The Burden. Агата Кристи
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reason?’
‘Well—’ Mr Baldock rubbed his nose again. ‘For one thing I wanted to see what you’d say.’ He nodded his head. ‘You came through that one very well. Very well indeed …’
Laura stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘I had another reason. If you and I are going to be friends, and it rather looks as though things are tending that way, then you’ve got to accept me as I am—a rude, ungracious old curmudgeon. See? No good expecting pretty speeches. “Dear child—so pleased to see you—been looking forward to your coming.”’
Mr Baldock repeated these last phrases in a high falsetto tone of unmitigated contempt. A ripple passed over Laura’s grave face. She laughed.
‘That would be funny,’ she said.
‘It would indeed. Very funny.’
Laura’s gravity returned. She looked at him speculatively.
‘Do you think we are going to be friends?’ she inquired.
‘It’s a matter for mutual agreement. Do you care for the idea?’
Laura considered.
‘It seems—a little odd,’ she said dubiously. ‘I mean, friends are usually children who come and play games with you.’
‘You won’t find me playing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”, and don’t you think it!’
‘That’s only for babies,’ said Laura reprovingly.
‘Our friendship would be definitely on an intellectual plane,’ said Mr Baldock.
Laura looked pleased.
‘I don’t really know quite what that means,’ she said, ‘but I think I like the sound of it.’
‘It means,’ said Mr Baldock, ‘that when we meet we discuss subjects which are of interest to both of us.’
‘What kind of subjects?’
‘Well—food, for instance. I’m fond of food. I expect you are, too. But as I’m sixty-odd, and you’re—what is it, ten? I’ve no doubt that our ideas on the matter will differ. That’s interesting. Then there will be other things—colours—flowers—animals—English history.’
‘You mean things like Henry the Eighth’s wives?’
‘Exactly. Mention Henry the Eighth to nine people out of ten, and they’ll come back at you with his wives. It’s an insult to a man who was called the Fairest Prince in Christendom, and who was a statesman of the first order of craftiness, to remember him only by his matrimonial efforts to get a legitimate male heir. His wretched wives are of no importance whatever historically.’
‘Well, I think his wives were very important.’
‘There you are!’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Discussion.’
‘I should like to have been Jane Seymour.’
‘Now why her?’
‘She died,’ said Laura ecstatically.
‘So did Nan Bullen and Katherine Howard.’
‘They were executed. Jane was only married to him for a year, and she had a baby and died, and everyone must have been terribly sorry.’
‘Well—that’s a point of view. Come in the other room and see if we’ve got anything for tea.’
‘It’s a wonderful tea,’ said Laura ecstatically.
Her eyes roamed over currant buns, jam roll, éclairs, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate biscuits and a large indigestible-looking rich black plum cake.
She gave a sudden little giggle.
‘You did expect me,’ she said. ‘Unless—do you have a tea like this every day?’
‘God forbid,’ said Mr Baldock.
They sat down companionably. Mr Baldock had six cucumber sandwiches, and Laura had four éclairs, and a selection of everything else.
‘Got a good appetite, I’m glad to see, young Laura,’ said Mr Baldock appreciatively as they finished.
‘I’m always hungry,’ said Laura, ‘and I’m hardly ever sick. Charles used to be sick.’
‘Hm … Charles. I suppose you miss Charles a lot?’
‘Oh yes, I do. I do, really.’
Mr Baldock’s bushy grey eyebrows rose.
‘All right. All right. Who says you don’t miss him?’
‘Nobody. And I do—I really do.’
He nodded gravely in answer to her earnestness, and watched her. He was wondering.
‘It was terribly sad, his dying like that.’ Laura’s voice unconsciously reproduced the tones of another voice, some adult voice, which had originally uttered the phrase.
‘Yes, very sad.’
‘Terribly sad for Mummy and Daddy. Now—I’m all they’ve got in the world.’
‘So that’s it?’
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
She had gone into her private dream world. ‘Laura, my darling. You’re all I have—my only child—my treasure …’
‘Bad butter,’ said Mr Baldock. It was one of his expressions of perturbation. ‘Bad butter! Bad butter!’ He shook his head vexedly.
‘Come out in the garden, Laura,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a look at the roses. Tell me what you do with yourself all day.’
‘Well, in the morning Miss Weekes comes and we do lessons.’
‘That old Tabby!’
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘She’s got Girton written all over her. Mind you never go to Girton, Laura!’
‘What’s Girton?’
‘It’s a woman’s college. At Cambridge. Makes my flesh creep when I think about it!’
‘I’m going to boarding school when I’m twelve.’
‘Sinks of iniquity, boarding schools!’
‘Don’t you think I’ll like it?’
‘I dare say you’ll like it all right. That’s just the danger! Hacking other girls’ ankles with a hockey stick, coming home with a crush on the music mistress, going on to Girton or Somerville as likely as not. Oh well, we’ve got a couple of years still, before the worst happens. Let’s make the most of it. What are you going to do when you grow up? I suppose you’ve got some notions about it?’
‘I did think that I might go and nurse lepers—’
‘Well, that’s harmless enough. Don’t bring one home and put him in your husband’s bed, though. St Elizabeth of Hungary did that. Most misguided zeal. A Saint of God, no doubt, but a very inconsiderate wife.’
‘I shall never marry,’ said Laura in a voice of renunciation.
‘No? Oh, I think I should marry if I were you. Old maids are worse than married women in my opinion. Hard luck on some man, of course, but I dare say you’d make a better wife than many.’
‘It wouldn’t be right. I must look after Mummy and Daddy in their old age. They’ve got nobody but me.’
‘They’ve got a cook and a house-parlourmaid and a gardener, and a good income, and plenty of friends. They’ll be all right. Parents have to put up with their children leaving them when the time