Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 2

A stone pudding was the only suggestion Jane ever vouchsafed, but for some reason my mother was allergic to the idea and said no, we wouldn't have that, we'd have something else. To this day I have never known what a stone pudding wasmy mother did not know eithershe just said that it sounded dull.

When I first knew Jane she was enormousone of the fattest women I have ever seen. She had a calm face, hair parted in the middlebeautiful, naturally wavy dark hair sc.r.a.ped back into a bun in the nape of her neck. Her jaws moved rhythmically all the time because she was invariably eating somethinga fragment of pastry, a freshly-made scone, or a rock cakeit was like a large gentle cow everlastingly chewing the cud.

Splendid eating went on in the kitchen. After a large breakfast, eleven o'clock brought the delights of cocoa, and a plate of freshly-made rock cakes and buns, or perhaps hot jam pastry. The midday meal took place when ours was finished, and by etiquette the kitchen was taboo taboo until 3 o'clock had struck. I was instructed by my mother that I was until 3 o'clock had struck. I was instructed by my mother that I was never never to intrude during the kitchen lunchtime: 'That is their own time, and it must not be interrupted by us.' to intrude during the kitchen lunchtime: 'That is their own time, and it must not be interrupted by us.'

If by some unforeseen chancea cancellation of dinner guests for instance-a message had to be conveyed, my mother would apologise for disturbing them, and, by unwritten law, none of the servants would rise at her entrance if they were seated at table.

Servants did an incredible amount of work. Jane cooked five-course dinners for seven or eight people as a matter of daily routine. For grand dinner parties of twelve or more, each course contained alternativestwo soups, two fish courses, etc. The housemaid cleaned about forty silver photograph frames and toilet silver ad lib, ad lib, took in and emptied a 'hip bath' (we had a bathroom but my mother considered it a revolting idea to use a bath others had used), brought hot water to bedrooms four times a day, lit bedroom fires in winter, and mended linen etc. every afternoon. took in and emptied a 'hip bath' (we had a bathroom but my mother considered it a revolting idea to use a bath others had used), brought hot water to bedrooms four times a day, lit bedroom fires in winter, and mended linen etc. every afternoon.

The parlourmaid cleaned incredible amounts of silver and washed gla.s.ses with loving care in a papier mache bowl, besides providing perfect waiting at table.

In spite of these arduous duties, servants were, I think, actively happy, mainly because they knew they were appreciatedas experts, experts, doing expert work. As such, they had that mysterious thing, prestige; they looked down with scorn on shop a.s.sistants and their like. doing expert work. As such, they had that mysterious thing, prestige; they looked down with scorn on shop a.s.sistants and their like.

One of the things I think I should miss most, if I were a child nowadays, would be the absence of servants. To a child they were the most colourful part of daily life. Nurses supplied plat.i.tudes; servants supplied drama, entertainment, and all kinds of unspecified but interesting knowledge.

Far from being slaves they were frequently tyrants. They 'knew their place', as was said, but knowing their place meant not subservience but pride, the pride of the professional. Servants in the early 1900s were highly skilled. Parlourmaids had to be tall, to look smart, to have been perfectly trained, to have the right voice in which to murmur: 'Hock or sherry?' They performed intricate miracles of valeting for the gentlemen.

I doubt if there is any such thing as a real real servant nowadays. Possibly a few are hobbling about between the ages of seventy and eighty, but otherwise there are merely the dailies, the waitresses, those who 'oblige', domestic helpers, working housekeepers, and charming young women who want to combine earning a little extra money with hours that will suit them and their children's needs. They are amiable amateurs; they often become friends but they seldom command the awe with which we regarded our domestic staff. servant nowadays. Possibly a few are hobbling about between the ages of seventy and eighty, but otherwise there are merely the dailies, the waitresses, those who 'oblige', domestic helpers, working housekeepers, and charming young women who want to combine earning a little extra money with hours that will suit them and their children's needs. They are amiable amateurs; they often become friends but they seldom command the awe with which we regarded our domestic staff.

Servants, of course, were not a particular luxuryit was not a case of only the rich having them; the only difference was that the rich had more.

