Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 8

Life took on a completely different complexion after my father's death. I stepped out of my child's world, a world of security and thoughtlessness, to enter the fringes of the world of reality. I think there is no doubt that from the man of the family comes the stability of the home. We all laugh when the phrase comes, 'Your father knows best,' but that phrase does represent what was so marked a feature of later Victorian life. Fatherthe rock upon which the home is set. Father likes meals punctually; Father mustn't be worried after dinner; Father would like you to play duets with him. You accept it all unquestioningly. Father provides meals; Father sees that the house works to rule; Father provides music lessons.

Father took great pride and pleasure in Madge's company as she grew up. He enjoyed her wit and her attractiveness; they were excellent companions to each other. He found in her, I think, some of the gaiety and humour my mother probably lackedbut he had a soft spot in his heart for his little girl, the afterthought, little Agatha. We had our favourite rhyme: Agatha-Pagatha my black hen,She lays eggs for gentlemen,She laid six and she laid seven,And one day she laid eleven!

Father and I were very fond of that particular joke.

But Monty, I think, was really his favourite. His love for his son was more than he would feel for any daughter. Monty was an affectionate boy, and he had great affection for his father. He was, alas, unsatisfactory from the point of view of making a success of life, and father was unceasingly worried about this. In a way, I think, his happiest time, where Monty was concerned, was after the South African War. Monty obtained a commission in a regular regiment, the East Surreys, and went straight from South Africa, with his regiment, to India. He appeared to be doing well and to have settled down in his army life. In spite of father's financial worries, Monty at least was one problem removed for the time being.

Madge married James Watts about nine months after my father's death, though a little reluctant to leave mother. Mother herself was urgent that the marriage should take place, and that they should not have to wait longer. She said, and truly I think, that it would be even more difficult for her to part with Madge as time went on and their companionship drew them closer. James's father was anxious for him to marry young. He was just leaving Oxford, and would go straight into the business, and he said it would be happier for him if he could marry Madge and settle down in their own home. Mr Watts was going to build a house for his son on part of his land, and the young couple could settle down there. So things were arranged.

My father's American executor, Auguste Montant, came from New York and stayed with us a week. He was a large stout man, genial, very charming, and n.o.body could have been kinder to my mother. He told her frankly that father's affairs were in a bad mess, and that he had been extremely ill advised by lawyers and others who had pretended to act for him. A lot of good money had been thrown after bad by trying to improve the New York property by half-hearted measures. It was better, he said, that a good deal of the property should be abandoned altogether to save taxes. The income that was left would be very small. The big estate my grandfather had left had disappeared into thin air. H. B. Claflin & Co., the firm in which my grandfather had been partner, would still provide Grannie's income, as the widow of a partner, and also a certain income for mother, though not a large one. We three children, under my grandfather's will, would get, in English currency, 100 a year each. The rest of the vast amount of dollars had been also in property, which had gone down hill and fallen derelict, or had been sold off in the past for far too little.

The question arose now whether my mother could afford to live on at Ashfield. Here, I think, mother's own judgment was better than anyone else's. She thought definitely that it would be a bad thing to stay on. The house would need repairs in the future, and it would be difficult to manage on a small incomepossible but difficult. It would be better to sell the house and to buy another smaller house somewhere in Devonshire, perhaps near Exeter, which would cost less to run and would leave a certain amount of money from the exchange to add to income. Although my mother had no business training or knowledge, she had really quite a lot of common sense.

Here, however, she came up against her children. Both Madge and I, and my brother, writing from India, protested violently against selling Ashfield, and begged her to keep it. We said it was our home and we couldn't bear to part with it. My sister's husband said he could always spare mother a small addition to her income. If Madge and he came down in the summers they could help with the running expenses. Finally, touched I think by my violent love for Ashfield, mother gave in. She said at any rate we would try how we got on.

I now suspect that mother herself had never really cared for Torquay as a place to live. She had a great pa.s.sion for cathedral towns, and she had always been fond of Exeter. She and my father sometimes went for a holiday touring various cathedral townsto please her, I think, not my fatherand I believe she rather enjoyed the idea of living in a much smaller house near Exeter. However, she was an unselfish person, and fond of the house itself, so Ashfield continued to be our home, and I continued to adore it.

To have kept it on was not a wise thing, I know that now. We could have sold it and bought a much more manageable house. But though my mother recognised that at the time, and must indeed have recognised it very much better later, yet I think she was content to have had it so. Because Ashfield has meant something to me for so many years. It has been there, my background, my shelter, the place where I truly belong. I have never suffered from the absence of roots. Though to hold on to it may have been foolish, it gave me something that I value, a treasure of remembrance. It has also given me a lot of trouble, worry, expense, and difficultiesbut surely for everything you love you have to pay some price?

My father died in November, my sister's marriage took place the following September. It was quiet, with no reception afterwards, owing to the mourning still observed for my father's death. It was a pretty wedding and took place in old Tor church. With the importance of being first bridesmaid I enjoyed it all immensely. The bridesmaids all wore white, with white wreaths of flowers on their heads.

The wedding took place at eleven in the morning, and we had the wedding breakfast at Ashfield. The happy couple were blest not only with lots of lovely wedding presents but with every variety of torture that could have been thought up by my boy cousin Gerald and myself. All through their honeymoon rice fell out of every garment they removed from suit-cases. Satin shoes were tied on to the carriage in which they drove away, and chalked on the back, after after it had first been carefully examined to make sure that nothing of the kind had occurred, were the words 'Mrs Jimmy Watts is a first-cla.s.s name'. So off they drove to a honeymoon in Italy. it had first been carefully examined to make sure that nothing of the kind had occurred, were the words 'Mrs Jimmy Watts is a first-cla.s.s name'. So off they drove to a honeymoon in Italy.

