Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 21

While we were looking for our country cottage, bad news came from Africa of my brother Monty. He had not featured largely in any of our lives since before the war when he had a scheme to run cargo boats on Lake Victoria. He sent Madge letters from various people out there, all enthusiastic about the idea. If she could just put up a little capital...My sister believed that here was something that Monty might succeed in. Anything to do with boats he was good at. So she paid his fare to England. The plan was to build a small boat in Ess.e.x. It was true that there was a great opening for this type of craft. There were no small cargo boats on the Lake at that time. The weak part of the scheme, however, was that Monty was to be the Captain, and n.o.body had any confidence that the boat would run to time, or the service be reliable.

'It's a splendid idea. Lots of oof to be made. But good old Millersuppose he just didn't feel like getting up one day? Or didn't like a fellow's face? I mean he's just a law unto himself.'

But my sister, who was of a perennially optimistic nature, agreed to invest the greater part of her capital in getting the boat built.

'James gives me a good allowance, and I can use some of that to help with Ashfield, so I shan't miss the income.'

My brother-in-law was livid. He and Monty disliked each other intensely. Madge, he felt certain, would lose her money.

The boat was taken in hand. Madge went down to Ess.e.x several times. Everything seemed to be going well.

The only thing that worried her was the fact that Monty was always coming up to London, staying at an expensive hotel in Jermyn Street, buying quant.i.ties of luxurious silk pyjamas, a couple of specially designed Captain's uniforms, and bestowing on her a sapphire bracelet, an elaborate pet.i.t point pet.i.t point evening bag, and other charming and expensive presents. evening bag, and other charming and expensive presents.

'But, Monty, the money is for the boat boatnot to give me presents.'

'But I want you to have a nice present. You never buy anything for yourself.'

'And what's that thing on the window sill?'

'That? It's a j.a.panese dwarf tree.'

'But they're terribly expensive, aren't they?'

'It was 75. I've always wanted one. Look at the shape. Lovely, isn't it?'

'Oh Monty, I wish you wouldn't.'

'The trouble with you is that living with old James you've forgotten how to enjoy yourself.' The tree had disappeared when she next visited him.

'Did you take it back to the shop?' she asked hopefully.

'Take it back to the shop?' said Monty horrified. 'Of course not. As a matter of fact I gave it to the receptionist here. Awfully nice girl. She admired it so much, and she'd been worried about her mother.' Words failed Madge.

'Come out to lunch,' said Monty.

'All rightbut we'll go to Lyons.'

'Very well.' They went through to the street. Monty asked the doorman for a taxi. He hailed one that was pa.s.sing by, they got in, Monty handed him a half a crown, and told the driver to go to the Berkeley. Madge burst into tears.

'The truth of it is,' said Monty to me later, 'that James is such a miserably mean chap that poor old Madge has got her spirit completely broken. She seems to think of nothing but saving.'

'Hadn't you you better begin to think, of saving? Suppose the money runs out before the boat's built?' Monty grinned wickedly. better begin to think, of saving? Suppose the money runs out before the boat's built?' Monty grinned wickedly.

'Wouldn't matter. Old James would have to fork up.' Monty stayed with them for a difficult five days, and drank enormous amounts of whisky. Madge went out secretly, bought several more bottles, and put them in his room, which amused Monty very much. Monty was attracted by Nan Watts, and took her out to theatres and expensive restaurants.

'This boat will never get to Uganda,' Madge would say sometimes in despair. It might have done. It was Monty's own fault that it didn't. He loved the Batenga Batenga as he called it. He wanted it to be more than a cargo boat. He ordered fittings of ebony and ivory, a teak-panelled cabin for himself, and specially-made brown fireproof china with the name as he called it. He wanted it to be more than a cargo boat. He ordered fittings of ebony and ivory, a teak-panelled cabin for himself, and specially-made brown fireproof china with the name Batenga. Batenga. All this delayed its dispatch. And sothe war broke out. There could be no shipping of the All this delayed its dispatch. And sothe war broke out. There could be no shipping of the Batenga Batenga to Africa. Instead it had to be sold to the Government at a low price. Monty went back to the Armythis time to the King's African Rifles. So ended the saga of the to Africa. Instead it had to be sold to the Government at a low price. Monty went back to the Armythis time to the King's African Rifles. So ended the saga of the Batenga. Batenga. I still have two of the coffee cups. Now a letter came from a doctor. Monty had, as we knew, been wounded in the arm in the war. It seemed that during his treatment in hospital, the wound had become infectedcarelessness of a native dresser. The infection had persisted, and had recurred even after he was discharged. He had continued with his life as a hunter, but in the end had been picked up and taken to a French hospital run by nuns, very seriously ill. He had not wished at first to communicate with any of his relations, but he was now almost certainly a dying mansix months was the longest he could hope to liveand he had a great wish to come home to die. It was also possible that the climate in England might prolong his life a little. Arrangements were quickly made for Monty's pa.s.sage from Momba.s.sa by sea. My mother started making preparations at Ashfield. She was transported with joyshe would look after him devotedlyher dearest boy. She began to envisage a mother-and-son relationship which I felt quite sure was entirely unrealistic. Mother and Monty had never really got on together harmoniously. In many ways they were too much alike. They both wanted their own way. And Monty was one of the most difficult people in the world to live with. I still have two of the coffee cups. Now a letter came from a doctor. Monty had, as we knew, been wounded in the arm in the war. It seemed that during his treatment in hospital, the wound had become infectedcarelessness of a native dresser. The infection had persisted, and had recurred even after he was discharged. He had continued with his life as a hunter, but in the end had been picked up and taken to a French hospital run by nuns, very seriously ill. He had not wished at first to communicate with any of his relations, but he was now almost certainly a dying mansix months was the longest he could hope to liveand he had a great wish to come home to die. It was also possible that the climate in England might prolong his life a little. Arrangements were quickly made for Monty's pa.s.sage from Momba.s.sa by sea. My mother started making preparations at Ashfield. She was transported with joyshe would look after him devotedlyher dearest boy. She began to envisage a mother-and-son relationship which I felt quite sure was entirely unrealistic. Mother and Monty had never really got on together harmoniously. In many ways they were too much alike. They both wanted their own way. And Monty was one of the most difficult people in the world to live with.

