III
Arriving home may have started with joyous reunions, but reality soon raised its ugly head. We were without any money at all. Archiea€?s job with Mr Goldstein was a thing of the past and another young man was now installed in his place. I still had, of course, my grandfathera€?s nest-egg, so we could count on ?￡100 a year, but Archie hated the idea of touching any of the capital. He must get a job of some kind, and at once, before demands for rent, Cuckooa€?s salary, and the weekly food bills began to come in. Finding a job was not easya€“in fact it was even more difficult than it had been immediately after the war. My memories of that particular crisis are by now fortunately dim. I do know that it was an unhappy time because Archie was unhappy, and Archie was one of those people whom unhappiness does not suit. He knew this himself. I remember he had once warned me in the early days of our marriage: a€?Ia€?m no good, remember, if things go wrong. Ia€?m not much good in illness, I dona€?t like ill people, and I cana€?t bear people to be unhappy or upset.a€?
We had taken our risk with our eyes open, content to take our chance. All that we could do now was to accept that the enjoyment was over and that the payment, in worry, frustration, etc., had now begun. I felt too, very inadequate, because I seemed to be of such little help to Archie. We would face all this together, I had told myself. I had to accept almost from the first that he would be every day in a state of irritation, or else completely silent and sunk in melancholy. If I attempted to be cheerful I was told I had no sense of the gravity of the position; if I was gloomy I was told, a€?No use pulling a long face. You knew what you were letting yourself in for!a€In fact, nothing I could do seemed to be right.
Finally Archie said firmly, a€?Look here, what I really want you to do, the only thing that would help at all, is to go right away.a€?
a€?Go right awayWhere?a€?
a€?I dona€?t know. Go to Punkiea€“shea€?d be pleased to have you and Rosalind. Or go home to your mother.a€?
a€?But, Archie, I want to be with you; I want to share thisa€“cana€?t weCana€?t we share it togetherIsna€?t there something I could do?a€?
Nowadays I suppose I could have said, a€?Ia€?ll get a job,a€but it was not a thing one even thought of saying in 1923. In the war there had been WAAFs, WRAFS, and WAACs, or jobs in munitions factories, or in the hospitals. But they were temporary; There were no jobs for women now in offices or ministries. Shops were fully staffed. Still I dug my toes in, and refused to go away. I could at least cook and clean. We had now no maid. I kept quiet and well out of Archiea€?s way, which seemed the only attitude that was of any help to him.
He roamed round the City offices and saw various people who might know of a job that was going. In the end he got one. It was not one that he likeda€“indeed he was slightly apprehensive about the firm that engaged him: they were, he said, well known to be crooks. They kept for the most part on the right side of the law, but one never knew. a€?The point is,a€said Archie, a€?that Ia€?ll have to be very careful that they dona€?t ever leave me holding the can.a€Anyway, it was employment and brought some money in, and Archiea€?s mood improved. He was even able to find some of his daily experiences funny.
I tried to settle down to do some writing, since I felt that that was the only thing I could do that might bring in a little money. I still had no idea of writing as a profession. The stories published in The Sketch had encouraged me: that had been real money coming directly to me. Those stories, however, had been bought, paid for, and the money spent by now. I settled down and started to write another book.
Belcher had urged me, when we dined with him at his house, the Mill House at Dorney, before our trip, to write a detective story about it. a€?The Mystery of the Mill House,a€he said. a€?Jolly good titlea€“dona€?t you think?a€?
I said yes, I thought Mystery in the Mill House or Murder in the Mill House would be very good, and I would consider the matter. When we had started on our tour he often referred to the subject.
a€?But mind you,a€he said, a€?if you write The Mystery of the Mill House Ia€?ve got to be in it.a€?
a€?I dona€?t think I could put you in it,a€I said. a€?I cana€?t do anything with real people. I have to imagine them.a€?
a€?Nonsense,a€said Belcher. a€?I dona€?t mind if it isna€?t particularly like me, but Ia€?ve always wanted to be in a detective story.a€At intervals he would ask: a€?Have you begun that book of yours yetAm I in it?a€At one moment, when we were feeling exasperated, I said: a€?Yes. Youa€?re the victim.a€?