My mother retired to her bed exhausted and weeping, and Mr and Mrs Watts to their hotelMrs Watts no doubt also to weep. Such appears to be the effect of weddings on mothers. The young Wattses, my cousin Gerald and I were left to view each other with the suspicion of strange dogs, and try to decide whether or not we were going to like each other. There was a great deal of natural antagonism at first between Nan Watts and me. Unfortunately, but in the fashion of the day, we had each been given harangues about the other by our respective families. Nan, who was a gay boisterous tomboy, had been told now nicely Agatha always behaved, 'so quiet and polite'. And while Nan had my decorum and general solemnity praised to her I I had been admonished on the subject of Nan, who was said to be 'never shy, always answered when she was spoken tonever flushed, or muttered, or sat silent'. We both therefore looked at each other with a great deal of ill-will. had been admonished on the subject of Nan, who was said to be 'never shy, always answered when she was spoken tonever flushed, or muttered, or sat silent'. We both therefore looked at each other with a great deal of ill-will.

A sticky half-hour ensued, and then things livened up. In the end we organised a kind of steeple-chase round the school-room, doing wild leaps from piled-up chairs and landing always on the large and somewhat elderly chesterfield. We were all laughing, shouting, screaming, and having a glorious time. Nan revised her opinion of mehere was somebody anything but quiet, shouting at the top of her voice. I revised my opinion of Nan as being stuck-up, talking too much, and in' with the grown-ups. We had a splendid time, we all liked each other, and the springs of the sofa were permanently broken. Afterwards there was a snack meal and we went to the theatre, to The Pirates of Penzance. The Pirates of Penzance. From that time the friendship never looked back and continued intermittently all through out lives. We dropped it, picked it up, and things seemed just the same when we came together again. Nan is one of the friends I miss most now. With her, as with few others, I could talk together of Abney and Ashfield and the old days, the dogs, and the pranks we played, and our young men, and the theatricals we got up and acted in. From that time the friendship never looked back and continued intermittently all through out lives. We dropped it, picked it up, and things seemed just the same when we came together again. Nan is one of the friends I miss most now. With her, as with few others, I could talk together of Abney and Ashfield and the old days, the dogs, and the pranks we played, and our young men, and the theatricals we got up and acted in.

After Madge's departure the second stage of my life began. I was a child still, but the first phase of childhood had ended. The brilliance of joy, despair of sorrow, the momentous importance of every day of one's life: those things are the hallmark of childhood. With them go security and the complete lack of thought for the morrow. We were no longer the Millersa family. We were now just two people living together: a middle-aged woman and an untried, naive girl. Things seemed seemed the same, but the atmosphere was different. the same, but the atmosphere was different.

My mother had bad heart attacks since my father's death. They came on her with no warning, and nothing that the doctors gave her helped. I knew for the first time what it was to feel anxiety for other people, whilst at the same time being a child still, so that my anxiety was naturally exaggerated. I used to wake up at night, my heart beating, sure that mother was dead. Twelve or thirteen may be a natural time of anxiety. I knew, I think, that I was being foolish and giving way to exaggerated feelings, but there it was. I would get up, creep along the corridor, kneel down by my mother's door with my head to the hinge, trying to hear her breathing. Very often I was quickly rea.s.sureda welcome snore rewarded me. Mother had a special style of snoring, beginning daintly and pianissimo pianissimo and working up to a terrific explosion, after which she would usually turn over and there would be no repet.i.tion of the snoring for at least another three quarters of an hour. and working up to a terrific explosion, after which she would usually turn over and there would be no repet.i.tion of the snoring for at least another three quarters of an hour.

If I heard a snore then, delighted, I went back to bed and to sleep; but if there happened to be none, I remained there, crouching in miserable apprehension. It would have been far more sensible if I had opened the door and walked in to rea.s.sure myself, but somehow that does not seem to have occurred to me, or possibly mother always locked her door at night.

I did not tell mother about these terrible fits of anxiety, and I don't think she ever guessed at them. I used also to have fears, when she had gone out into the town, that she might have been run over. It all seems silly now, so unnecessary. It wore off gradually, I think, and probably lasted only for a year or two. Later I slept in father's dressing-room, off her bedroom, with the door slightly ajar, so that if she did have an attack in the night I could go in, raise her head, and fetch her brandy and sal volatile. Once I felt that I was on the spot, I no longer suffered from the awful pangs of anxiety. I was, I suppose, always over-burdened with imagination. That has served me well in my professionit must, indeed, be the basis of the novelist's craftbut it can give you some bad sessions in other respects.

The conditions of our life changed after my father's death. Social occasions practically ceased. My mother saw a few old friends but n.o.body else. We were very badly off and had to economise in every way. It was, of course, all we could do to keep up Ashfield. My mother no longer gave luncheon or dinner parties. She had two servants instead of three. She tried to tell Jane that we were now badly off and that she would have to manage with two young, inexpensive maids, but she stressed that Jane, with her magnificent cooking, could command a large salary, and that she ought to have it. Mother would look about and find Jane a place where she would get good wages and also have a kitchenmaid under her. 'You deserve it,' said mother.

Jane displayed no emotion; she was eating at the time, as usual. She nodded her head slowly, continued to chew, then said: 'Very well, Ma'am. Just as you say. You know best.'

The next morning, however, she reappeared. 'I'd just like a word with you, Ma'am. I've been thinking things over and I would prefer to stay here. I quite understand what you said, and I would be prepared to take less wages, but I have been here a very long time. In any case, my brother's been urging me to come and keep house for him and I have promised I will do so when he retires; that will probably be in four or five year's time. Until then I would like to stay here.'

'That is very, very good of you,' said my mother, emotionally. Jane, who had a horror of emotion, said, 'It will be convenient,' and moved majestically from the room.

There was only one drawback to this arrangement. Having cooked in one way for so many years, Jane could not stop cooking in the same strain. If we had a joint it was always an enormous roast. Colossal beefsteak pies, huge tarts, and gargantuan steam puddings would be put on the table. Mother would say, 'Only enough for two, two, remember, Jane,' or 'Only enough for four,' but Jane could never understand. Jane's own scale of hospitality was terribly expensive for the household; every day of the week, seven or eight of her friends were wont to arrive for tea, and eat pastries, buns, scones, rock cakes and jam tarts. In the end, in desperation, seeing the household books mounting up, my mother said gently that perhaps, as things were different now, Jane would have one day a week when she could have her friends. This would save a certain amount of waste, in case a lot was cooked and then people did not turn up. Thenceforward Jane held court on Wednesdays only. remember, Jane,' or 'Only enough for four,' but Jane could never understand. Jane's own scale of hospitality was terribly expensive for the household; every day of the week, seven or eight of her friends were wont to arrive for tea, and eat pastries, buns, scones, rock cakes and jam tarts. In the end, in desperation, seeing the household books mounting up, my mother said gently that perhaps, as things were different now, Jane would have one day a week when she could have her friends. This would save a certain amount of waste, in case a lot was cooked and then people did not turn up. Thenceforward Jane held court on Wednesdays only.

