The Hollow - Agatha Christie [48]
‘I dare say’–Lucy considered Bexhill. ‘Yes–quite probably.’
Gudgeon approached.
‘Inspector Grange telephoned, Sir Henry. The inquest will be at eleven o’clock on Wednesday.’
Sir Henry nodded. Lady Angkatell said:
‘Midge, you’d better ring up your shop.’
Midge went slowly to the telephone.
Her life had always been so entirely normal and commonplace that she felt she lacked the phraseology to explain to her employers that after four days’ holiday she was unable to return to work owing to the fact that she was mixed up in a murder case.
It did not sound credible. It did not even feel credible.
And Madame Alfrege was not a very easy person to explain things to at any time.
Midge set her chin resolutely and picked up the receiver.
It was all just as unpleasant as she had imagined it would be. The raucous voice of the vitriolic little Jewess came angrily over the wires.
‘What wath that, Mith Hardcathle? A death? A funeral? Do you not know very well I am short-handed? Do you think I am going to stand for these excutheth? Oh, yeth, you are having a good time, I dare thay!’
Midge interrupted, speaking sharply and distinctly.
‘The poleeth? The poleeth, you thay?’ It was almost a scream. ‘You are mixed up with the poleeth?’
Setting her teeth, Midge continued to explain. Strange how sordid that woman at the other end made the whole thing seem. A vulgar police case. What alchemy there was in human beings!
Edward opened the door and came in, then seeing that Midge was telephoning, he was about to go out. She stopped him.
‘Do stay, Edward. Please. Oh, I want you to.’
The presence of Edward in the room gave her strength–counteracted the poison.
She took her hand from where she had laid it over the mouthpiece.
‘What? Yes. I am sorry, Madame. But after all, it is hardly my fault–’
The ugly raucous voice was screaming angrily.
‘Who are thethe friendth of yourth? What thort of people are they to have the poleeth there and a man shot? I’ve a good mind not to have you back at all! I can’t have the tone of my ethtablishment lowered.’
Midge made a few submissive non-committal replies. She replaced the receiver at last, with a sigh of relief. She felt sick and shaken.
‘It’s the place I work,’ she explained. ‘I had to let them know that I wouldn’t be back until Thursday because of the inquest and the–the police.’
‘I hope they were decent about it? What is it like, this dress shop of yours? Is the woman who runs it pleasant and sympathetic to work for?’
‘I should hardly describe her as that! She’s a Whitechapel Jewess with dyed hair and a voice like a corncrake.’
‘But my dear Midge–’
Edward’s face of consternation almost made Midge laugh. He was so concerned.
‘But my dear child–you can’t put up with that sort of thing. If you must have a job, you must take one where the surroundings are harmonious and where you like the people you are working with.’
Midge looked at him for a moment without answering.
How explain, she thought, to a person like Edward? What did Edward know of the labour market, of jobs?
And suddenly a tide of bitterness rose in her. Lucy, Henry, Edward–yes, even Henrietta–they were all divided from her by an impassable gulf–the gulf that separates the leisured from the working.
They had no conception of the difficulties of getting a job, and once you had got it, of keeping it! One might say, perhaps, that there was no need, actually, for her to earn her living. Lucy and Henry would gladly give her a home–they would with equal gladness have made her an allowance. Edward would also willingly have done the latter.
But something in Midge rebelled against the acceptance of ease offered her by her well-to-do relations. To come on rare occasions and sink into the well-ordered luxury of Lucy’s life was delightful. She could revel in that. But some sturdy independence of spirit held her back from accepting that life as a gift. The same feeling had prevented her from starting a business on her own with money borrowed from relations and friends. She had seen too much of that.
She would