, yes,” said Micky, impatiently. “Saucers of cream and lots of fur stroking. That was all you wanted, was it, little pussy cat?”
“I was grateful for it,” said Tina. “None of you were grateful.”
“Don’t you understand, Tina, that one can’t be grateful when one ought to be? In some ways it makes it worse, feeling the obligation of gratitude. I didn’t want to be brought here. I didn’t want to be given luxurious surroundings. I didn’t want to be taken away from my own home.”
“You might have been bombed,” Tina pointed out. “You might have been killed.”
“What would it matter? I wouldn’t mind being killed. I’d have been killed in my own place, with my own people about me. Where I belonged. There you are, you see. We’re back to it again. There’s nothing so bad as not belonging. But you, little pussy cat, you only care for material things.”
“Perhaps that is true in a way,” said Tina. “Perhaps that is why I do not feel like the rest of you. I do not feel that odd resentment that you all seem to feel—you most of all, Micky. It was easy for me to be grateful because, you see, I did not want to be myself. I did not want to be where I was. I wanted to escape from myself. I wanted to be someone else. And she made me into someone else. She made me into Christina Argyle with a home and with affection. Secure. Safe. I loved Mother because she gave me all those things.”
“What about your own mother? Don’t you ever think of her?”
“Why should I? I hardly remember her. I was only three