Our own meals was now very different from the normal three-or four-course feasts. Dinners were cut out altogether, and mother and I had a macaroni cheese or a rice pudding or something like that in the evening. I'm afraid this saddened Jane a great deal. Also, little by little, mother managed to take over the ordering, which formerly had been done by Jane. It had been one of my father's friend's great delights, when staying in the house, to hear Jane ordering on the telephone in her deep ba.s.s Devonshire voice: 'And I want six lobsters, hen hen lobsters, and prawnsnot less than...' It became a favourite phrase in our family. 'Not less than' was not only used by Jane but also by a later cook of ours, Mrs Potter. What splendid days for the tradesmen those were! lobsters, and prawnsnot less than...' It became a favourite phrase in our family. 'Not less than' was not only used by Jane but also by a later cook of ours, Mrs Potter. What splendid days for the tradesmen those were!

'But I've always ordered twelve fillets of sole, Ma'am,' Jane would say, looking distressed. The fact that there were not enough mouths to devour twelve fillets of sole, not even counting a couple in the kitchen, never appeared to enter her head.

None of these changes were particularly noticeable to me. Luxury or economy mean little when you are young. If you buy boiled sweets instead of chocolates the difference is not noticeable. Mackerel I had always preferred to sole, and a whiting with its tail in its mouth I thought a most agreeable looking fish.

My personal life was not much altered. I read enormous quant.i.ties of booksworked through all the rest of Henty, and was introduced to Stanley Weyman (what glorious historical novels they were. I read The Castle Inn The Castle Inn only the other day and thought how good it was.) only the other day and thought how good it was.) The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda was my opening to romance, as it was for many others. I read it again and again. I fell deeply in lovenot with Rudolf Ra.s.sendyll, as might have been expected, but with the real king imprisoned in his dungeon and sighing. I yearned to succour him, to rescue him, to a.s.sure him that IFlavia, of courseloved was my opening to romance, as it was for many others. I read it again and again. I fell deeply in lovenot with Rudolf Ra.s.sendyll, as might have been expected, but with the real king imprisoned in his dungeon and sighing. I yearned to succour him, to rescue him, to a.s.sure him that IFlavia, of courseloved him him and not Rudolf Ra.s.sendyll. I also read the whole of Jules Verne in French and not Rudolf Ra.s.sendyll. I also read the whole of Jules Verne in FrenchLe Voyage au Centre de la Terre was my favourite for many months. I loved the contrast between the prudent nephew and the c.o.c.ksure uncle. Any book I really liked I read over again at monthly intervals; then, after about a year, I would be fickle and choose another favourite. was my favourite for many months. I loved the contrast between the prudent nephew and the c.o.c.ksure uncle. Any book I really liked I read over again at monthly intervals; then, after about a year, I would be fickle and choose another favourite.

There were also L. T. Meade's books for girls, which my mother disliked very much; she said the girls in them were vulgar and only thought of being rich and having smart clothes. Secretly, I rather liked them, but with a guilty feeling of being vulgar in my tastes! Some of the Hentys mother read aloud to me, though she was slightly exasperated by the length of the descriptions. She also read a book called The Last Days of Bruce, The Last Days of Bruce, of which both she and I approved heartily. By way of lessons, I was put on to a book called of which both she and I approved heartily. By way of lessons, I was put on to a book called Great Events of History, Great Events of History, of which I had to read one chapter and answer the questions about it set in a note at the end. This was a very good book. It taught a lot of the main events that happened in Europe and elsewhere, which one could link on to the history of the Kings of England, from Little Arthur onwards. How satisfactory to be firmly told So-and-So was a bad king; it has a kind of Biblical finality. I knew the dates of the Kings of England and the names of all their wivesinformation that has never been much use to me. of which I had to read one chapter and answer the questions about it set in a note at the end. This was a very good book. It taught a lot of the main events that happened in Europe and elsewhere, which one could link on to the history of the Kings of England, from Little Arthur onwards. How satisfactory to be firmly told So-and-So was a bad king; it has a kind of Biblical finality. I knew the dates of the Kings of England and the names of all their wivesinformation that has never been much use to me.

Every day I had to learn how to spell pages of words. I suppose the exercise did me some good, but I was still an extraordinarily bad speller and have remained so until the present day.

My princ.i.p.al pleasures were the musical and other activities into which I entered with a family called Huxley. Dr Huxley had a vague but clever wife. There were five girlsMildred, Sybil, Muriel, Phyllis and Enid. I came between Muriel and Phyllis, and Muriel became my special friend. She had a long face and dimples, which is unusual in a long face, pale golden hair, and she laughed a great deal. I joined them first in their weekly singing-cla.s.s. About ten girls took part in singing part-songs and oratorios under the direction of a singing-master, Mr Crow. There was also 'the orchestra' Muriel and I both played mandolines, Sybil and a girl called Connie Stevens the violin, Mildred the 'cello.

Looking back on the day of the orchestra, I think the Huxleys were an enterprising family. The stuffier of the old inhabitants of Torquay looked slightly askance at 'those Huxley girls', mainly because they were in the habit of walking up and down The Strand, which was the shopping centre of the town, between twelve and one, first three girls, arm in arm, then two girls and the governess; they swung their arms, and walked up and down, and laughed and joked, and, cardinal sin against them, they did not wear gloves. they did not wear gloves. These things were social offences at that time. However, since Dr Huxley was by far the most fashionable doctor in Torquay, and Mrs Huxley was what is known as 'well connected', the girls were pa.s.sed as socially acceptable. These things were social offences at that time. However, since Dr Huxley was by far the most fashionable doctor in Torquay, and Mrs Huxley was what is known as 'well connected', the girls were pa.s.sed as socially acceptable.