'It will be different now,' said my mother. 'You forget how ill the poor boy is.' I thought that Monty ill would be just as difficult as Monty well. People's natures don't change. Still, I hoped for the best. Mother had a little difficulty in reconciling her two elderly maids to the idea of having Monty's African servant in the house also.

'I don't think, MadamI really don't think that we could sleep in the same house with a black black man. It's not what me and my sister have been accustomed to.' Mother went into action. She was a woman not easy to withstand. She talked them round to staying. The lure she held out to them in the end was the possibility that they might be able to convert the African from Mohammedanism to Christianity. They were very religious women. man. It's not what me and my sister have been accustomed to.' Mother went into action. She was a woman not easy to withstand. She talked them round to staying. The lure she held out to them in the end was the possibility that they might be able to convert the African from Mohammedanism to Christianity. They were very religious women.

'We could read the Bible to him,' they said, their eyes lighting up. Mother, meanwhile, prepared a self-contained suite of three rooms and a new bathroom. Archie very kindly said he would go to meet Monty's boat docked at Tilbury. He had also taken a small flat in Bayswater for him to go to with his servant. As Archie departed from Tilbury, I called after him: 'Don't let Monty make you take him to the Ritz.'

'What did you say?'

'I said "Don't let him make you take him to the Ritz"I'll see that the flat is all ready, and the landlady alerted and plenty of stores in.' 'Well, that's all right then.'

'I hope so. But he might prefer the Ritz.'

'Don't worry. I'll have him all settled in before lunch.' The day wore on. At 6.30 Archie returned. He looked exhausted.

'It's all right. I've got him settled in. It was a bit of a job getting him off the boat. He wasn't packed up or anythingkept saying there was plenty of timewhat was the hurry? Everybody else was off the ship, and he was holding things upbut he didn't seem to care. That Shebani is a good chapvery helpful. He managed to get things moving in the end.' He paused, and cleared his throat.

'As a matter of fact, I didn't take him to Powell Square. He seemed absolutely set on going to some hotel in Jermyn Street. He said it would be much less trouble to everyone.'

'So that's where he is.'

'Wellyes.' I looked at him.

'Somehow,' said Archie, 'it seemed so reasonable the way he put it.' 'That is Monty's strong point,' I informed him. Monty was taken to a specialist in tropical diseases to whom he had been recommended. The specialist gave full directions to my mother. There was a chance of partial recovery: good aircontinual soaking in hot bathsa quiet life. What might prove difficult was that, having considered him almost certainly a dying man, they had kept him under drugs to such an extent that he would find it difficult to break the habit now. We got Monty and Shebani into the Powell Square flat after a day or two, and they settled down quite happilyalthough Shebani created quite a stir by dropping into neighbouring tobacconists, seizing a packet of fifty cigarettes, saying, 'For my master', and leaving the shop. The Kenya system of credit was not appreciated in Bayswater. Then, after the London treatments were over, Monty and Shebani moved down to Ashfieldand the mother-and-son 'ending his days in peace' concept was tried out. It nearly killed my mother. Monty had his African way of life. His idea of meals was to call for them whenever he felt like eating, even if it was four in the morning. This was one of his favourite times. He would ring bells, call to the servants, and order chops and steaks.

'I don't understand what you mean, mother, by "considering the servants". You pay them to cook for you, don't you?'

'Yesbut not in the middle of the night.'

