Sad cypress - Agatha Christie [28]
‘Now, just you listen to me, Mary: whether he was your father or not doesn’t enter into it. Children don’t care much about their parents in these days, from what I can see, and a good many parents don’t care for their children, either. Miss Lambert, at the secondary school, says that’s as it should be. According to her, family life is all wrong, and children should be brought up by the state. That’s as may be – just a glorified orphanage, it sounds to me – but, anyway, it’s a waste of breath to go back over the past and sentimentalize. We’ve got to get on with living – that’s our job and not too easy, either, sometimes!’
Mary said slowly:
‘I expect you’re right. But I feel perhaps it was my fault we didn’t get on better.’
Nurse Hopkins said robustly:
‘Nonsense.’
The word exploded like a bomb.
It quelled Mary. Nurse Hopkins turned to more practical matters.
‘What are you going to do with the furniture? Store it? Or sell it?’
Mary said doubtfully:
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
Running a practical eye over it, Nurse Hopkins said:
‘Some of it’s quite good and solid. You might store it and furnish a little flat of your own in London some day. Get rid of the rubbish. The chairs are good – so’s the table. And that’s a nice bureau – it’s the kind that’s out of fashion, but it’s solid mahogany, and they say Victorian stuff will come in again one day. I’d get rid of that great wardrobe, if I were you. Too big to fit in anywhere. Takes up half the bedroom as it is.’
They made a list between them of pieces to be kept or let go.
Mary said:
‘The lawyer’s been very kind – Mr Seddon, I mean. He advanced me some money, so that I could get started with my training fees and other expenses. It will be a month or so before the money can be definitely made over to me, so he said.’
Nurse Hopkins said:
‘How do you like your work?’
‘I think I shall like it very much. It’s rather strenuous at first. I come home tired to death.’
Nurse Hopkins said grimly:
‘I thought I was going to die when I was a probationer at St Luke’s. I felt I could never stick it for three years. But I did.’
They had sorted through the old man’s clothes. Now they came to a tin box full of papers.
Mary said:
‘We must go through these, I suppose.’
They sat down one on each side of the table.
Nurse Hopkins grumbled as she started with a handful.
‘Extraordinary what rubbish people keep! Newspaper cuttings! Old letters. All sorts of things!’
Mary said, unfolding a document:
‘Here’s Dad’s and Mum’s marriage certificate. At St Albans, 1919.’
Nurse Hopkins said:
‘Marriage lines, that’s the old-fashioned term. Lots of the people in this village use that term yet.’
Mary said in a stifled voice:
‘But, Nurse –’
‘What’s the matter?’
Mary Gerrard said in a shaky voice:
‘Don’t you see? This is 1939. And I’m twenty-one. In 1919 I was a year old. That means – that means – that my father and mother weren’t married till – till – afterwards.’
Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said robustly:
‘Well, after all, what of it? Don’t go worrying about that, at this time of day!’
‘But, Nurse, I can’t help it.’
Nurse Hopkins spoke with authority:
‘There’s many couples that don’t go to church till a bit after they should do so. But so long as they do it in the end, what’s the odds? That’s what I say!’
Mary said in a low voice:
‘Is that why – do you think – my father never liked me? Because, perhaps my mother made him marry her?’
Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She bit her lip, then she said:
‘It wasn’t quite like that, I imagine.’ She paused. ‘Oh, well, if you’re going to worry about it, you may as well know the truth: You aren’t Gerrard’s daughter at all.’
Mary said:
‘Then that was why!’
Nurse Hopkins said: ‘Maybe.’
Mary said, a red spot suddenly burning in each cheek:
‘I suppose it’s wrong of me, but I’m glad! I’ve always felt uncomfortable because I didn’t care for my father, but if he wasn’t my father, well, that makes it all right! How did you know about it?’
Nurse Hopkins said:
‘Gerrard talked about it a good deal before he died. I shut him up