a€?WhatDo you mean Ia€?m the chap that gets murdered?a€?
a€?Yes,a€I said, with some pleasure.
a€?I dona€?t want to be the victim,a€said Belcher. a€?In fact I wona€?t be the victima€“I insist on being the murderer.a€?
a€?Why do you want to be the murderer?a€?
a€?Because the murderer is always the most interesting character in the book. So youa€?ve got to make me the murderer, Agathaa€“do you understand?a€?
a€?I understand that you want to be the murderer,a€I said, choosing my words carefully. In the end, in a moment of weakness, I promised that he should be the murderer. I had sketched out the plot of this book when I was in South Africa. It was to be again, I decided, more in the nature of a thriller than a detective story, comprising a good deal of the South African scene. There was some kind of revolutionary crisis on while we were there, and I noted down a few useful facts. I pictured my heroine as a gay, adventurous, young woman, an orphan, who started out to seek adventure. Tentatively writing a chapter or two, I found it terribly difficult to make the picture based on Belcher come alive. I could not write about him objectively and make him anything but a complete dummy. Then suddenly an idea came to me. The book should be written in the first person, alternately by the heroine, Ann, and the villain, Belcher.
a€?I dona€?t believe he will like being the villain,a€I said to Archie dubiously.
a€?Give him a title,a€suggested Archie. a€?I think hea€?d like that.a€So he was christened Sir Eustace Pedler, and I found that if I made Sir Eustace Pedler write his own script the character began to come alive. He wasna€?t Belcher, of course, but he used several of Belchera€?s phrases, and told some of Belchera€?s stories. He too was a master of the art of bluff, and behind the bluff could easily be sensed an unscrupulous and interesting character. Soon I had forgotten Belcher and had Sir Eustace Pedler himself wielding the pen. It is, I think, the only time I have tried to put a real person whom I knew well into a book, and I dona€?t think it succeeded. Belcher didna€?t come to life, but someone called Sir Eustace Pedler did. I suddenly found that the book was becoming rather fun to write. I only hoped The Bodley Head would approve of it. My chief handicap in the writing of this book was Cuckoo. Cuckoo, of course, in the habit of nurses in those days, did no kind of housework, cooking, or cleaning. She was a childa€?s nurse; she cleaned her own nursery and did the little deara€?s washing, but that was all. I did not expect anything else, and I arranged my day quite well. Archie only came home in the evening, and Rosalind and Cuckooa€?s lunch was simple and easy to deal with. That left me time in the mornings and afternoons to put in two or three hours work. Cuckoo and Rosalind were then en route to the park or to some shopping programme outdoors. However, there were, of course, wet days when they had to remain in the flat, and although the point was made that a€?Mummy is workinga€Cuckoo was not so easily diverted. She would stand outside the door of the room where I was writing, and keep up a kind of soliloquy, ostensibly addressed to Rosalind.
a€?Now, little dear, we mustna€?t make a noise, must we, because Mummy is working. We mustna€?t disturb Mummy when shea€?s working, must weThough I should like to ask her if I should send that dress of yours to the laundry. I do think, you know, that ita€?s not one I can manage very well myself. Well, we must remember to ask her at teatime, mustna€?t we, little dearI mean we mustna€?t go in now and ask her, must weOh no, she wouldna€?t like that, would sheThen I want to ask about the pram too, You know it lost a nut again yesterday. Well, perhaps, little dear, we could make one little tap at the door. Now what do you think, little dear?a€Usually Rosalind would make a brief response which had no connection with what was being discussed, confirming me in my belief that she never listened to Cuckoo.
a€?Blue Teddy is going to have his dinner now,a€she would declare. Rosalind had been given dolls, a dollsa€house, and various other toys, but she only really cared for animals. She had a silk creature called Blue Teddy, and another called Red Teddy, and these were joined later by a much larger rather sickly mauve teddy bear called Edward Bear. Of these three Rosalind loved with a complete and utter passion Blue Teddy. He was a limp animal, made of blue stockinette silk, with black eyes set flat into his flat face. He accompanied her everywhere, and I had to tell stories about him every night. The stories concerned both Blue Teddy and Red Teddy. Every night they had a fresh adventure. Blue Teddy was good and Red Teddy was very, very naughty. Red Teddy did some splendidly naughty things, such as putting glue on the school-teachera€?s chair so that when she sat down she could not get up again. One day he put a frog in the school-teachera€?s pocket, and she screamed and had hysterics. These tales met with great approval, and frequently I had to repeat them. Blue Teddy was of a nauseating and priggish virtue. He was top of his class in school and never did a naughty deed of any kind. Every day, when the boys left for school, Red Teddy promised his mother that he would be good today. On their return their mother would ask, a€?Have you been a good boy, Blue Teddy?a€?