'It was only an hour before sunrise. I always used to get up then. It's the proper start to the day.' It was Shebani who really succeeded in making things work. The elderly maids adored him. They read the Bible to him, and he listened with the greatest interest. He told them stories of life in Uganda and of the prowess of his master in shooting elephants. He gently took Monty to task for his treatment of his mother.

'She is your mother, Bwana. You must speak to her with reverence.' After a year Shebani had to go back to Africa to his wife and family, and things became difficult. Male attendants were not a success, either with Monty or my mother. Madge and I went down alternately to try to soothe them down. Monty's health was improving, and as a result he was much more difficult to control. He was bored, and for relaxation took to shooting out of his window with a revolver. Tradespeople and some of mother's visitors complained. Monty was unrepentant. 'Some silly old spinster going down the drive with her behind wobbling. Couldn't resist itI sent a shot or two right and left of her. My word, how she ran!' He even sent shots all round Madge one day on the drive, and she was frankly terrified.

'I can't think why!' said Monty. 'I shouldn't have hurt her. Does she think I can't aim?' Someone complained, and we had a visit from the police. Monty produced his firearm licence and talked very reasonably about his life as a hunter in Kenya, and his wish to keep his eye in. Some silly woman had got the idea he had been firing at her. her. Actually he had seen a rabbit. Being Monty, he got away with it. The police accepted his explanation as quite natural for a man who had led the life that Captain Miller had. Actually he had seen a rabbit. Being Monty, he got away with it. The police accepted his explanation as quite natural for a man who had led the life that Captain Miller had.

'The truth is, kid, I can't stand being cooped up here. This tame sort of existence. If I could only have a little cottage on Dartmoorthat's what I'd like. Air and s.p.a.ceroom to breathe.'

'Is that what you'd really like?'

'Of course it is. Poor old mother drives me mad. Fussyall these set times for meals. Everything cut and dried. It's not what I've been used to.' I found Monty a small granite bungalow on Dartmoor. We also found, by a kind of miracle, the right housekeeper to look after him. She was a woman of sixty-fiveand when we saw her first she looked wildly unsuitable. She had bright peroxided yellow hair, curls, and a lot of rouge. She was dressed in black silk. She was the widow of a doctor who had been a morphia addict. She had lived most of her life in France, and had had thirteen children. She was the answer to a prayershe could manage Monty as no one else had been capable of doing. She rose and cooked his chops in the middle of the night if he wanted them. But, said Monty after a while, I've rather given up that, kidbit hard on Mrs Taylor, you know. She's a good sport, but she's not young.' Unasked and unbidden, she dug up the small garden and produced peas, new potatoes and French beans. She listened when Monty wanted to talk, and paid no attention when he was silent. It was wonderful. Mother recovered her health. Madge stopped worrying. Monty enjoyed visits from his family, and always behaved beautifully on those occasions, very proud of the delicious meals produced by Mrs Taylor.

800 for the Dartmoor bungalow was a cheap price for Madge and me to have paid.

II

Archie and I found our cottage in the countrythough it wasn't a cottage. Sunningdale, as I had feared, was an excessively expensive place to live. It was full of luxurious modern houses built round the golf-course, there weren't any country cottages at all. But we found a large Victorian house, Scotswood, situated in a big garden, which was being divided into four flats. Two of these were already takenthe two on the ground floorbut there were two flats upstairs in the course of being adapted, and we looked over them. Each contained three rooms on the first floor and two on the floor above, and a kitchen and bathroom, of course. One flat was more attractive than the otherhaving better shaped rooms and a better outlookbut the other had a small extra room and was also cheaper, so we settled on the cheaper one. Tenants had the use of the garden, and constant hot water was supplied. The rent was more than that of our Addison Road flat, but not much so. It was, I think, 120. So we signed a lease and prepared to move in.

