Agahta Christie_ An autobiography

VI

It was a horrible moment when I first lifted the telephone on my arrival in London. I had had no news now for five days. Oh, the relief when my sistera€?s voice told me that Rosalind was much better, out of danger, and making a rapid recovery. Within six hours I was in Cheshire.

Although Rosalind was obviously mending fast, it was a shock to see her. I had had little experience then of the rapidity with which children go up and down in illness. Most of my nursing experience had been amongst grown men, and the frightening way in which children can look half dead one moment and in the pink the next was practically unknown to me. Rosalind had the appearance of having grown much taller and thinner, and the listless way she lay back in an arm-chair was so unlike my girl.

The most notable characteristic of Rosalind was her energy. She was the kind of child who was never still for a moment; who, if you returned from a long and gruelling picnic, would say brightly: a€?Therea€?s at least half an hour before supper-what can we doIt was not unusual to come round the corner of the house and find her standing on her head.

a€?What on earth are you doing that for, Rosalind?a€?

a€?Oh, I dona€?t know, just putting in time. One must do somethingBut here was Rosalind lying back, looking frail and delicate, and completely devoid of energy. All my sister said was, a€?You should have seen her a week ago. She really looked like death.a€?

Rosalind mended remarkably quickly. Within a week of my return she was down in Devonshire, at Ashfield, and seemed almost back to her old selfa€“though I did my best to restrain her from the perpetual motion which she wished to renew.

Apparently Rosalind had gone back to school in good health and spirits. All had gone well until an epidemic of influenza passed over the school, and half the children went down with it. I suppose flu on top of the natural weakness after measles had led to pneumonia. Everybody was worried about her though a little doubtful about my sistera€?s removing her by car to the north. But Punkie had insisted, being sure that it was the best thinga€“and so indeed it had proved to be.

Nobody could have made a better recovery than Rosalind did. The doctor pronounced her as strong and fit as she had ever beena€“if not more so, a€?She seems,a€he added, a€?a very live wire.a€I assured him that toughness had always been one of Rosalinda€?s qualities. She was never one to admit she was ill. In the Canary Islands, she had suffered from tonsilitis but never breathed a word about it except to say: a€?I am feeling very crossI had learnt by experience that when Rosalind said she was feeling very cross, there were two possibilities: either she was ill or it was a literal statement of facta€“she was feeling cross, and thought it only fair to warn us of the fact.

Mothers are, of course, partial towards their children-why should they not bea€“but I cannot help believing that my daughter was more fun than most. She had a great talent for the unexpected answer. So often you know beforehand what children are going to say, but Rosalind usually surprised me. Possibly it was the Irish in her. Archiea€?s mother was Irish, and I think it was from the Irish side of her ancestry that she got her unexpectedness.

a€?Of course,a€said Carlo to me with that air of impartiality she liked to assume, a€?Rosalind can be maddening sometimes. I get furious with her.

All the same I find other children very boring after her. She may be maddening, but she is never boring.a€That, I think, has held true throughout her fife.

We are all the same people as we were at three, six, ten or twenty years old. More noticeably so, perhaps, at six or seven, because we were not pretending so much then, whereas at twenty we put on a show of being someone else, of being in the mode of the moment. If there is an intellectual fashion, you become an intellectual; if girls are fluffy and frivolous, you are fluffy and frivolous. As life goes on, however, it becomes tiring to keep up the character you invented for yourself, and so you relapse into individuality and become more like yourself every day. This is sometimes disconcerting for those around you, but a great relief to the person concerned.

I wonder if the same holds good for writing. Certainly, when you begin to write, you are usually in the throes of admiration for some writer, and, whether you will or no, you cannot help copying their style. Often it is not a style that suits you, and so you write badly. But as time goes on you are less influenced by admiration. You still admire certain writers, you may even wish you could write like them, but you know quite well that you cana€?t. Presumably, you have learnt literary humility. If I could write like Elizabeth Bowen, Muriel Spark or Graham Greene, I should jump to high heaven with delight, but I know that I cana€?t, and it would never occur to me to attempt to copy them. I have learnt that I am me, that I can do the things that, as one might put it, me can do, but I cannot do the things that me would like to do. As the Bible say, a€?Who by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature?a€?