It was a curious social pattern, looking back. It was sn.o.bbish, I suppose; on the other hand, a certain type of sn.o.bbishness was much looked down upon. People who introduced the aristocracy into their conversation too frequently were disapproved of and laughed at. Three phases have succeeded each other during the span of my life. In the first the questions would be: 'But who is is she, dear? Who are her she, dear? Who are her people? people? Is she one of the Is she one of the Yorkshire Yorkshire Twiddledos? Of course, they are badly off, very badly off, but Twiddledos? Of course, they are badly off, very badly off, but she she was a was a Wilmot.' Wilmot.' This was to be succeeded in due course by: 'Oh yes, of course they This was to be succeeded in due course by: 'Oh yes, of course they are are pretty dreadful, but then they are terribly pretty dreadful, but then they are terribly rich. rich.' 'Have the people who have taken The Larches got money?' 'Oh well, then we'd better call.' The third phase was different again: 'Well, dear, but are they amusing amusing?' 'Yes, well of course they are not well off, and n.o.body knows where they came from, but they are very very very amusing.' After which digression into social values I had better return to the orchestra. amusing.' After which digression into social values I had better return to the orchestra.

Did we make an awful noise, I wonder? Probably. Anyway, it gave us a lot of fun and increased our musical knowledge. It led on to something more exciting, which was the getting up of a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan.

The Huxleys and their friends had already given Patience Patiencethat was before I joined their ranks. The next performance in view was The Yeomen of the Guard The Yeomen of the Guarda somewhat ambitious undertaking. In fact I am surprised that their parents did not discourage them. But Mrs Huxley was a wonderful pattern of aloofness, for which, I must say, I admire her, since parents were not particularly aloof then. She encouraged her children to get up anything they liked, helped them if they asked for help, and, if not, left them to it. The Yeomen of the Guard The Yeomen of the Guard was duly cast. I had a fine strong soprano voice, about the only soprano they had, and I was naturally in the seventh heaven at being chosen to play Colonel Fairfax. was duly cast. I had a fine strong soprano voice, about the only soprano they had, and I was naturally in the seventh heaven at being chosen to play Colonel Fairfax.

We had a little difficulty with my mother, who was old-fashioned in her views about what girls could or could not wear on their legs if they were to appear in public. Legs were legs, definitely indelicate. For me to display myself in trunk hose, or anything of that that kind, would, my mother thought, be most indecorous. I suppose I was thirteen or fourteen by then, and already five foot seven. There was, alas, no sign of the full rich bosom that I had hoped for when I was at Cauterets. A Yeoman of the Guard's uniform was adjudged all right, though it had to be made with unusually baggy plus-four trousers, but the Elizabethan gentleman presented more difficulties. It seems to me silly nowadays, but it was a serious problem then. Anyway, it was surmounted by my mother saying that it would be all right, but I must wear a disguising cloak thrown over one shoulder. So a cloak was managed out of a piece of turquoise blue-velvet among Grannie's 'pieces'. (Grannie's pieces were kept in various trunks and drawers, and comprised all types of rich and beautiful fabrics, remnants which she had bought in various sales over the last twenty-five years and had now more or less forgotten about.) It is not terribly easy to act with a cloak draped over one shoulder and flung over the other, in such a way that the indelicacies of one's legs were more or less hidden from the audience. kind, would, my mother thought, be most indecorous. I suppose I was thirteen or fourteen by then, and already five foot seven. There was, alas, no sign of the full rich bosom that I had hoped for when I was at Cauterets. A Yeoman of the Guard's uniform was adjudged all right, though it had to be made with unusually baggy plus-four trousers, but the Elizabethan gentleman presented more difficulties. It seems to me silly nowadays, but it was a serious problem then. Anyway, it was surmounted by my mother saying that it would be all right, but I must wear a disguising cloak thrown over one shoulder. So a cloak was managed out of a piece of turquoise blue-velvet among Grannie's 'pieces'. (Grannie's pieces were kept in various trunks and drawers, and comprised all types of rich and beautiful fabrics, remnants which she had bought in various sales over the last twenty-five years and had now more or less forgotten about.) It is not terribly easy to act with a cloak draped over one shoulder and flung over the other, in such a way that the indelicacies of one's legs were more or less hidden from the audience.

As far as I remember I felt no stage fright. Strangely enough for a terribly shy person, who very often can hardly bring herself to enter a shop and who has to grit her teeth before arriving at a large party, there was one activity in which I never felt nervous at all, and that was singing. Later, when I studied both piano and singing in Paris, I lost my nerve completely whenever I had to play the piano in the school concert but if I had to sing I felt no nervousness at all. Perhaps that was due to my early conditioning in 'Is life a boon?' and the rest of Colonel Fairfax's repertoire. There is no doubt that The Yeomen of the Guard The Yeomen of the Guard was one of the highlights of my existence. But I can't help thinking that it's as well that we didn't do any more operasan experience that you really enjoyed should never be repeated. was one of the highlights of my existence. But I can't help thinking that it's as well that we didn't do any more operasan experience that you really enjoyed should never be repeated.

One of the odd things in looking back is that, while you remember how things arrived or happened, you never know how or why they disappeared or came to a stop. I cannot remember many scenes in which I partic.i.p.ated with the Huxleys after that time, yet I am sure there was no break in friendship. At one time we seemed to be meeting every day, and then I would find myself writing to Lully in Scotland. Perhaps Dr Huxley left to practise elsewhere, or retired? I don't remember any definite leave-taking. I remember that Lully's terms of friendship were clearly defined. 'You can't be my best best friend,' she explained, 'because there are the Scottish girls, the McCrackens. They have friend,' she explained, 'because there are the Scottish girls, the McCrackens. They have always always been our best friends. Brenda is been our best friends. Brenda is my my best friend, and Janet is best friend, and Janet is Phyllis's Phyllis's best friend; but you can be my second-best friend.' So I was content with being Lully's second-best friend, and the arrangement worked well, since the 'best friends', the McCrackens, were only seen by the Huxleys at intervals of, I should say, roughly two years. best friend; but you can be my second-best friend.' So I was content with being Lully's second-best friend, and the arrangement worked well, since the 'best friends', the McCrackens, were only seen by the Huxleys at intervals of, I should say, roughly two years.