We came down constantly to see how the decorators and painters were getting onwhich was always much less than they had promised. Every time we did so we found that something had been done wrong. Wall-papers were the most foolproof. You cannot do anything too awful to a wallpaper, unless you put the wrong one on altogetherbut you can put every shade of wrong paint on, and we weren't on the spot to see what was happening. However, all was settled in time. We had a big sitting-room, with new cretonne curtains of lilacmade by me. In the small dining-room we had some rather expensive curtains, because we fell in love with them, of tulips on a white ground. Rosalind and Site's larger room behind it had curtains with b.u.t.tercups and daisies. On the floor above, Archie had a dressing-room and emergency spare-room very virulently colouredscarlet poppies and blue cornflowersand in our bedroom I chose curtains of bluebells, which was not really a good choice, because since this particular room faced north the sun seldom shone through. The only time they were pretty was when one lay in bed in mid-morning and saw the light shining through them, pulled back on either side of the window, or seen at night, the blue rather faded out. In fact it was like bluebells in nature. As soon as you bring them into the house they turn grey and dispirited and refuse to hold up their heads. A bluebell is a flower that refuses to be captured and is only gay when it is in the woods. I consoled myself by writing a ballad about bluebells: BALLAD OF THE MAYTIME The King, he went a-walking, one merry morn in May.The King, he laid him down to rest, and fell asleep, they say.And when he woke, 'twas even,(The hour of magic mood)And Bluebell, wild Bluebell, was dancing in the wood.The King, he gave a banquet to all the flowers (save one),With hungry eyes he watched them, a-seeking one alone.The Rose was there in satin,The Lily with green hood,But Bluebell, wild Bluebell, only dances in the wood.The King, he frowned in anger, his hand upon his sword.He sent his men to seize her, and bring her to their Lord.With silken cords they bound her,Before the King she stood,Bluebell, wild Bluebell, who dances in the wood.The King, he rose to greet her, the maid he'd sworn to wed.The King, he took his golden crown and set it on her head.And then he paled and shivered,The courtiers gazed in fear,At Bluebell, grey Bluebell, so pale and ghostly there.'O King, your crown is heavy, 'twould bow my head with care.Your palace walls would shut me in, who live as free as air.The wind, he is my lover,The sun my lover too,And Bluebell, wild Bluebell, shall ne'er be Queen to you.'The King, he mourned a twelvemonth, and none could ease his pain.The King, he went a-walking a-down a lovers' lane.He laid aside his golden crown,Into the wood went he,Where Bluebell, wild Bluebell, dances ever wild and free.

The Man in the Brown Suit went very well indeed. The Bodley Head pressed me again to make a splendid new contract with them. I refused. The next book I sent them was one made from a long short story that I had written a good many years before. I was rather fond of it myself: it dealt with various supernatural happenings. I elaborated it a little, brought a few more characters into it, and sent it off to them. They did not accept it. I had been sure that they would not. There was no clause in the contract which decreed that any book I offered them had to be either a detective story or a thriller. It merely said 'the next novel'. This had been made a full noveljustand it was up to them to take it or refuse it. They refused it, so I had only one more book to write for them. After that, freedom. Freedom, and the advice of Hughes Ma.s.sieand from then onwards I should have first-cla.s.s advice as to what to do, and, even more important, what not to do. went very well indeed. The Bodley Head pressed me again to make a splendid new contract with them. I refused. The next book I sent them was one made from a long short story that I had written a good many years before. I was rather fond of it myself: it dealt with various supernatural happenings. I elaborated it a little, brought a few more characters into it, and sent it off to them. They did not accept it. I had been sure that they would not. There was no clause in the contract which decreed that any book I offered them had to be either a detective story or a thriller. It merely said 'the next novel'. This had been made a full noveljustand it was up to them to take it or refuse it. They refused it, so I had only one more book to write for them. After that, freedom. Freedom, and the advice of Hughes Ma.s.sieand from then onwards I should have first-cla.s.s advice as to what to do, and, even more important, what not to do.

The next book I wrote was a completely light-hearted one, rather in the style of The Secret Adversary. The Secret Adversary. They were more fun and quicker to write, and my work reflected the light-heartedness that I felt at this particular period, when everything was going so well. My life at Sunningdale, the fun of Rosalind developing every day, getting more amusing and more interesting. I have never understood people who want to keep their children as babies and regret every year that they grow older. I myself sometimes felt that I could hardly wait: I wanted to see exactly what Rosalind would be like in a year's time, a year after that, and so on. There is nothing more thrilling in this world, I think, than having a child that is yours, and yet is mysteriously a stranger. You are the gate through which it came into the world, and you will be allowed to have charge of it for a period: after that it will leave you and blossom out into its own free lifeand there it is, for you to watch, living its life in freedom. It is like a strange plant which you have brought home, planted, and can hardly wait to see how it will turn out. They were more fun and quicker to write, and my work reflected the light-heartedness that I felt at this particular period, when everything was going so well. My life at Sunningdale, the fun of Rosalind developing every day, getting more amusing and more interesting. I have never understood people who want to keep their children as babies and regret every year that they grow older. I myself sometimes felt that I could hardly wait: I wanted to see exactly what Rosalind would be like in a year's time, a year after that, and so on. There is nothing more thrilling in this world, I think, than having a child that is yours, and yet is mysteriously a stranger. You are the gate through which it came into the world, and you will be allowed to have charge of it for a period: after that it will leave you and blossom out into its own free lifeand there it is, for you to watch, living its life in freedom. It is like a strange plant which you have brought home, planted, and can hardly wait to see how it will turn out.

