Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [5]
And now here she was, out of the Service, free, and back at the White House. She had been back three days. And already a curious dissatisfied restlessness was creeping over her. It was all the same — almost too much all the same — the house and Mums and Rowley and the farm and the family. The thing that was different and that ought not to be different was herself…
‘Darling…’ Mrs Marchmont’s thin cry came up the stairs. ‘Shall I bring my girl a nice tray in bed?’
Lynn called out sharply:
‘Of course not. I’m coming down.’
‘And why,’ she thought, ‘has Mums got to say “my girl”. It’s so silly!’
She ran downstairs and entered the dining-room. It was not a very good breakfast. Already Lynn was realizing the undue proportion of time and interest taken by the search for food. Except for a rather unreliable woman who came four mornings a week, Mrs Marchmont was alone in the house, struggling with cooking and cleaning. She had been nearly forty when Lynn was born and her health was not good. Also Lynn realized with some dismay how their financial position had changed. The small but adequate fixed income which had kept them going comfortably before the war was now almost halved by taxation. Rates, expenses, wages had all gone up.
‘Oh! brave new world,’ thought Lynn grimly. Her eyes rested lightly on the columns of the daily paper.
‘Ex-W.A.A.F. seeks post where initiative and drive will be appreciated.’ ‘Former W.R.E.N. seeks post where organizing ability and authority are needed.’
Enterprise, initiative, command, those were the commodities offered. But what was wanted? People who could cook and clean, or write decent shorthand. Plodding people who knew a routine and could give good service.
Well, it didn’t affect her. Her way ahead lay clear. Marriage to her cousin Rowley Cloade. They had got engaged seven years ago, just before the outbreak of war. Almost as long as she could remember, she had meant to marry Rowley. His choice of a farming life had been acquiesced in readily by her. A good life — not exciting perhaps, and with plenty of hard work, but they both loved the open air and the care of animals.
Not that their prospects were quite what they had been — Uncle Gordon had always promised…
Mrs Marchmont’s voice broke in plaintively apposite:
‘It’s been the most dreadful blow to us all, Lynn darling, as I wrote you. Gordon had only been in England two days. We hadn’t even seen him. If only he hadn’t stayed in London. If he’d come straight down here.’
II
‘Yes, if only…’
Far away, Lynn had been shocked and grieved by the news of her uncle’s death, but the true significance of it was only now beginning to come home to her.
For as long as she could remember, her life, all their lives, had been dominated by Gordon Cloade. The rich, childless man had taken all his relatives completely under his wing.
Even Rowley…Rowley and his friend Johnnie Vavasour had started in partnership on the farm. Their capital was small, but they had been full of hope and energy. And Gordon Cloade had approved.
To her he had said more.
‘You can’t get anywhere in farming without capital. But the first thing to find out is whether these boys have really got the will and the energy to make a go of it. If I set them up now, I wouldn’t know that — maybe for years. If they’ve got the right stuff in them, if I’m satisfied that their side of it is all right, well then, Lynn, you needn’t worry. I’ll finance them on the proper scale. So don’t think badly of your prospects, my girl. You’re just the wife Rowley needs. But keep what I’ve told you under your hat.’
Well, she had done that, but Rowley himself had sensed his uncle’s benevolent interest. It was up to him to prove to the old boy that Rowley and Johnnie were a good investment for money.
Yes, they had all depended