Often there flashes through my head a picture of the plate which hung upon my nursery wall: one which I think I must have won at a coconut shy at one of the regattas. a€?Be a wheel-greaser if you cana€?t drive a traina€is written across ita€“and never was there a better motto with which to go through life. I think I have kept to it. I have had a few tries at this and that, mind you, but I have never stuck to trying to do things which I do badly, and for which I do not have a natural aptitude. Rumer Godden, in one of her books, once wrote down a list of the things she liked and the things she didna€?t like. I found it entertaining, and immediately wrote down a list of my own. I think I could add to that now by writing down things I cana€?t do and things I can do. Naturally, the first list is much the longer.

I was never good at games; I am not and never shall be a good conversationalist;

I am so easily suggestible that I have to get away by myself before I know what I really think or need to do. I cana€?t draw; I cana€?t paint; I cana€?t model or do any kind of sculpture; I cana€?t hurry without getting rattled; I cana€?t say what I mean easily-I can write it better.

I can stand fast on a matter of principle, but not on anything else. Although I know tomorrow is Tuesday, if somebody tells me more than four times that tomorrow is Wednesday, after the fourth time I shall accept that it is Wednesday, and act accordingly.

What can I doWell, I can write. I could be a reasonable musician, but not a professional one. I am a good accompanist to singers. I can improvise things when in difficultiesa€“this has been a most useful accomplishment; the things I can do with hairpins and safety pins when in domestic difficulties would surprise you. It was I who fashioned bread into a sticky pill, stuck it on a hairpin, attached the hairpin with sealing wax on the end of a window pole, and managed to pick up my mothera€?s false teeth from where they had fallen on to the conservatory roof!

I successfully chloroformed a hedgehog that was entangled in the tennis net and so managed to release it. I can claim to be useful about the house.

And so on and so forth. And now for what I like and dona€?t like.

I dona€?t like crowds, being jammed up against people, loud voices, noise, protracted talking, parties, and especially cocktail parties, cigarette smoke and smoking generally, any kind of drink except in cooking, marmalade, oysters, lukewarm food, grey skies, the feet of birds, or indeed the feel of a bird altogether. Final and fiercest dislike: the taste and smell of hot milk.

I like sunshine, apples, almost any kind of music, railway trains, numerical puzzles and anything to do with numbers, going to the sea, bathing and swimming, silence, sleeping, dreaming, eating, the smell of coffee, lilies of the valley, most dogs, and going to the theatre.

I could make much better lists, much grander-sounding, much more important, but there again it wouldna€?t be me, and I suppose I must resign myself to being me.



Now that I was starting life again, I had to take stock of my friends. All that I had gone through made for a kind of acid test. Carlo and I compiled between us two orders: the Order of the Rats and the Order of the Faithful Dogs. We would sometimes say of someone, a€?Oh yes, we will give him the Order of the Faithful Dogs, first class,a€or, a€?We will give him the Order of the Rats, third class.a€There were not many Rats, but there were some rather unexpected ones: people who you had thought were your true friends, but who turned out anxious to disassociate themselves from anybody who had attracted notoriety of the wrong sort. This discovery, of course, made me more sensitive and more inclined to withdraw from people. On the other hand, I found many most unexpected friends, completely loyal, who showed me more affection and kindness than they had ever done before.

I think I admire loyalty almost more than any other virtue. Loyalty and courage are two of the finest things there are. Any kind of courage, physical or moral, arouses my utmost admiration. It is one of the most important virtues to bring to life. If you can bear to live at all, you can bear to live with courage. It is a must.