Rosalind took happily to Sunningdale. She had the delight of her fairy cycle, on which she bicycled with great ardour all round the garden, falling off occasionally, but never caring. Site and I had both warned her not to go outside the gate, but I don't think that either of us had made it a definite prohibition. Anyway, go outside the gate she did, on an early morning when we were both busy in the flat. She cycled out full steam down the hill towards the main road and, rather fortunately, fell off just before she got there. The fall drove her two front teeth inward, and would probably, I feared, prejudice her next teeth when they arrived. I took her to the dentist, and Rosalind, though not complaining, sat in the dentist's chair with her lips firmly clasped over her teeth, refusing to open her mouth for anyone. Anything that I said, Site said, or the the dentist said was received without a word, and her teeth remained firmly clenched. I had to take her away. I was furious. Rosalind received all reproaches in silence. After some lecturing with Site and some from me, two days later she announced that she would would go to the dentist. go to the dentist.

'Do you really mean it this time, Rosalind, or will you do the same thing when you get there?'

'No, I'll open my mouth this time.'

'I suppose you were frightened?'

'Well, you can't be sure, can you,' said Rosalind, 'what 'what anyone is going to do to you?' I acknowledged this, but a.s.sured her that everybody that she knew and that I knew in England went to dentists, opened their mouths, and had things done to their teeth which resulted in ultimate benefit. Rosalind went, and behaved beautifully this time. The dentist removed the loosened teeth, and said she might have to wear a plate later, but he thought probably not. Dentists, I could not help feeling, were not made of the same stem stuff that they used to be in my childhood. Our dentist was called Mr Hearn, a small man, exceedingly dynamic, and with a personality that overawed his patients at once. My sister was taken to him at the tender age of three. Madge, ensconced in the dentist's chair, immediately began to cry. anyone is going to do to you?' I acknowledged this, but a.s.sured her that everybody that she knew and that I knew in England went to dentists, opened their mouths, and had things done to their teeth which resulted in ultimate benefit. Rosalind went, and behaved beautifully this time. The dentist removed the loosened teeth, and said she might have to wear a plate later, but he thought probably not. Dentists, I could not help feeling, were not made of the same stem stuff that they used to be in my childhood. Our dentist was called Mr Hearn, a small man, exceedingly dynamic, and with a personality that overawed his patients at once. My sister was taken to him at the tender age of three. Madge, ensconced in the dentist's chair, immediately began to cry.

'Now then,' said Mr Hearn, 'I can't allow that. I never allow my patients to cry.'

'Don't you?' said Madge, so surprised that she stopped at once.

'No,' said Mr Hearn, 'it is a bad thing, so I don't allow it.' He had no more trouble. We were all terribly pleased to get to Scotswood: It was so exciting to be in the country again: Archie was delighted, because he was now in close proximity to Sunningdale Golf Course. Site was pleased because she was saved the long treks to the park, and Rosalind because she had the garden for her fairy cycle. So everyone was happy. This in spite of the fact that when we arrived with the furniture van nothing was ready for us. Electricians were still burrowing about in the pa.s.sages, and there was the greatest difficulty in moving any furniture in. Problems with baths, taps, and electric light were incessant, and the general level of inefficiency was unbelievable.

Anna the Adventuress had now appeared in had now appeared in The Evening News The Evening News and I had bought my Morris Cowleyand a very good car it was: much more reliable and better made than cars are nowadays. The next thing I had to do was to learn to drive it. Almost immediately, however, the General Strike was upon us, and before I had had more than about three lessons with Archie he informed me that I would have to drive him to London. and I had bought my Morris Cowleyand a very good car it was: much more reliable and better made than cars are nowadays. The next thing I had to do was to learn to drive it. Almost immediately, however, the General Strike was upon us, and before I had had more than about three lessons with Archie he informed me that I would have to drive him to London.

'But I can't. I don't know how to drive!'

'Oh yes, you do. You're coming along quite well.'

Archie was a good teacher, but there was no question in those days of having to pa.s.s any test. There was no such thing as an L-driver. From the moment you took the controls of the car you were responsible for what you did with it.

'I don't think I can really reverse at all,' I said doubtfully. 'The car never seems to go where I think it's going.'

'You won't have to back,' said Archie with a.s.surance. 'You can steer quite wellthat's all that matters. If you go at a reasonable pace you'll be all right. You know how to put the brake on.'

'You taught me that first of all,' I said.

'Yes, of course I did. I don't see why you should have any trouble.'

'But the traffic,' I said falteringly.

'Oh no, you needn't do the traffic at all to begin with.'

He had heard that there were electric trains going from Hounslow Station, and so my task would be to motor to Hounslow with Archie at the wheel; then he would turn the car round, put it in position for the return journey, and leave me to get on by my own devices while he went to the City.

The first time I did this was one of the worst ordeals I have ever known. I was shaking with fright, but I managed, nevertheless, to get on reasonably well. I stalled the engine once or twice by braking rather more violently than I need, and I was rather chary about pa.s.sing things, which was probably just as well. But of course the traffic on the roads then was not anything like what it would be nowadays, and called for no special skill. As long as you could steer reasonably, and didn't have to park, or turn, or reverse too much, all was well. The worst moment was when I had to turn into Scotswood and get myself into an extremely narrow garage, next to our neighbour's car. These people lived in the flat below usa young couple called the Rawncliffes. The wife reported to her husband: 'I saw the first floor driving back this morning. I don't think she has ever driven a car before. She drove into that garage absolutely shaking and as white as a sheet. I thought she was going to ram the wall, but she just didn't!'