They had butlers and footmen and housemaids and parlourmaids and between-maids and kitchen-maids and so on. As you descended the stages of affluence you would arrive eventually at what is so well described in those delightful books of Barry Pain, Eliza Eliza and and Eliza's Husband, Eliza's Husband, as The girl'. as The girl'.

Our various servants are far more real to me than my mother's friends and my distant relations. I have only to close my eyes to see Jane moving majestically in her kitchen, with vast bust, colossal hips, and a starched band that confined her waist. Her fat never seemed to trouble her, she never suffered from her feet, her knees or her ankles, and if she had blood pressure she was quite unaware of it. As far as I remember she was never ill. She was Olympian. If she had emotions, she never showed them; she was prodigal neither of endearments nor of anger; only on the days when she was engaged in the preparation of a large dinner-party a slight flush would show. The intense calm of her personality would be what I should describe as 'faintly ruffled'-her face slightly redder, her lips pressed tight together, a faint frown on her forehead. Those were the days when I used to be banished from the kitchen with decision. 'Now, Miss Agatha, I have no time todayI've got a lot on hand. I'll give you a handful of raisins and then you must go out in the garden and not come and worry me any more.' I left immediately, impressed, as always, by Jane's utterances.

Jane's princ.i.p.al characteristics were reticence and aloofness. We knew she had a brother, otherwise we knew little of her family. She never talked about them. She came from Cornwall. She was called 'Mrs Rowe', but that was a courtesy t.i.tle. Like all good servants, she knew her place.

It was a place of command, and she made it clear to those working in the house that she was in charge.

Jane must have taken pride in the splendid dishes she cooked, but never showed it or spoke of it. She accepted compliments on her dinner on the following morning with no sign of gratification, though I think she was definitely pleased when my father came out into the kitchen and congratulated her.

Then there was Barker, one of our housemaids, who opened up to me yet another vista of life. Barkers' father was a particularly strict Plymouth Brother, and Barker was very conscious of sin and the way she had broken away in certain matters. 'd.a.m.ned to all Eternity I shall be, no doubt of it,' she would say, with a kind of cheerful relish. 'What my father would say, I don't know, if he knew I went to Church of England services.

What's more, I enjoyed them. I enjoyed them. I enjoyed the Vicar's sermon last Sunday, and I enjoyed the singing too.' I enjoyed the Vicar's sermon last Sunday, and I enjoyed the singing too.'

A child who came to stay was heard by my mother saying scornfully one day to the parlourmaid: 'Oh! you're you're only a servant!' and was promptly taken to task. only a servant!' and was promptly taken to task.

'Never let me hear you speak like that to a servant. Servants must be treated with the utmost courtesy. They are doing skilled work which you could not possibly do yourself without long training. And remember they cannot answer back. You must always be polite to people whose position forbids them them to be rude to to be rude to you. you. If you are impolite, they will despise you, and rightly, because you have not acted like a lady.' If you are impolite, they will despise you, and rightly, because you have not acted like a lady.'

'To be a little lady' was well rammed home in those times. It included some curious items.

Starting with courtesy to dependents, it went on to such things as: 'Always leave something on your plate for Lady Manners.' 'Never drink with your mouth full.' 'Remember never to put two halfpenny stamps on a letter unless it is a bill to a tradesman.' And, of course 'Put on clean underclothes when you are going on a railway journey in case there should be an accident.'

Tea-time in the kitchen was often a social reunion. Jane had innumerable friends, and one or two of them dropped in nearly every day. Trays of hot rock cakes came out of the oven. Never since have I tasted rock cakes like Jane's. They were crisp and flat and full of currants, and eaten hot they were Heaven. Jane in her mild bovine way was quite a martinet; if one of the others rose from the table, a voice would say: 'I haven't finished yet, Florence,' and Florence, abashed, would sit down again murmuring, 'I beg your pardon, Mrs Rowe.'

Cooks of any seniority were always 'Mrs'. Housemaids and parlourmaids were supposed to have 'suitable' namese.g. Jane, Mary, Edith, etc. Such names as Violet, Muriel, Rosamund and so on were not considered suitable, and the girl was told firmly, 'Whilst you are in my service you will be called "Mary'.' Parlourmaids, if of sufficient seniority, were often called by their surnames.