I found many worthy members of the Order of Faithful Dogs amongst my men friends. There are faithful Dobbins in most womena€?s lives, and I was particularly touched by one of these who arrived at a Dobbin-like gallop. He sent me enormous bunches of flowers, wrote me letters, and finally asked me to marry him. He was a widower, and some years older than I was. He told me that when he had first met me earlier, he had thought me far too young, but that now he could make me happy and give me a good home. I was touched by this, but I had no wish to marry him, nor indeed had I ever had any such feelings towards him. He had been a good, kind friend, and that was all. It is heartening to know that someone caresa€“but it is most foolish to marry someone simply because you wish to be comforted, or to have a shoulder to cry upon.

In any case, I did not wish to be comforted. I was scared of marriage.

I realised, as I suppose many women realise sooner or later, that the only person who can really hurt you in life is a husband. Nobody else is close enough. On nobody else are you so dependent for the everyday companionship, affection, and all that makes up marriage. Never again, I decided, would I put myself at anyonea€?s mercy.

One of my Air Force friends in Baghdad had said something to me that disquieted me. He had been discussing his own marital difficulties, and said at the end: a€?You think you have arranged your life, and that you can carry it on in the way you mean to do, but it will come to one of two things in the end. You will have either to take a lover or to take several lovers.

You can make a choice between those two.a€Sometimes I had an uneasy feeling that what he said was right. But better either of those alternatives, I thought, than marriage. Several lovers could not hurt you. One lover could, but not in the way a husband could. For me, husbands would be out. At the moment all men were outa€“but that, my Air Force friend had insisted, would not last.

What did surprise me was the amount of passes that were made as soon as I was in the slightly equivocal position of being separated from or having divorced a husband. One young man said to me, with the air of finding me thoroughly unreasonable: a€?Well, youa€?re separated from your husband, and I gather probably divorcing him, so what else can you expect?a€?

At first I couldna€?t make up my mind whether I was pleased or annoyed by these attentions. I thought on the whole that I was pleased. One is never too old to be insulted. On the other hand it made sometimes for tiresome complicationsa€“in one case with an Italian. I brought it on myself by not understanding Italian conventions. He asked me if I found the noise of the coaling of the boat kept me awake at night, and I said no because my cabin was on the starboard side away from the quay. a€?Oh,a€he said, a€?I thought you had cabin thirty-three.a€a€?Oh no,a€I said, a€?minea€?s an even number: sixty-eight.a€That was surely an innocent enough conversation from my point of viewI did not realise that to ask the number of your cabin was the convention by which an Italian asked if he might visit you there. Nothing more was said, but some time after midnight my Italian appeared. A very funny scene ensued. I did not speak Italian, he spoke hardly any English, so we both argued in furious whispers in French, I expressing indignation, he also expressing indignation but of a different kind. The conversation ran something like:

a€?How dare you come to my cabin.a€?

a€?You invited me here.a€?

a€?I did nothing of the sort.a€?

a€?You did. You told me your cabin number was sixty-eight.a€?

a€?Well, you asked me what it was.a€?

a€?Of course I asked you what it was. I asked you what it was because I wanted to come to your cabin. And you told me I could.a€?

a€?I did nothing of the sort.a€?

This proceeded for some time, every now and then rising heatedly, until I hushed him down. I was quite sure that a rather prim Embassy doctor and his wife, who were in the next cabin to me, were forming the worst possible conjectures. I urged him angrily to go away. He insisted that he should stay. In the end his indignation rose to the point when it became greater than mine, and I began apologising to him for not realising that his question had been in effect a proposition. I got rid of him at last, still injured but finally accepting that I was not the experienced woman of the world he had thought. I also explained to him, which seemed to calm him down even more, that I was English and therefore frigid by nature. He condoled with me on this, and so honoura€“his honoura€“was satisfied. The Embassy doctora€?s wife gave me a cold look the next morning.

