Taken At The Flood. Agatha Christie

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СКАЧАТЬ Frances had not observed it very often. Once when Antony, their son, had been seriously ill as a child; once when waiting for a jury to consider their verdict; at the outbreak of war, waiting to hear the irrevocable words over the wireless; on the eve of Antony’s departure after embarkation leave.

      Frances thought a little while before she spoke. Their married life had been happy, but never intimate in so far as the spoken word went. She had respected Jeremy’s reserves and he hers. Even when the telegram had come announcing Antony’s death on active service, they had neither of them broken down.

      He had opened it, then he had looked up at her. She had said, ‘Is it—?’

      He had bowed his head, then crossed and put the telegram into her outstretched hand.

      They had stood there quite silently for a while. Then Jeremy had said: ‘I wish I could help you, my dear.’ And she had answered, her voice steady, her tears unshed, conscious only of the terrible emptiness and aching: ‘It’s just as bad for you.’ He had patted her shoulder: ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes…’ Then he had moved towards the door, walking a little awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old man…saying as he did so, ‘There’s nothing to be said—nothing to be said…’

      She had been grateful to him, passionately grateful, for understanding so well, and had been torn with pity for him, seeing him suddenly turn into an old man. With the loss of her boy, something had hardened in her—some ordinary common kindness had dried up. She was more efficient, more energetic than ever—people became sometimes a little afraid of her ruthless common sense…

      Jeremy Cloade’s finger moved along his upper lip again—irresolutely, searching. And crisply, across the room, Frances spoke.

      ‘Is anything the matter, Jeremy?’

      He started. His coffee cup almost slipped from his hand. He recovered himself, put it firmly down on the tray. Then he looked across at her.

      ‘What do you mean, Frances?’

      ‘I’m asking you if anything is the matter?’

      ‘What should be the matter?’

      ‘It would be foolish to guess. I would rather you told me.’

      She spoke without emotion in a businesslike way.

      He said unconvincingly:

      ‘There is nothing the matter—’

      She did not answer. She merely waited inquiringly. His denial, it seemed, she put aside as negligible. He looked at her uncertainly.

      And just for a moment the imperturbable mask of his grey face slipped, and she caught a glimpse of such turbulent agony that she almost exclaimed aloud. It was only for a moment but she didn’t doubt what she had seen.

      She said quietly and unemotionally:

      ‘I think you had better tell me—’

      He sighed—a deep unhappy sigh.

      ‘You will have to know, of course,’ he said, ‘sooner or later.’

      And he added what was to her a very astonishing phrase.

      ‘I’m afraid you’ve made a bad bargain, Frances.’

      She went right past an implication she did not understand to attack hard facts.

      ‘What is it,’ she said; ‘money?’

      She did not know why she put money first. There had been no special signs of financial stringency other than were natural to the times. They were short-staffed at the office with more business than they could cope with, but that was the same everywhere and in the last month they had got back some of their people released from the Army. It might just as easily have been illness that he was concealing—his colour had been bad lately, and he had been overworked and overtired. But nevertheless Frances’ instinct went towards money, and it seemed she was right.

      Her husband nodded.

      ‘I see.’ She was silent a moment, thinking. She herself did not really care about money at all—but she knew that Jeremy was quite incapable of realizing that. Money meant to him a four-square world—stability—obligations—a definite place and status in life.

      Money to her was a toy tossed into one’s lap to play with. She had been born and bred in an atmosphere of financial instability. There had been wonderful times when the horses had done what was expected of them. There had been difficult times when the tradesmen wouldn’t give credit and Lord Edward had been forced to ignominious straits to avoid the bailiffs on the front-door step. Once they had lived on dry bread for a week and sent all the servants away. They had had the bailiffs in the house for three weeks once when Frances was a child. She had found the bum in question very agreeable to play with and full of stories of his own little girl.

      If one had no money one simply scrounged, or went abroad, or lived on one’s friends and relations for a bit. Or somebody tided you over with a loan…

      But looking across at her husband Frances realized that in the Cloade world you didn’t do that kind of thing. You didn’t beg or borrow or live on other people. (And conversely you didn’t expect them to beg or borrow or live off you!)

      Frances felt terribly sorry for Jeremy and a little guilty about being so unperturbed herself. She took refuge in practicality.

      ‘Shall we have to sell up everything? Is the firm going smash?’

      Jeremy Cloade winced, and she realized she had been too matter-of-fact.

      ‘My dear,’ she said gently, ‘do tell me. I can’t go on guessing.’

      Cloade said stiffly, ‘We went through rather a bad crisis two years ago. Young Williams, you remember, absconded. We had some difficulty getting straight again. Then there were certain complications arising out of the position in the Far East after Singapore—’

      She interrupted him.

      ‘Never mind the whys—they are so unimportant. You were in a jam. And you haven’t been able to snap out of it?’

      He said, ‘I relied on Gordon. Gordon would have put things straight.’

      She gave a quick impatient sigh.

      ‘Of course. I don’t want to blame the poor man—after all, it’s only human nature to lose your head about a pretty woman. And why on earth shouldn’t he marry again if he wanted to? But it was unfortunate his being killed in that air raid before he’d settled anything or made a proper will or adjusted his affairs. The truth is that one never believes for a minute, no matter what danger you’re in, that you yourself are going to be killed. The bomb is always going to hit the other person!’

      ‘Apart from his loss, and I was very fond of Gordon—and proud of him too,’ said Gordon Cloade’s elder brother, ‘his death was a catastrophe for me. It came at a moment—’

      He stopped.

      ‘Shall we be bankrupt?’ Frances asked with intelligent interest.

      Jeremy Cloade looked at her almost despairingly. СКАЧАТЬ