The Moving Finger - Agatha Christie [13]
A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joanna’s eye. She was laughing. I stared at her coldly. Joanna always knows what is passing in my mind, curse her.
We settled down to bridge.
I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone in Lymstock. Mrs. Symmington was an exceedingly good bridge player and was quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual women, she was not stupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Her husband was a good sound player, slightly overcautious. Mr. Pye can best be described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair for psychic bidding. Joanna and I, since the party was in our honour, played at a table with Mrs. Symmington and Mr. Pye. It was Symmington’s task to pour oil on troubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play “a plucky game.” Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were. Aimée Griffith’s play can be summed up in her own words. “I like a good game of bridge with no nonsense—and I don’t play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, it’s only a game!” It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.
Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.
Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs. Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.
Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.
“Oh,” said her mother. “Here’s Megan.”
Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.
The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.
“I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,” said Mrs. Symmington. “Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.”
Megan nodded.
“That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.”
She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.
Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:
“My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re properly grown up.”
I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.
“But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?” she said.
“Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.” She laughed again. “I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.”
“I can’t think why,” said Joanna. “After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.”
“Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,” said Mrs. Symmington.
It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:
“My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something