It was not until a good deal later that I discovered that Rosalind had sized up my various admirers from the beginning in a thoroughly practical fashion. a€?Well I thought of course youa€?d marry again some time, and naturally I was a bit concerned as to who it would be,a€she explained.

Max had now returned from his stay in France with his mother. He said he would be working at the British Museum, and hoped I would let him know if I was up in London. This did not seem likely just at present, as I was settled at Ashfield. But then it happened that my publishers, Collins, were throwing a large party at the Savoy to which they particularly wanted me to come to meet my American publishers and other people.

I would have appointments pretty well all that day, so in the end I went up by the night train, and invited Max to come and have breakfast with me at the Mews house.

I was delighted at the thought of seeing him again, but strangely enough, the moment he arrived I was stricken with shyness. After the journey we had done together and the friendly terms on which we had been, I could not imagine why I was so thoroughly paralysed. He too, I think, was shy. However, by the end of breakfast, which I cooked for him, we were getting back to our old terms. I asked him if he could stay with us in Devon, and we fixed up a weekend when he could come. I was very pleased that I was not going to lose touch with him.



I had followed up The Murder of Roger Ackroyd with The Seven Dials Mystery. This was a sequel to my earlier book The Secret of Chimneys, and was one of what I called a€?the light-hearted thriller typea€?. These were always easy to write, not requiring too much plotting and planning.

I was gaining confidence over my writing now. I felt that I would have no difficulty in producing a book every year, and possibly a few short stories as well. The nice part about writing in those days was that I directly related it to money. If I decided to write a story, I knew it would bring me in ?￡60, or whatever it was. I could deduct income taxa€“at that time 4/- or 5/- in the pounda€“and therefore I knew that I had a good ?￡45 which was mine. This stimulated my output enormously. I said to myself, a€?I should like to take the conservatory down and fit it up as a loggia in which we could sit. How much will that be?a€I got my estimate, I went to my typewriter, I sat, thought, planned, and within a week a story was formed in my mind. In due course I wrote it, and then I had my loggia.

How different from the last ten or twenty years of my life. I never know what I owe. I never know what money I have. I never know what money I shall have next yeara€“and anyone who is looking after my income tax is always arguing over problems arising several years previously, which have not yet been a€?agreeda€?. What can one do in circumstances like this?

But those were the sensible days. It was what I always call my plutocratic period. I was beginning to be serialised in America, and the money that came in from this, besides being far larger than anything I ever made from serial rights in Britain, was also at that time free of income tax.

It was regarded as a capital payment. I was not getting the sums I was to receive later, but I could see them coming, and it seemed to me that all I had to do was to be industrious and rake in the money.

Now I often feel that it might be as well if I never wrote another word, because if I do it will only make further complications.



Max came down to Devon. We met at Paddington and went down by the midnight train. Things always happened when I was away. Rosalind greeted us with her usual bouncing good spirits, and immediately announced disaster. a€?Peter,a€she said, a€?has bitten Freddie Potter in the face.a€?

That onea€?s precious resident cook-housekeeper has had her precious child bitten in the face by onea€?s precious dog is the last news one wishes to hear on returning to onea€?s household.

Rosalind explained that it had not really been Petera€?s fault: she had told Freddie Potter not to put his face near Peter and make whooping noises.

a€?He came nearer and nearer to Peter, zooming, so of course Peter bit him.a€?

a€?Yes,a€I said, a€?but I dona€?t suppose Mrs Potter understands that.a€?

a€?Well, shea€?s not been too bad about it. But of course, shea€?s not pleased.a€?

a€?No, she wouldna€?t be.a€?

a€?Anyway,a€said Rosalind, a€?Freddie was very brave about it. He always is,a€she added, in loyal defence of her favourite playmate. Freddie Potter, the cooka€?s little boy, was junior to Rosalind by about three years, and she enormously enjoyed bossing him about, taking care of him, and acting the part of the munificent protector, as well as being a complete tyrant in arranging what games they played. a€?Ita€?s lucky, isna€?t it,a€she said, a€?that Peter didna€?t bite his nose right offIf so, I suppose I should have had to look for it and stick it on some way or othera€“I dona€?t know quite how I mean, I suppose you would have to sterilise it first, or something, wouldna€?t youI dona€?t see quite how you would sterilise a nose. I mean you cana€?t boil it.a€?