II

It must, I think, have been some time in March that my mother remarked that Madge was going to have a baby. I stared at her. 'Madge, have a baby baby?' I was dumbfounded. I cannot imagine why I shouldn't have thought of Madge having a babyafter all, it was happening all round onebut things are always surprising when they happen in one's own family. I accepted my brother-in-law, James, or Jimmy, as I usually called him, enthusiastically, and was devoted to him. Now here was something entirely different.

As usual with me, it was some time before I could take it in. I probably sat with my mouth open for quite two minutes or more. Then I said, 'Ohthat will will be exciting. When is it coming? Next week?' be exciting. When is it coming? Next week?'

'Not quite as soon as that,' said my mother. She suggested a date in October.

'October?' I was deeply chagrined. Fancy having to wait all that time. I can't remember very clearly what my att.i.tude to s.e.x was thenI must have been between twelve and thirteenbut I don't think I any longer accepted the theories of doctors with black bags or heavenly visitants with wings. By then I had realised it was a physical process, but without feeling much curiosity or, indeed, interest. I had, however, done a little mild deduction. The baby was first inside inside you, and then in due course it was you, and then in due course it was outside outside you; I reflected on the mechanism, and settled on the navel as a focal point. I couldn't see what that round hole in the middle of my stomach was you; I reflected on the mechanism, and settled on the navel as a focal point. I couldn't see what that round hole in the middle of my stomach was for forit didn't seem to be for anything else, so clearly it must must be something to do with the production of a baby. be something to do with the production of a baby.

My sister told me years afterwards that she had had very definite ideas; that she had thought that her navel was a keyhole, that there was a key that fitted it, which was kept by your mother, who handed it over to your husband, who unlocked it on the wedding night. It all sounded so sensible that I don't wonder she stuck firmly to her theory.

I took the idea out into the garden and thought about it a good deal. Madge was going to have a baby. It was a wonderful concept, and the more I thought about it the more I was in favour of it. I was going to be an aunt.i.t sounded very grown up and important. I would buy it toys, I would let it play with my dolls' house, I would have to be careful that Christopher, my kitten, didn't scratch it by mistake. After about a week I stopped thinking about it; it was absorbed into various daily happenings. It was a long time to wait until October.

Some time in August a telegram took my mother away from home. She said she had to go and stay with my sister in Cheshire. Auntie-Grannie was staying with us at the time. Mother's sudden departure did not surprise me much, and I didn't speculate about it, because whatever mother did she did suddenly, with no apparent forethought or preparation. I was, I remember, out in the garden on the tennis lawn, looking hopefully at the pear-trees to see if I could find a pear which was ripe. It was here that Alice came out to fetch me. 'It's nearly lunch-time and you are to come in, Miss Agatha. There is a piece of news waiting for you.'

'Is there? What news?'

'You've got a little nephew,' said Alice.

A nephew?

'But I wasn't going to have a nephew till October!' I objected.

'Ah, but things don't always go as you think they will,' said Alice. 'Come on in now.'

I came in to the house and found Grannie in the kitchen with a telegram in her hand. I bombarded her with questions. What did the baby look like? Why had it come now instead of October? Grannie returned answers to these questions with the parrying art well known to Victorians. She had, I think, been in the middle of an obstetric conversation with Jane when I came in, because they lowered their voices and murmured something like: 'The other doctor said, let the labour come on, but the specialist was quite firm.' It all sounded mysterious and interesting. My mind was fixed entirely on my new nephew. When Grannie was carving the leg of mutton, I said: 'But what does he look like? What colour is his hair?'

'He's probably bald. They don't get hair at once.' 'Bald,' 'Bald,' I said, disappointed. 'Will his face be very red?' I said, disappointed. 'Will his face be very red?'

'Probably.'

'How big is he?'

Grannie considered, stopped carving, and measured off a distance on the carving knife.

'Like that,' she said. She spoke with the absolute certainty of one who knew. It seemed to me rather small. All the same the announcement made such an impression on me that I am sure if I were being asked an a.s.sociative question by a psychiatrist and he gave me the key-word 'baby' I would immediately respond with 'carving-knife'. I wonder what kind of Freudian complex he would put that answer down to.

I was delighted with my nephew. Madge brought him to stay at Ashfield about a month later, and when he was two months old he was christened in old Tor church. Since his G.o.dmother, Norah Hewitt, could not be there, I was allowed to hold him and be proxy for her. I stood near the font, full of importance, while my sister hovered nervously at my elbow in case I should drop him. Mr Jacob, our Vicar, with whom I was well acquainted, since he was preparing me for confirmation, had a splendid hand with infants at the font, tipping the water neatly back and off their forehead, and adopting a slightly swaying motion that usually stopped the baby from howling. He was christened James Watts, like his father and grandfather. He would be known as Jack in the family. I could not help being in rather a hurry for him to get to an age when I could play with him, since his princ.i.p.al occupation at this time seemed to be sleeping.

It was lovely to have Madge home for a long visit. I relied on her for telling me stories and providing a lot of entertainment in my life. It was Madge who told me my first Sherlock Holmes story, The Blue Carbuncle, The Blue Carbuncle, and after that I had always been pestering her for more. and after that I had always been pestering her for more. The Blue Carbuncle, The Red-Headed League The Blue Carbuncle, The Red-Headed League and and The Five Orange Pips The Five Orange Pips were definitely my favourites, though I enjoyed all of them. Madge was a splendid story-teller. were definitely my favourites, though I enjoyed all of them. Madge was a splendid story-teller.