I don't think anyone but Archie could have given me a.s.surance under these conditions. He always took it for granted that I could do things about which I myself had a good deal of doubt. 'Of course you can do it,' he would say. 'Why shouldn't you? If you always think you can't do things you never will do them.'

I gained a little confidence and after three or four days was able to penetrate further into London and to brave the dangers of the traffic. Oh the joy that car was to me! I don't suppose anyone nowadays could believe the difference it made to one's life. To be able to go anywhere you chose; to places beyond the reach of your legsit widened your whole horizon. One of the greatest pleasures I had out of the car was going down to Ashfield and taking mother out for drives. She enjoyed it pa.s.sionately, just as I did. We went to all sorts of placesDartmoor, the house of friends she had never been able to see because of the difficulties of transportand the sheer joy of driving was enough for us both. I don't think anything has given me more pleasure, more joy of achievement, than my dear bottle-nosed Morris Cowley.

Though helpful with most practical things in life, Archie was of no use in my writing. Occasionally I felt the urge to outline to him some idea I had for a new story, or the plot of a new book. When I had described it haltingly, it sounded, even to my ears, extraordinarily ba.n.a.l, futile, and a great many other adjectives which I will not particularize. Archie would listen with the kind benevolence he displayed when he had decided to give his attention to other people. Finally, 'What do you think?' I asked timidly. 'Do you think it will be all right?'

'Well, I suppose it might be,' said Archie, in a completely damping manner. 'It doesn't seem to have much story story to it, does it? Or much excitement either?' to it, does it? Or much excitement either?'

'You don't really think it will do, then?'