The day turned out to be one of those indecisive days which might be fine, but, to those experienced in Devonshire weather, was almost certain to be wet. Rosalind proposed we should go for a picnic on the moor.

I was keen on this, and Max agreed, with an appearance of pleasure.

Looking back, I can see that one of the things my friends had to suffer out of affection for me was my optimism about weather, and my misplaced belief that on the moor it would be finer than in Torquay. Actually the reverse was almost certain to be the case. I used to drive my faithful Morris Cowley, which was of course an open touring car, and which had an elderly hood with several gaps in its structure, so that, sitting in the back, water coursed steadily down the back of your neck. In all, going for a picnic with the Christies was a distinct endurance test.

So we started off and the rain came on. I persisted, however, and told Max of the many beauties of the moor, which he could not quite see through the driving mist and rain. It was a fine test for my new friend from the Middle East. He certainly must have been fond of me to have endured it and preserve his air of enjoying himself.

When we eventually got home and dried ourselves, then had got wet all over again in hot baths, we played a great many games with Rosalind.

And next day, since it was also rather wet, we put on our mackintoshes and went for rousing walks in the rain with the unrepentant Peter, who was, however, by now on the best of terms once more with Freddie Potter.

I was very happy being with Max again. I realised how close our companionship had been; how we seemed to understand each other almost before we spoke. Nevertheless, it was a shock to me when the next night, after Max and I had said goodnight and I had gone to bed, as I was lying there reading, there was a tap at the door and Max came.

He had a book in his hand which I had lent him.

a€?Thank you for lending me this,a€he said. a€?I enjoyed it.a€He put it down beside me. Then he sat down on the end of my bed, looked at me thoughtfully, and said that he wanted to marry me. No Victorian Miss exclaiming, a€?Oh, Mr Simpkins, this is so sudden!a€could have looked more completely taken aback than I did. Most females, of course, know pretty well what is in the winda€“in fact they can see a proposal coming days ahead and can deal with it in one of two ways: either they can be so off-putting and disagreeable that their suitor becomes disgusted with his choice or they can let him gently come to the boil and get it over. But I know now that one can say perfectly genuinely, a€?Oh Mr Simpkins, this is so sudden!a€?

It had never occurred to me that Max and I would be or ever could be on those terms. We were friends. We had become instant and closer friends, it seemed to me, than I and any friend had ever been before.

We had a ridiculous conversation that there seems not much point in writing down here. I said immediately that I couldna€?t. He asked why couldna€?t II said for every reason. I was years older than he wasa€“he admitted that, and said he had always wanted to marry someone older than he was. I said that was nonsense and it was a bad thing to do. I pointed out he was a Catholic, and he said he had considered that alsoa€“in fact, he said, he had considered everything. The only thing, I suppose, that I didna€?t say, and which naturally I would have said if I had felt it, was that I didna€?t want to marry hima€“because, quite suddenly, I felt that nothing in the world would be as delightful as being married to him.

If only he was older or I was younger.

We argued, I think, for about two hours. He gradually wore me downa€“not so much with protestations as with gentle pressure.

He departed the next morning by the early train, and as I saw him off he said: a€?I think you will marry me, you know-when you have had plenty of time to think it over.a€?

It was too early in the morning to marshal my arguments again.

Having seen him off I went back home in a state of miserable indecision.

I asked Rosalind if she liked Max. a€?Oh yes,a€she said, a€?I like him very much. I like him better than Colonel R. and Mr B.a€One could trust Rosalind to know what was going on, but to have the good manners not to mention it openly.

