The Hollow - Agatha Christie [23]
‘You’re wrong,’ said Henrietta. ‘There are very few people like John.’
‘If that’s so–it’s a good thing! At least, that’s what I think!’
He got up. ‘We’d better go back again.’
Chapter 7
As they got into the car and Lewis shut the front door of the Harley Street house, Gerda felt the pang of exile go through her. That shut door was so final. She was barred out–this awful weekend was upon her. And there were things, quite a lot of things, that she ought to have done before leaving. Had she turned off that tap in the bathroom? And that note for the laundry–she’d put it–where had she put it? Would the children be all right with Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle was so–so–Would Terence, for instance, ever do anything that Mademoiselle told him to? French governesses never seemed to have any authority.
She got into the driving-seat, still bowed down by misery, and nervously pressed the starter. She pressed it again and again. John said: ‘The car will start better, Gerda, if you switch on the engine.’
‘Oh, dear, how stupid of me.’ She shot a quick, alarmed glance at him. If John was going to become annoyed straight away–But to her relief he was smiling.
‘That’s because,’ thought Gerda, with one of her flashes of acumen, ‘he’s so pleased to be going to the Angkatells.’
Poor John, he worked so hard! His life was so unselfish, so completely devoted to others. No wonder he looked forward to this long weekend. And, her mind harking back to the conversation at lunch, she said, as she let in the clutch rather too suddenly so that the car leapt forward from the kerb:
‘You know, John, you really shouldn’t make jokes about hating sick people. It’s wonderful of you to make light of all you do, and I understand. But the children don’t. Terry, in particular, has such a very literal mind.’
‘There are times,’ said John Christow, ‘when Terry seems to me almost human–not like Zena! How long do girls go on being a mass of affectation?’
Gerda gave a little quiet sweet laugh. John, she knew, was teasing her. She stuck to her point. Gerda had an adhesive mind.
‘I really think, John, that it’s good for children to realize the unselfishness and devotion of a doctor’s life.’
‘Oh God!’ said Christow.
Gerda was momentarily deflected. The traffic lights she was approaching had been green for a long time. They were almost sure, she thought, to change before she got to them. She began to slow down. Still green.
John Christow forgot his resolutions of keeping silent about Gerda’s driving and said, ‘What are you stopping for?’
‘I thought the lights might change–’
She pressed her foot on the accelerator, the car moved forward a little, just beyond the lights, then, unable to pick up, the engine stalled. The lights changed.
The cross-traffic hooted angrily.
John said, but quite pleasantly:
‘You really are the worst driver in the world, Gerda!’
‘I always find traffic lights so worrying. One doesn’t know just when they are going to change.’
John cast a quick sideways look at Gerda’s anxious unhappy face.
‘Everything worries Gerda,’ he thought, and tried to imagine what it must feel like to live in that state. But since he was not a man of much imagination, he could not picture it at all.
‘You see,’ Gerda stuck to her point, ‘I’ve always impressed on the children just what a doctor’s life is–the self-sacrifice, the dedication of oneself to helping pain and suffering–the desire to serve others. It’s such a noble life–and I’m so proud of the way you give your time and energy and never spare yourself–’
John Christow interrupted her.
‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I like doctoring–that it’s a pleasure, not a sacrifice!–Don’t you realize that the damned thing’s interesting!’
But no, he thought, Gerda would never realize a thing like that! If he told her about Mrs Crabtree and the Margaret Russell Ward she would only see him as a kind of angelic helper of the Poor with a capital P.
‘Drowning in treacle,’ he said under his breath.
‘What?’ Gerda leaned towards him.
He shook his head.
If he were to tell Gerda that he was