'I think you can do much better.' That plot thereupon fell dead, slain for ever, I felt. As it happened, I resurrected it, or rather it resurrected itself, five or six years later. This time, not subjected to criticism before the act, it blossomed most satisfactorily, and turned out to be one of my best books. The trouble is that it is awfully hard for an author to put things in words when you have to do it in the course of conversation. You can do it with a pencil in your hand, or sitting in front of your typewriterthen the thing comes out already formed as it should come outbut you can't describe things that you are only going going to write; or at least I can't. I learnt in the end never to say to write; or at least I can't. I learnt in the end never to say anything anything about a book before it was written. Criticism about a book before it was written. Criticism after after you have written it is helpful. You can argue the point, or you can give in, but at least you know how it has struck one reader. Your own description of what you are going to write, however, sounds so futile, that to be told kindly that it won't do meets with your instant agreement. I will never agree to the hundreds of requests that reach me asking me to read someone's MS. For one thing, of course, you would never do anything else you have written it is helpful. You can argue the point, or you can give in, but at least you know how it has struck one reader. Your own description of what you are going to write, however, sounds so futile, that to be told kindly that it won't do meets with your instant agreement. I will never agree to the hundreds of requests that reach me asking me to read someone's MS. For one thing, of course, you would never do anything else but but read MSS if you once started agreeing to do so! But the real point is that I don't think an author is competent to criticise. Your criticism is bound to be that you yourself would have written it in such and such a way, but that does not mean that that would be right for another author. We all have our own ways of expressing ourselves. Also, there is the frightening thought that you may be discouraging someone who ought not to be discouraged. An early story of mine was shown to a well-known auth.o.r.ess by a kindly friend. She reported on it sadly but adversely, saying that the author would never make a writer. What she really read MSS if you once started agreeing to do so! But the real point is that I don't think an author is competent to criticise. Your criticism is bound to be that you yourself would have written it in such and such a way, but that does not mean that that would be right for another author. We all have our own ways of expressing ourselves. Also, there is the frightening thought that you may be discouraging someone who ought not to be discouraged. An early story of mine was shown to a well-known auth.o.r.ess by a kindly friend. She reported on it sadly but adversely, saying that the author would never make a writer. What she really meant, meant, though she did not know it herself because she was an author and not a critic, was that the person who was writing was still an immature and inadequate writer who could not as yet produce anything worth though she did not know it herself because she was an author and not a critic, was that the person who was writing was still an immature and inadequate writer who could not as yet produce anything worth publishing. publishing. A critic or an editor might have been more perceptive, because it is their profession to notice the germs of what may be. So I don't like criticising and I think it can easily do harm. The only thing I will advance as criticism is the fact that the would-be writer has not taken any account of the market for his wares. It is no good writing a novel of 30,000 wordsthat is not a length which is easily publishable at present. 'Oh,' replies the author, 'but this book has got to be that length.' Well, that is probably all right if you're a genius, but you are more likely to be a tradesman. You have got something you feel you can do well and that you enjoy doing well, and you want to sell it well. If so, you must give it the dimensions and the appearance that is wanted. If you were a carpenter, it would be no good making a chair, the seat of which was five feet up from the floor. It wouldn't be what anyone wanted to sit on. It is no good saying that you think the chair looks handsome that way. If you want to write a book, study what sizes books are, and write within the limits of that size. If you want to write a certain type of short story for a certain type of magazine you have to make it the length, and it has to be the type of story, that is printed in that magazine. If you like to write for yourself only, that is a different matteryou can make it any length, and write it in any way you wish; but then you will probably have to be content with the pleasure alone of having written it. It's no good starting out by thinking one is a heaven-born geniussome people are, but very few. No, one is a tradesmana tradesman in a good honest trade. You must learn the technical skills, and then, within that trade, you can apply your own creative ideas; but you must submit to the discipline of form. It was by now just beginning to dawn on me that perhaps I A critic or an editor might have been more perceptive, because it is their profession to notice the germs of what may be. So I don't like criticising and I think it can easily do harm. The only thing I will advance as criticism is the fact that the would-be writer has not taken any account of the market for his wares. It is no good writing a novel of 30,000 wordsthat is not a length which is easily publishable at present. 'Oh,' replies the author, 'but this book has got to be that length.' Well, that is probably all right if you're a genius, but you are more likely to be a tradesman. You have got something you feel you can do well and that you enjoy doing well, and you want to sell it well. If so, you must give it the dimensions and the appearance that is wanted. If you were a carpenter, it would be no good making a chair, the seat of which was five feet up from the floor. It wouldn't be what anyone wanted to sit on. It is no good saying that you think the chair looks handsome that way. If you want to write a book, study what sizes books are, and write within the limits of that size. If you want to write a certain type of short story for a certain type of magazine you have to make it the length, and it has to be the type of story, that is printed in that magazine. If you like to write for yourself only, that is a different matteryou can make it any length, and write it in any way you wish; but then you will probably have to be content with the pleasure alone of having written it. It's no good starting out by thinking one is a heaven-born geniussome people are, but very few. No, one is a tradesmana tradesman in a good honest trade. You must learn the technical skills, and then, within that trade, you can apply your own creative ideas; but you must submit to the discipline of form. It was by now just beginning to dawn on me that perhaps I might might be a writer by profession. I was not sure of it yet. I still had an idea that writing books was only the natural successor to embroidering sofa-cushions. Before we left London for the country I had taken lessons in sculpture. I was a great admirer of the artmuch more than of picturesand I had a real yearning to be a sculptor myself. I was early disillusioned in that hope: I saw that it was not within my capacity because I had no eye for visual form. I couldn't draw, so I couldn't sculpt. I had thought it might be different with sculpture, that feeling and handling clay would help with form. But I realised I couldn't really be a writer by profession. I was not sure of it yet. I still had an idea that writing books was only the natural successor to embroidering sofa-cushions. Before we left London for the country I had taken lessons in sculpture. I was a great admirer of the artmuch more than of picturesand I had a real yearning to be a sculptor myself. I was early disillusioned in that hope: I saw that it was not within my capacity because I had no eye for visual form. I couldn't draw, so I couldn't sculpt. I had thought it might be different with sculpture, that feeling and handling clay would help with form. But I realised I couldn't really see see things. It was like being tone deaf in music. I composed a few songs by way of vanity, setting some of my verses to music. I had a look at the waltz I composed again, and thought I had never heard anything more ba.n.a.l. Some of the songs were not so bad. One of the series of Pierrot and Harlequin verses pleased me. I wished that I had learnt harmony and knew something about composition. But writing seemed to be indicated as my proper trade and self-expression. I wrote a gloomy play, mainly about incest. It was refused firmly by every manager I sent it to. 'An unpleasant subject.' The curious thing is that, nowadays, it is the kind of play which might quite likely appeal to a manager. I also wrote an historical play about Akhnaton. I liked it enormously. John Gielgud was later kind enough to write to me. He said it had interesting points, but was far too expensive to produce and had not enough humour. I had not connected humour with Akhnaton, but I saw that I was wrong. Egypt was just as full of humour as anywhere elseso was life at any time or placeand tragedy had its humour too. things. It was like being tone deaf in music. I composed a few songs by way of vanity, setting some of my verses to music. I had a look at the waltz I composed again, and thought I had never heard anything more ba.n.a.l. Some of the songs were not so bad. One of the series of Pierrot and Harlequin verses pleased me. I wished that I had learnt harmony and knew something about composition. But writing seemed to be indicated as my proper trade and self-expression. I wrote a gloomy play, mainly about incest. It was refused firmly by every manager I sent it to. 'An unpleasant subject.' The curious thing is that, nowadays, it is the kind of play which might quite likely appeal to a manager. I also wrote an historical play about Akhnaton. I liked it enormously. John Gielgud was later kind enough to write to me. He said it had interesting points, but was far too expensive to produce and had not enough humour. I had not connected humour with Akhnaton, but I saw that I was wrong. Egypt was just as full of humour as anywhere elseso was life at any time or placeand tragedy had its humour too.