She had, before her marriage, begun writing stories herself. Many of her short stories were accepted for Vanity Fair. Vanity Fair. To have a Vain Tale in To have a Vain Tale in Vanity Fair Vanity Fair was considered quite a literary achievement in those days, and father was extremely proud of her. She wrote a series of stories all connected with sport was considered quite a literary achievement in those days, and father was extremely proud of her. She wrote a series of stories all connected with sportThe Sixth Ball of the Over, A Rub of the Green, Ca.s.sie Plays Croquet, and others. They were amusing and witty. I re-read them about twenty years ago, and I thought then how well she wrote. I wonder if she would have gone on writing if she had not married. I don't think she ever saw herself seriously as a writer, she would probably have preferred to be a painter. She was one of those people who can do almost anything they put their mind to. She did not, as far as I remember, write any more short stories after she married, but about ten or fifteen years later she began to write for the stage. and others. They were amusing and witty. I re-read them about twenty years ago, and I thought then how well she wrote. I wonder if she would have gone on writing if she had not married. I don't think she ever saw herself seriously as a writer, she would probably have preferred to be a painter. She was one of those people who can do almost anything they put their mind to. She did not, as far as I remember, write any more short stories after she married, but about ten or fifteen years later she began to write for the stage. The Claimant The Claimant was produced by Basil Dean of the Royal Theatre with Leon Quartermayne and Fay Compton in it. She wrote one or two other plays, but they did not have London productions. She was also quite a good amateur actress herself, and acted with the Manchester Amateur Dramatic. There is no doubt that Madge was the talented member of our family. was produced by Basil Dean of the Royal Theatre with Leon Quartermayne and Fay Compton in it. She wrote one or two other plays, but they did not have London productions. She was also quite a good amateur actress herself, and acted with the Manchester Amateur Dramatic. There is no doubt that Madge was the talented member of our family.

I personally had no ambition. I knew that I was not very good at anything. Tennis and croquet I used to enjoy playing, but I never played them well. How much more interesting it would be if I could say that I always longed to be a writer, and was determined that someday I would succeed, but, honestly, such an idea never came into my head.

As it happened, I did did appear in print at the age of eleven. It came about in this way. The trams came to Ealingand local opinion immediately erupted into fury. A terrible thing to happen to Ealing; such a fine residential neighbourhood, such wide streets, such beautiful housesto have appear in print at the age of eleven. It came about in this way. The trams came to Ealingand local opinion immediately erupted into fury. A terrible thing to happen to Ealing; such a fine residential neighbourhood, such wide streets, such beautiful housesto have trams trams clanging up and down! The word Progress was uttered but howled down. Everyone wrote to the Press, to their M.P., to anyone they could think of to write to. Trams were commonthey were noisyeveryone's health would suffer. There was an excellent service of brilliant red buses, with Ealing on them in large letters, which ran from Ealing Broadway to Shepherds Bush, and another extremely useful bus, though more humble in appearance, which ran from Hanwell to Acton. And there was the good old-fashioned Great Western Railway; to say nothing of the District Railway. clanging up and down! The word Progress was uttered but howled down. Everyone wrote to the Press, to their M.P., to anyone they could think of to write to. Trams were commonthey were noisyeveryone's health would suffer. There was an excellent service of brilliant red buses, with Ealing on them in large letters, which ran from Ealing Broadway to Shepherds Bush, and another extremely useful bus, though more humble in appearance, which ran from Hanwell to Acton. And there was the good old-fashioned Great Western Railway; to say nothing of the District Railway.

Trams were simply not needed. But they came. Inexorably, they came, and there was weeping and gnashing of teethand Agatha had her first literary effort published, which was a poem I wrote on the first day of the running of the trams. There were four verses of it, and one of Grannie's old gentlemen, that gallant bodyguard of Generals, Lt.-Colonels, and Admirals, was persuaded by Grannie to visit the local newspaper office and suggest that it should be inserted. It wasand I can still remember the first verse: When first the electric trams did runIn all their scarlet glory,'Twas well, but ere the day was done,It was another story.

After which I went on to deride a 'shoe that pinched'. (There had been some electrical fault in a 'shoe', or whatever it was, which conveyed the electricity to the trams, so that after running for a few hours they broke down.) I was elated at seeing myself in print, but I cannot say that it led me to contemplate a literary career.

In fact I only contemplated one thinga happy marriage. About that I had complete self-a.s.suranceas all my friends did. We were conscious of all the happiness that awaited us; we looked forward to love, to being looked after, cherished and admired, and we intended to get our own way in the things which mattered to us while at the same time putting our husbands' life, career and success before all, as was our proud duty. We didn't need pep pills or sedatives; we had belief and joy in life. We had our own personal disappointmentsmoments of unhappinessbut on the whole life was fun. fun. Perhaps it is fun for girls nowadaysbut they certainly don't Perhaps it is fun for girls nowadaysbut they certainly don't look look as if it is. Howevera timely thoughtthey may enjoy melancholy; some people do. They may enjoy the emotional crises that seem always to be overwhelming them. They may even enjoy anxiety. That is certainly what we have nowadaysanxiety. My contemporaries were frequently badly off and couldn't have a quarter of the things they wanted. Why then did we have so much enjoyment? Was it some kind of sap rising in us that has ceased to rise now? Have we strangled or cut it off with education, and, worse, anxiety over education; anxiety as to what life holds for you.? as if it is. Howevera timely thoughtthey may enjoy melancholy; some people do. They may enjoy the emotional crises that seem always to be overwhelming them. They may even enjoy anxiety. That is certainly what we have nowadaysanxiety. My contemporaries were frequently badly off and couldn't have a quarter of the things they wanted. Why then did we have so much enjoyment? Was it some kind of sap rising in us that has ceased to rise now? Have we strangled or cut it off with education, and, worse, anxiety over education; anxiety as to what life holds for you.?

We were like obstreperous flowersoften weeds maybe, but nevertheless all of us growing exuberantlypressing violently up through cracks in pavements and flagstones, and in the most inauspicious places, determined to have our fill of life and enjoy ourselves, bursting out into the sunlight, until someone came and trod on us. Even bruised for a time, we would soon lift a head again. Nowadays, alas, life seems to apply weed killer (selective!)we have no chance to raise a head again. There are said to be those who are 'unfit for living'. No one would ever have told us us we were unfit for living. If they had, we shouldn't have believed it. Only a murderer was unfit for living. Nowadays a murderer is the one person you we were unfit for living. If they had, we shouldn't have believed it. Only a murderer was unfit for living. Nowadays a murderer is the one person you mustn't mustn't say is unfit for living. say is unfit for living.