a€?Yes, Mummy, very good.a€?
a€?Thata€?s my dear boy. Have you been good, Red Teddy?a€?
a€?No, Mummy, I have been very naughty.a€On one occasion Red Teddy had gone fighting with some bad boys and come home with an enormous black eye. A piece of fresh steak was put on it and he was sent to bed. Later Red Teddy blotted his copybook still further by eating the piece of steak that had been placed on his eye. Nobody could have been more delightful to tell stories to than Rosalind. She chuckled, laughed, and appreciated every minor point.
a€?Yes, little deara€?a€“Cuckoo, showing no signs of helping Rosalind to give Blue Teddy his dinner, continued to quacka€“a€?Perhaps before we go we might just ask Mummy, if it doesna€?t disturb her, because you know I would like to know about the pram.a€At this point, maddened, I would rise from my chair, all ideas of Ann in deadly peril in the forests of Rhodesia going out of my mind, and jerk open the door.
What is it, NurseWhat do you want?a€?
a€?Oh, Ia€?m so sorry, Maa€?am. I am very sorry indeed. I didna€?t mean to disturb you.a€?
a€?Well, you have disturbed me. What is it?a€?
a€?Oh, but I didna€?t knock on the door or anything.a€?
a€?Youa€?ve been talking outside,a€I said, a€?and I can hear every word you say. What is the matter with the pram?a€?
a€?Well, I do think, Maa€?am, that we really ought to have a new pram. You know Ia€?m quite ashamed going to the park and seeing all the nice prams that the other little girls have. Oh yes indeed, I do feel that Miss Rosalind ought to have as good as anyone.a€Nurse and I had a permanent battle about Rosalinda€?s pram. We had originally bought it second-hand. It was a good, strong pram, perfectly comfortable; but it was not what could be called smart. There is a fashion in prams, I learned, and every year or two the makers give them a different a€?linea€?, a different cut of the jib, as it werea€“very much, of course, like motor cars nowadays. Jessie Swannell had not complained, but Jessie Swannell had come from Nigeria, and it is possible that they did not keep up so much with the Joneses in prams out there. I was to realise now that Cuckoo was a member of that sorority of nurses who met in Kensington Gardens with their infant charges, where they would sit down and compare notes as to the merits of their situations and the beauty and cleverness of their particular child. The baby had to be well dressed, in the proper fashion for babies at that moment, or Nurse would be shamed. That was all right. Rosalinda€?s clothes passed muster. The overalls and dresses I had made her in Canada were the dernier cri in childrena€?s wear. The cocks and hens and pots of flowers on their black background filled everybody with admiration and envy. But where smart prams were concerned, poor Cuckooa€?s pram was regrettably below the proper standard, and she never missed telling me when somebody had come along with a brand new vehicle. a€?Any nurse would be proud of a pram like that!a€However, I was hard-hearted. We were very badly off, and I was not going to get a fancy pram at large expense just to indulge Cuckooa€?s vanity.
a€?I dona€?t even think that prama€?s safe,a€said Cuckoo, making a last try. a€?Therea€?s always nuts coming off.a€?
a€?Thata€?s going on and off the pavement so much,a€I said. a€?You dona€?t screw them up before you go out. In any case, I am not going to get a new pram.a€And I went in again and banged the door.
a€?Dear, dear,a€said Cuckoo. a€?Mummy doesna€?t seem at all pleased, does sheWell, my poor little dear, it doesna€?t seem as if wea€?re going to have a nice new carriage, does it?a€?
a€?Blue Teddy wants his dinner,a€said Rosalind. a€?Come along, Nanny.a€?