Friction between 'the nursery' and 'the kitchen' was not uncommon, but Nursie, though no doubt standing on her rights, was a peaceable person and respected and consulted by the young maids.

Dear NursieI have a portrait of her hanging in my house in Devon.

It was painted by the same artist who painted the rest of my family, a painter well known at that timeN. H. J. Baird. My mother was somewhat critical of Mr Baird's pictures: 'He makes everybody look so dirty,' dirty,' she complained. 'All of you look as if you hadn't washed for she complained. 'All of you look as if you hadn't washed for weeks!' weeks!'

There is something in what she said. The heavy blue and green shadows in the flesh tints of my brother's face do suggest a reluctance to use soap and water, and the portrait of myself at sixteen has a suggestion of an incipient moustache, a blemish from which I have never suffered.

My father's portrait, however, is so pink and white and shining that it might be an advertis.e.m.e.nt for soap. I suspect that it gave the artist no particular pleasure to paint, but that my mother had vanquished poor Mr Baird by sheer force of personality. My brother's and sister's portraits were not particularly like, my father's was the living image of him, but was far less distinctive as a portrait.

Nursie's portrait was, I am sure, a labour of love on Mr Baird's part.

The transparent cambric of her frilled cap and ap.r.o.n is lovely, and a perfect frame for the wise wrinkled face with its deep set eyes-the whole reminiscent of some Flemish Old Master.

I don't know how old Nursie was when she came to us, or why my mother should have chosen such an old woman, but she always said: 'From the moment Nursie came, I never had to worry about youI knew you were in good hands.' A great many babies had pa.s.sed through those handsI was the last of them.

When the census came round, my father had to register the names and ages of everyone in the house.

'Very awkward job,' he said ruefully. 'The servants don't like you asking them their ages. And what about Nursie?'

So Nursie was summoned and stood before him, her hands folded in front of her snowy ap.r.o.n and her mild old eyes fixed on him inquiringly.

'So you see,' explained my father, after a brief resume of what a census was, 'I have to put down everyone's age. Erwhat shall I put down for you?'

'Whatever you like, Sir,' replied Nursie politely.

'Yes, buterI have to know.' know.'

'Whatever you think best, Sir.' Nursie was not to be stampeded.

His own estimate being that she was at least seventy-five, he hazarded nervously: "Ererfifty-nine? Something like that?'

An expression of pain pa.s.sed across the wrinkled face.

'Do I really look as old as that, Sir?' asked Nursie wistfully.

'No, noWell, what shall shall I say?' I say?'

Nursie returned to her gambit.

'Whatever you think right, right, Sir,' she said with dignity. Sir,' she said with dignity.

My father thereupon wrote down sixty-four.

Nursie's att.i.tude has its echoes in present times. When my husband, Max, was dealing with Polish and Yugoslav pilots during the last war, he encountered the same reaction.

'Age?'

The pilot waves his hands amiably: 'Anything you pleasetwenty, thirty, fortyit does not matter.'

'And where were you born?'

'Anywhere you like. Cracow, Warsaw, Belgrade, Zagreb-as you please.'

The ridiculous unimportance of these factual details could not be more clearly stressed.

Arabs are much the same.

'Your father is well?'

'Oh yes, but he is very very old.' old.'

'How old?'

'Oh a very old manninety, ninety-five.'

The father turns out to be just short of fifty.

But that is how life is viewed. When you are young, you are young; young; when you are in vigour you are a when you are in vigour you are a 'very 'very strong man' when your vigour begins to fail, you are strong man' when your vigour begins to fail, you are old. old. If old, you might as well be as old as possible. If old, you might as well be as old as possible.

On my fifth birthday, I was given a dog. It was the most shattering thing that ever happened to me; such unbelievable joy, that I was unable to say a word. When I read that well-known cliche 'so and so was struck dumb' I realize that it can be a simple statement of fact. I was struck dumbI couldn't even say thank-you. I could hardly look at my beautiful dog. Instead I turned away from him. I needed, urgently, to be alone and come to terms with this incredible happiness. (I have done the same thing frequently during my later life. Why is one so idiotic?) I think it was the lavatory to which I retireda perfect place for quiet meditation, where no one could possibly pursue you. Lavatories were comfortable, almost residential apartments in those days. I closed the heavy mahogany shelf-like seat, sat on it, gazed unseeingly at the map of Torquay that hung on the wall, and gave myself up to realization.