The real excitement of being a girlof being, that is, a woman in embryowas that life was such a wonderful gamble. You didn't know what was going to happen to you. You didn't know what was going to happen to you. That was what made being a woman so exciting. No worry about what you should be or doBiology would decide. You were waiting for The Man, and when the man came, he would change your entire life. You can say what you like, that is an exciting point of view to hold at the threshold of life. What will happen? 'Perhaps I shall marry someone in the Diplomatic Service...I think I should like that; to go abroad and see all sorts of places...' Or: 'I don't think I would like to marry a sailor; you would have to spend such a lot of time living in seaside lodgings.' Or: 'Perhaps I'll marry someone who builds bridges, or an explorer.' The whole world was open to younot open to your That was what made being a woman so exciting. No worry about what you should be or doBiology would decide. You were waiting for The Man, and when the man came, he would change your entire life. You can say what you like, that is an exciting point of view to hold at the threshold of life. What will happen? 'Perhaps I shall marry someone in the Diplomatic Service...I think I should like that; to go abroad and see all sorts of places...' Or: 'I don't think I would like to marry a sailor; you would have to spend such a lot of time living in seaside lodgings.' Or: 'Perhaps I'll marry someone who builds bridges, or an explorer.' The whole world was open to younot open to your choice, choice, but open to what Fate but open to what Fate brought brought you. You might marry you. You might marry anyone; anyone; you might, of course, marry a drunkard or be very unhappy, but that only heightened the general feeling of excitement. And one wasn't marrying the profession, either; it was the you might, of course, marry a drunkard or be very unhappy, but that only heightened the general feeling of excitement. And one wasn't marrying the profession, either; it was the man. man. In the words of old nurses, nannies, cooks and housemaids: 'One day Mr Right will come along.' In the words of old nurses, nannies, cooks and housemaids: 'One day Mr Right will come along.'

I remember when I was very small seeing one of mother's prettier friends being helped to dress for a dance by old Hannah, Grannie's cook. She was being laced into a tight corset. 'Now then, Miss Phyllis,' said Hannah, 'brace your foot against the bed and lean backI'm going to pull. Hold your breath.'

'Oh Hannah, I can't bear it, I can't really. I can't breathe.' breathe.'

'Now don't you fret, my pet, you can breathe all right. You won't be able to eat much supper, and that's a good thing, because young ladies shouldn't be seen eating a lot; it's not delicate. You've got to behave like a proper young lady. You're all right. I'll just get the tape measure. There you arenineteen and a half. I could I could have got you to nineteen...' have got you to nineteen...'

'Nineteen and a half will do quite well,' gasped the sufferer.

'You'll be glad when you get there. Suppose this is the night that Mr Right's coming along? You wouldn't like to be there with a thick waist, would you, and let him see you like that?'

Mr Right. He was more elegantly referred to sometimes as 'Your Fate'. 'I don't know that I really want to go to this dance.'

'Oh yes, you do, dear. Think! You might meet Your Fate.'

And of course that is is what actually happens in life. Girls go to something they wanted to go to, or they didn't want to go to, it doesn't matter whichand there is their Fate. what actually happens in life. Girls go to something they wanted to go to, or they didn't want to go to, it doesn't matter whichand there is their Fate.

Of course, there were always girls who declared they were not going to marry, usually for some n.o.ble reason. Possibly they wished to become nuns or to nurse lepers, to do something grand and important, above all self-sacrificial. I think it was almost a necessary phase. An ardent wish to become a nun seems to be far more constant in Protestant than in Catholic girls. In Catholic girls it is, no doubt, more vocationalit is recognised as one of the ways of lifewhereas for a Protestant it has some aroma of religious mystery that makes it very desirable. A hospital nurse was also considered a heroic way of life, with all the prestige of Miss Nightingale behind it. But marriage was the main theme; whom you were going to marry the big question in life.

By the time I was thirteen or fourteen I felt myself enormously advanced in age and experience. I no longer thought of myself as protected by another person. I had my own protective feelings. I felt responsible for my mother. I also began to try to know myself, the sort of person I was, what I could attempt successfully, and the things I was no good at and that I must not waste time over. I knew that I was not quick-witted; I must give myself time to look at a problem carefully before deciding how I would deal with it.

I began to appreciate time. There is nothing more wonderful to have in one's life, than time. I don't believe people get enough of it nowadays. I was excessively fortunate in my childhood and youth, just because because I had so much time. You wake up in the morning, and even before you are properly awake you are saying to yourself: 'Now, what shall I do with today?' You have the choice, it is there, in front of you, and you can plan as you please. I don't mean that there were not a lot of things (duties, we called them) I had to doof course there were. There were jobs to be done in the house: days when you cleaned silver photograph frames, days when you darned your stockings, days when you learnt a chapter of I had so much time. You wake up in the morning, and even before you are properly awake you are saying to yourself: 'Now, what shall I do with today?' You have the choice, it is there, in front of you, and you can plan as you please. I don't mean that there were not a lot of things (duties, we called them) I had to doof course there were. There were jobs to be done in the house: days when you cleaned silver photograph frames, days when you darned your stockings, days when you learnt a chapter of Great Events in History, Great Events in History, a day when you had to go down the town and pay all the tradesmen's bills. Letters and notes to write, scales and exercises, embroiderybut they were all things that lay in my choice, to arrange as I pleased. I could plan my day, I could say, 'I think I'll leave my stockings until this afternoon; I will go down town in the morning and I will come back by the other road and see whether that tree had come into blossom yet.' a day when you had to go down the town and pay all the tradesmen's bills. Letters and notes to write, scales and exercises, embroiderybut they were all things that lay in my choice, to arrange as I pleased. I could plan my day, I could say, 'I think I'll leave my stockings until this afternoon; I will go down town in the morning and I will come back by the other road and see whether that tree had come into blossom yet.'

