They came to Baghdad - Agatha Christie [58]
‘What did you say?’ Catherine, at work on a pile of circulars and envelopes, raised her head suspiciously from the next table.
Victoria quickly crumpled up Edward’s note in her hand as she said lightly:
‘My hair wants washing. Most of these hairdressing places look so frightfully dirty, I don’t know where to go.’
‘Yes, they are dirty and expensive too. But I know a girl who washes hair very well and the towels are clean. I will take you there.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Catherine,’ said Victoria.
‘We will go tomorrow. It is holiday.’
‘Not tomorrow,’ said Victoria.
‘Why not tomorrow?’
A suspicious stare was bent upon her. Victoria felt her usual annoyance and dislike of Catherine rising.
‘I’d rather go for a walk – get some air. One is so cooped up here.’
‘Where can you walk? There is nowhere to walk in Baghdad.’
‘I shall find somewhere,’ said Victoria.
‘It would be better to go to the cinema. Or is there an interesting lecture?’
‘No, I want to get out. In England we like going for walks.’
‘Because you are English, you are so proud and stuck up. What does it mean to be English? Next to nothing. Here we spit upon the English.’
‘If you start spitting on me you may get a surprise,’ said Victoria, wondering as usual at the ease with which angry passions seemed to rise at the Olive Branch.
‘What would you do?’
‘Try and see.’
‘Why do you read Karl Marx? You cannot understand it. You are much too stupid. Do you think they would ever accept you as a member of the Communist Party? You are not well enough educated politically.’
‘Why shouldn’t I read it? It was meant for people like me – workers.’
‘You are not a worker. You are bourgeoise. You cannot even type properly. Look at the mistakes you make.’
‘Some of the cleverest people can’t spell,’ said Victoria with dignity. ‘And how can I work when you keep talking to me?’
She rattled off a line at break-neck speed – and was then somewhat chagrined to find that as a result of unwittingly depressing the shift key, she had written a line of exclamation marks, figures and brackets. Removing the sheet from the machine she replaced it with another and applied herself diligently until, her task finished, she took the result in to Dr Rathbone.
Glancing over it and murmuring, ‘Shiraz is in Iran not Iraq – and anyway you don’t spell Iraq with a k…Wasit – not Wuzle – er – thank you, Victoria.’
Then as she was leaving the room he called her back.
‘Victoria, are you happy here?’
‘Oh yes, Dr Rathbone.’
The dark eyes under the massive brows were very searching. She felt uneasiness rising.
‘I’m afraid we do not pay you very much.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Victoria. ‘I like to work.’
‘Do you really?
‘Oh yes,’ said Victoria. ‘One feels,’ she added, ‘that this sort of thing is really worthwhile.’
Her limpid gaze met the dark searching eyes and did not falter.
‘And you manage – to live?’
‘Oh yes – I’ve found quite a good cheap place – with some Armenians. I’m quite all right.’
‘There is a shortage at present of shorthand typists in Baghdad,’ said Dr Rathbone. ‘I think, you know, that I could get you a better position than the one you have here.’
‘But I don’t want any other position.’
‘You might be wise to take one.’
‘Wise?’ Victoria faltered a little.
‘That is what I said. Just a word of warning – of advice.’
There was something faintly menacing now in his tone.
Victoria opened her eyes still wider.
‘I really don’t understand, Dr Rathbone,’ she said.
‘Sometimes it is wiser not to mix oneself up in things one does not understand.’
She felt quite sure of the menace this time, but she continued to stare in kitten-eyed innocence.
‘Why did you come and work here, Victoria? Because of Edward?’
Victoria flushed angrily.
‘Of course not,’ she said indignantly. She was much annoyed.
Dr Rathbone nodded his head.