'I have a dog...a dog.... It's a dog of my own...my very own dog.... It's a Yorkshire terrier...my dog...my very own dog....'

My mother told me later that my father had been much disappointed by the reception of his gift.

'I thought the child would love it.' he said. 'She doesn't seem to care about it at all.'

But my mother, always understanding, said that I needed a little time.

'She can't quite take it in yet.'

The four-month-old Yorkshire terrier puppy, meantime, had wandered out disconsolately into the garden, where he attached himself to our gardener, a grumpy man called Davey. The dog had been bred by a jobbing gardener, and at the sight of a spade being pressed into the earth he felt that here was a place where he could feel at home. He sat down on the garden path and watched the digging with an attentive air.

Here in due course I found him and we made acquaintance. We were both shy, and made only tentative advances to each other. But by the end of the week Tony and I were inseparable. His official name, given him by my father, was George WashingtonTony, for short, was my contribution.

Tony was an admirable dog for a childhe was good-natured, affectionate, and lent himself to all my fancies. Nursie was spared certain ordeals. Bows of ribbon and general adornments were now applied to Tony, who welcomed them as a mark of appreciation and occasionally ate bits of them in addition to his quota of slippers. He had the privilege of being introduced into my new secret saga. d.i.c.kie (Goldie the canary) and d.i.c.ksmistress (me) were now joined by Lord Tony.

I remember less of my sister in those early years than of my brother. My sister was nice to me, while my brother called me Kid and was loftyso naturally I attached myself to him whenever he permitted it. The chief fact I remember about him was that he kept white mice. I was introduced to Mr and Mrs Whiskers and their family. Nursie disapproved. She said they smelt. They did, of course.

We already had one dog in the house, an old Dandy Dinmont called Scotty, which belonged to my brother. My brother, named Louis Montant after my father's greatest friend in America, was always known as Monty, and he and Scotty were inseparable. Almost automatically, my mother would murmur: 'Don't put your face down on the dog and let him lick you, Monty.' Monty, flat on the floor by Scotty's basket, with his arm wreathed lovingly round the dog's neck, would pay no attention. My father would say: 'That dog smells terrible!' Scotty was then fifteen, and only a fervent dog-lover could deny the accusation. 'Roses!' Monty would murmur lovingly. 'Roses! That's what he smells ofroses.'

Alas, tragedy came to Scotty. Slow and blind, he was out walking with Nursie and myself when, crossing the road, a tradesman's cart dashed round a corner, and he was run over. We brought him home in a cab and the vet was summoned, but Scotty died a few hours later. Monty was out sailing with some friends. My mother was disturbed at the thought of breaking the news to him. She had the body put in the wash-house and waited anxiously for my brother's return. Unfortunately, instead of coming straight into the house as usual, he went round to the yard and into the wash-house, looking for some tools he needed. There he found Scotty's body. He went straight off again and must have walked round for many hours. He got home at last just before midnight. My parents were understanding enough not to mention Scotty's death to him. He dug Scotty's grave himself in the Dogs' Cemetery in a corner of the garden where each family dog had his name in due course on a small headstone.

My brother, given, as I have said, to remorseless teasing, used to call me the 'scrawny chicken'. I obliged him by bursting into tears every time. Why the epithet infuriated me so I do not know. Being somewhat of a cry baby I used to trail off to Mother, sobbing out, 'I aren't aren't a scrawny chicken, arm I, Marmee?' My mother, unperturbed, would merely say: 'If you don't want to be teased, a scrawny chicken, arm I, Marmee?' My mother, unperturbed, would merely say: 'If you don't want to be teased, why why do you go trailing after Monty all the time?' do you go trailing after Monty all the time?'

The question was unanswerable, but such was my brother's fascination for me that I could not keep away. He was at an age when he was highly scornful of kid sisters, and found me a thorough nuisance. Sometimes he would be gracious and admit me to his 'workshop', where he had a lathe, and would allow me to hold pieces of wood and tools and hand them to him. But sooner or later the scrawny chicken was told to take herself off.