III

We had been through so much worry since we came back from our world tour that it seemed wonderful to enter on this halcyon period. Perhaps it was then that I ought to have felt misgiving. Things went too well. Archie had the work he enjoyed, with an employer who was his friend; he liked the people he worked with; he had what he had always wanted, to belong to a first-cla.s.s golf club, and to play every weekend. My writing was going well, and I began to consider that perhaps I should be able to go on writing books and making money by it.

Did I realise that there might be something not quite right in the even tenor of our days? I don't think so. And yet there was a certain lack, though I don't think I ever put it into definite terms to myself. I missed the early companionship of our time together, Archie and I. I missed the weekends when we had gone by bus or by train and had explored places.

Our weekends now were the dullest time for me. I often wanted to ask people down for the weekend, so as to see some of our London friends again. Archie discouraged that, because he said it spoilt his his weekends. If we had people staying he would have to be more at home and perhaps miss his second round of golf. I suggested that he should play tennis sometimes instead of golf, because we had several friends with whom he had played tennis on public courts in London. He was horrified. Tennis, he said, would completely spoil his eye for golf. He was taking the game so seriously now that it might have been a religion. weekends. If we had people staying he would have to be more at home and perhaps miss his second round of golf. I suggested that he should play tennis sometimes instead of golf, because we had several friends with whom he had played tennis on public courts in London. He was horrified. Tennis, he said, would completely spoil his eye for golf. He was taking the game so seriously now that it might have been a religion.

'Look here, you ask any of your friends down if you like, but don't let's ask down a married couple, because then I I have to do something about it.' have to do something about it.'

That was not so easy to do, because most of our friends were married couples, and I couldn't very well ask the wife without the husband. I was making friends in Sunningdale, but Sunningdale society was mainly of two kinds: the middle-aged, who were pa.s.sionately fond of gardens and talked of practically nothing else; or the gay, sporting rich, who drank a good deal, had c.o.c.ktail parties, and were not really my type, or indeed, for that matter, Archie's.

One couple who could and did stay with us for a weekend were Nan Watts and her second husband. She had married a man called Hugo Pollock during the war, and had one daughter, Judy; but the marriage had not turned out well, and in the end she had divorced her husband. She re-married a man called George Kon, who was also a keen golfer, so that solved the weekend problem. George and Archie played together; Nan and I gossiped, talked and played some desultory golf on the ladies' links. Then we would go up and meet the men at the club-house and have a drink there. At least Nan and I would take up our own drinks: half a pint of raw cream thinned down with milkjust as we had drunk it down at the farm at Abney in early days.

It was a great blow when Site left us, but she took her career seriously, and for some time she had wanted to take a post abroad. Rosalind, she pointed out, would be going to school the following year, and so would need her less. She had heard of a good post in the Emba.s.sy in Brussels, and would like to take it. She hated leaving us, she said, but she did want to get on so that she could go as a governess to places all over the world and see something of the life. I could not help being sympathetic towards this point of view, and sadly we agreed that she should go to Belgium.

I thought then, remembering how happy I had been with Marie and how nice it had been to learn French without tears, that I might get a French nursery governess for Rosalind. Punkie wrote to me enthusiastically saying that she knew just the person but she was Swiss, not French. She had met her, and a friend of hers knew her family in Switzerland. 'She is a sweet girl, Marcelle. Very gentle.' She thought that she was just the person for Rosalind, would be sorry for her because she was shy and nervous, and would look after her. I don't know that Punkie and I agreed exactly in our estimate of Rosalind's character!

Marcelle Vignou duly arrived. I had slight misgivings from the first. Punkie's account of her was of a gentle, charming, little thing. She made a different impression on me. She seemed to be lethargic, though quite good-natured, lazy, and uninteresting. She was the sort of person who was incapable of managing children. Rosalind, who was reasonably well-behaved and polite, and on the whole quite satisfactory in daily life, became, almost overnight, what I can only describe as possessed by a devil.

I couldn't have believed it. I learnt then what no doubt most child-trainers know instinctively, that a child reacts just as a dog or any other animal: it knows authority. Marcelle had no authority. She shook her head gently occasionally and said 'Rosalind! Non, non, Non, non, Rosalind!' without the least effect. Rosalind!' without the least effect.

To see them out for walks together was pitiful. Marcelle, as I discovered before long, had both feet covered with corns and bunions. She could only limp along at a funeral pace. When I did discover this I sent her off to a chiropodist, but even that did not make much difference in her pace. Rosalind, an energetic child, strode ahead, looking extremely British, with her chin in the air, Marcelle trailing miserably behind, murmuring: 'Wait for meattendez-moi!'