Always when I woke up, I had the feeling which I am sure must be natural to all of us, a joy in being alive. I don't say you feel it consciouslyyou don'tbut there you are, are, you are you are alive, alive, and you open your eyes, and here is another day; another step, as it were, on your journey to an unknown place. That very exciting journey which is your life. Not that it is necessarily going to be exciting and you open your eyes, and here is another day; another step, as it were, on your journey to an unknown place. That very exciting journey which is your life. Not that it is necessarily going to be exciting as as a life, but it will be exciting to you because it is a life, but it will be exciting to you because it is your your life. That is one of the great secrets of existence, enjoying the gift of life that has been given to you. life. That is one of the great secrets of existence, enjoying the gift of life that has been given to you.

Not every day is necessarily enjoyable. After the first delightful feeling of 'Another day! How wonderful!' you remember you have to go to the dentist at 10.30, and that is not nearly so good. But the first first waking feeling has been there, and that acts as a useful booster. Naturally, a lot depends on temperament. You are a happy person, or you are of a melancholic disposition. I don't know that you can do anything about waking feeling has been there, and that acts as a useful booster. Naturally, a lot depends on temperament. You are a happy person, or you are of a melancholic disposition. I don't know that you can do anything about that that. I think it is the way one is madeyou are either happy until something arises to make you unhappy or else you are melancholy until something distracts you from it. Naturally happy people can be unhappy and melancholic people enjoy themselves. But if I were taking a gift to a child at a christening that is what I would choose: a naturally happy frame of mind.

There seems to me to be an odd a.s.sumption that there is something meritorious about working. Why? In early times man went out to hunt animals in order to feed himself and keep alive. Later, he toiled over crops, and sowed and ploughed for the same reason. Nowadays, he rises early, catches the 8.15, and sits in an office all daystill for the same reason. He does it to feed himself and have a roof over his headand, if skilled and lucky, to go a bit further and have comfort and entertainment as well.

It's economic and necessary. But why is it meritorious? meritorious? The old nursery adage used to be 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do'. Presumably little Georgie Stephenson was enjoying idleness when he observed his mother's tea-kettle lid rising and falling. Having nothing at the moment to do, he began to have ideas about it... The old nursery adage used to be 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do'. Presumably little Georgie Stephenson was enjoying idleness when he observed his mother's tea-kettle lid rising and falling. Having nothing at the moment to do, he began to have ideas about it...

I don't think necessity is the mother of inventioninvention, in my opinion, arises directly from idleness, possibly also from laziness. To save oneself trouble. To save oneself trouble. That is the big secret that has brought us down the ages hundreds of thousands of years, from chipping flints to switching on the washing up machine. That is the big secret that has brought us down the ages hundreds of thousands of years, from chipping flints to switching on the washing up machine.

The position of women, over the years, has definitely changed for the worse. We women have behaved like mugs. We have clamoured to be allowed to work as men work. Men, not being fools, have taken kindly to the idea. Why support a wife? What's wrong with a wife supporting herself? herself? She She wants wants to do it. By Golly, she can go on doing it! to do it. By Golly, she can go on doing it!

It seems sad that having established ourselves so cleverly as the 'weaker s.e.x', we should now be broadly on a par with the women of primitive tribes who toil in the fields all day, walk miles to gather camel-thorn for fuel, and on trek carry all the pots, pans and household equipment on their heads, whilst the gorgeous, ornamental male sweeps on ahead, unburdened save for one lethal weapon with which to defend his women.

You've got to hand it to Victorian women; they got their menfolk where they wanted them. They established their fraility, delicacy, sensibilitytheir constant need of being protected and cherished. Did they lead miserable, servile lives, downtrodden and oppressed? Such is not my my recollection of them. All my grandmothers' friends seem to me in retrospect singularly resilient and almost invariably successful in getting their own way. They were tough, self-willed, and remarkably well-read and well-informed. recollection of them. All my grandmothers' friends seem to me in retrospect singularly resilient and almost invariably successful in getting their own way. They were tough, self-willed, and remarkably well-read and well-informed.

Mind you, they admired their men enormously. They genuinely thought men were splendid fellowsdashing, inclined to be wicked, easily led astray. In daily life a woman got her own way whilst paying due lip service to male superiority, so that her husband should not lose face.

'Your father knows best, dear,' was the public formula. The real approach came privately. 'I'm sure you are quite quite right in what you said, John, but I wonder if you have considered...' right in what you said, John, but I wonder if you have considered...'

In one respect man was paramount. He was the Head of the House. A woman, when she married, accepted as her destiny his his place in the world and place in the world and his his way of life. That seems to me sound sense and the foundation of happiness. If you can't face your man's way of life, don't take that jobin other words, don't marry that man. Here, say, is a wholesale draper; he is a Roman Catholic; he prefers to live in a suburb; he plays golf and he likes to go for holidays to the sea side. way of life. That seems to me sound sense and the foundation of happiness. If you can't face your man's way of life, don't take that jobin other words, don't marry that man. Here, say, is a wholesale draper; he is a Roman Catholic; he prefers to live in a suburb; he plays golf and he likes to go for holidays to the sea side. That That is what you are marrying. Make up your mind to it and like it. It won't be so difficult. is what you are marrying. Make up your mind to it and like it. It won't be so difficult.

It is astonishing how much you can enjoy almost everything. There are few things more desirable than to be an acceptor and an enjoyer. You can like and enjoy almost any kind of food or way of life. You can enjoy country life, dogs, muddy walks; towns, noise, people, clatter. In the one there is repose, ease for nerves, time for reading, knitting, embroidery, and the pleasure of growing things. In the other theatres, art galleries, good concerts, and seeing friends you would otherwise seldom see. I am happy to say that I can enjoy almost everything.

Once when I was travelling by train to Syria, I was much entertained by a fellow traveller's dissertation on the stomach.

'My dear,' she said, 'never give in to your stomach. If a certain thing doesn't agree with you, say to yourself "Who's going to be master, me or my stomach?"'

'But what do you actually do about it?' I asked with curiosity.

'Any stomach can be trained. Very small doses at first. It doesn't matter what it is. Eggs, now, used to make me sick, and toasted cheese gave me the most terrible pains. But just a spoonful or two of boiled egg two or three times a week, and then a little more scrambled egg and so on. And now I can eat any amount of eggs. It's been just the same with toasted cheese. Remember this, your stomach's a good servant, but a bad master.' your stomach's a good servant, but a bad master.'