Once he so highly favoured me as to volunteer to take me out with him in his boat. He had a small dinghy which he sailed on Torbay. Rather to everyone's surprise I was allowed to go. Nursie, who was still with us then, was dead against the expedition, being of the opinion that I would get wet, dirty, tear my frock, pinch my fingers and almost certainly be drowned. 'Young gentlemen don't know how to look after a little girl.'

My mother said that she thought I had sense enough not to fall over-board, and that it would be an experience. I think also she wished to express appreciation of Monty's unusual act of unselfishness. So we walked down the town and on to the pier. Monty brought the boat to the steps and Nursie pa.s.sed me down to him. At the last moment, mother had qualms.

'You are to be careful, Monty. Very careful. And don't be out long. You will will look after her, won't you?' look after her, won't you?'

My brother, who was, I imagine, already repenting of his kindly offer, said briefly, 'She'll be all right'. To me he said, 'Sit where you are and keep still, and for goodness sake don't touch anything.'

He then did various things with ropes. The boat a.s.sumed an angle that made it practically impossible for me to sit where I was and keep still as ordered, and also frightened me a good deal, but as we scudded through the water my spirits revived and I was transported with happiness.

Mother and Nursie stood on the end of the pier, gazing after us like figures in a Greek play, Nursie almost weeping as she prophesied doom, my mother seeking to allay her fears, adding finally, probably remembering what a bad sailor she herself was, 'I don't expect she'll ever want to go again. The sea is quite choppy.'

Her p.r.o.nouncement was true enough. I was returned shortly afterwards, green in the face, having 'fed the fishes' as my brother put it, three times. He landed me in high disgust, remarking that women were all the same.

IV

It was just before I was five years old that I first met fear. Nursie and I were primrosing one spring day. We had crossed the railway line and gone up Shiphay lane, picking primroses from the hedges, where they grew thickly.

We turned in through an open gate and went on picking. Our basket was growing full when a voice shouted at us, angry and rough: 'Wot d'you think you're doing 'ere?'

He seemed to me a giant of a man, angry and red-faced.

Nursie said we were doing no harm, only primrosing.

'Trespa.s.sing, that's what you're at. Get out of it. If you're not out of that gate in one minute, I'll boil you alive, see?'

I tugged desperately at Nursie's hand as we went. Nursie could not go fast, and indeed did not try to do so. My fear mounted. When we were at last safely in the lane I almost collapsed with relief. I was white and sick, as Nursie suddenly noticed.

'Dearie,' she said gently, 'you didn't think he meant meant it, did you? Not to boil you or whatever it was?' it, did you? Not to boil you or whatever it was?'

I nodded dumbly. I had visualised it. A great steaming cauldron on a fire, myself being thrust into it. My agonised screams. It was all deadly real to me.

Nursie talked soothingly. It was a way people had of speaking. A kind of joke, as it were. Not a nice man, a very rude, unpleasant man, but he hadn't meant what he said. It was a joke.

It had been no joke to me, and even now when I go into a field a slight tremor goes down my spine. From that day to this I have never known so real a terror.

Yet in nightmares I never relived this particular experience. All children have nightmares, and I doubt if they are a result of nursemaids or others 'frightening' them, or of any happening in real life. My own particular nightmare centred round someone I called 'The Gunman'. I never read a story about anyone of the kind. I called him The Gunman because he carried a gun, not because I was frightened of his shooting me, or for any reason connected with the gun. The gun was part of his appearance, which seems to me now to have been that of a Frenchman in grey-blue uniform, powdered hair in a queue and a kind of three-cornered hat, and the gun was some old-fashioned kind of musket. It was his mere presence that was frightening. The dream would be quite ordinarya tea-party, or a walk with various people, usually a mild festivity of some kind. Then suddenly a feeling of uneasiness would come. There was someonesomeone who ought not to be there who ought not to be therea horrid feeling of fear: and then I would see himsitting at the tea-table, walking along the beach, joining in the game. His pale blue eyes would meet mine, and I would wake up shrieking: 'The Gunman, the Gunman!'

'Miss Agatha had one of her gunman dreams last night,' Nursie would report in her placid voice.