The Moving Finger. Агата Кристи
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and Mr Pye. It was Symmington’s task to pour oil on troubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play ‘a plucky game’. Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were. Aimée Griffith’s play can be summed up in her own words. ‘I like a good game of bridge with no nonsense—and I don’t play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, it’s only a game!’ It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.
Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.
Tea was laid in the dining-room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.
Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.
‘Oh,’ said her mother. ‘Here’s Megan.’
Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.
The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.
‘I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,’ said Mrs Symmington. ‘Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.’
Megan nodded.
‘That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.’
She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.
Mrs Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:
‘My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re properly grown up.’
I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.
‘But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.’ She laughed again. ‘I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Joanna. ‘After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,’ said Mrs Symmington.
It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:
‘My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something for her to do—I believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she might try and learn shorthand and typing.’
The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:
‘I suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?’
‘A dance?’ Mrs Symmington seemed surprised and amused. ‘Oh, no, we don’t do things like that down here.’
‘I see. Just tennis parties and things like that.’
‘Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up—Oh, Megan will find plenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.’
As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:
‘I feel awfully sorry for that girl.’
‘Megan?’
‘Yes. Her mother doesn’t like her.’
‘Oh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.’
‘Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don’t like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the pattern—the Symmington pattern. It’s a complete unit without her—and that’s a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have—and she is sensitive.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think she is.’
I was silent a moment.
Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.
‘Bad luck for you about the governess.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said with dignity.
‘Nonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘But I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked at that remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, too—absolutely God’s gift to a sick man.’
‘Your conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.’
My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.
‘So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and others haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says “Foul weather” so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, “I can’t think what the men see in her. She isn’t even good looking!”’
‘Have you quite finished, Joanna?’
‘Well, you do agree, don’t you?’
I grinned. ‘I’ll admit to disappointment.’
‘And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith.’
‘God forbid,’ I said.
‘She’s quite good looking, you know.’
‘Too much of an Amazon for me.’
‘She seems to enjoy her life, all right,’ said Joanna. ‘Absolutely disgustingly hearty, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.’
‘And what are you going to do for yourself?’ I asked.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You’ll need a little distraction down here if I know you.’
‘Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.’ Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.
‘I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days you’ll be saying, “Paul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.”’
‘You think I’m completely fickle,’ said Joanna.
‘When people like Paul are in question, I’m only too