How awful those next few weeks were. I was so miserable, so uncertain, so confused. First I decided that the last thing I wanted to do was to marry again, that I must be safe, safe from ever being hurt again; that nothing could be more stupid than to marry a man many years younger than myself; that Max was far too young to know his own mind; that it wasna€?t fair to hima€“he ought to marry a nice young girl; that I was just beginning to enjoy life on my own. Then, imperceptibly, I found my arguments changing. It was true that he was much younger than I was, but we had so much in common. He was not fond of parties, gay, a keen dancer; to keep up with a young man like that would have been very difficult for me. But surely I could walk round museums as well as anyone, and probably with more interest and intelligence than a younger woman.

I could go round all the churches in Aleppo and enjoy it; I could listen to Max talking about the classics; could learn the Greek alphabet and read translations of the Aeneida€“in fact I could take far more interest in Maxa€?s work and his ideas than in any of Archiea€?s deals in the City.

I could go round all the churches in Aleppo and enjoy it; I could listen to Max talking about the classics; could learn the Greek alphabet and read translations of the Aeneida€“in fact I could take far more interest in Maxa€?s work and his ideas than in any of Archiea€?s deals in the City.

a€?But you mustna€?t marry again,a€I said to myself. a€?You mustna€?t be such a fool.a€?

The whole thing had happened so insidiously. If I had considered Max as a possible husband when I first met him, then I should have been on my guard. I should never have slipped into this easy, happy relationship. But I hadna€?t seen this cominga€“and there we were, so happy, finding it all as much fun and as easy to talk to each other as if we had been married already.

Desperately I consulted my home oracle. a€?Rosalind,a€I said, a€?would you mind if I married again?a€?

a€?Well, I expect you will sometime,a€said Rosalind, with the air of one who always considers all possibilities. a€?I mean, it is the natural thing to do, isna€?t it?a€?

a€?Well, perhaps.a€?

a€?I shouldna€?t have liked you to marry Colonel R.,a€said Rosalind thoughtfully. I found this interesting, as Colonel R. had made a great fuss of Rosalind and she had appeared delighted with the games he had played for her enjoyment.

I mentioned the name of Max.

a€?I think hea€?d be much the best,a€said Rosalind. a€?In fact I think it would be a very good thing if you did marry him.a€Then she added: a€?We might have a boat of our own, dona€?t you thinkAnd he would be useful in a lot of ways. He is rather good at tennis, isna€?t heHe could play with me.a€She pursued the possibilities with the utmost frankness, considering them entirely from her own utilitarian point of view. a€?And Peter likes hima€said Rosalind, in final approval.

All the same, that summer was one of the most difficult of my life. One person after another was against the idea. Perhaps really, at bottom, that encouraged me. My sister was firmly against it. The age difference! Even my brother-in-law, James, sounded a note of prudence.

a€?Dona€?t you think,a€he said, a€?that you may have been rather wella€“influenced by the life you enjoyed so muchThe archaeological lifeThat you enjoyed being with the Woolleys at UrPerhaps you have mistaken that for what isna€?t quite such a warm feeling as you think.a€?

But I knew that wasna€?t so.



a€?Of course, ita€?s entirely your own business,a€he added gently. Dear Punkie, of course, did not at all think it was my own businessa€“she thought it was her own particular business to save me from making a silly mistake. Carlo, my own very dear Carlo, and her sister, were towers of strength. They supported me, though entirely through loyalty, I think. I believe they, too, probably, thought it a silly thing to do, but they would never have said so because they were not the kind of people who wanted to influence anyone in their plans. I am sure they thought it a pity that I had not the desire to marry an attractive colonel of forty-two, but as I had decided otherwise, well, they would back me up.

I finally broke the news to the Woolleys. They seemed pleased. Certainly Len was pleased; with Katharine it was always more difficult to tell.

a€?Only,a€she said firmly, a€?you mustna€?t marry him for at least two years.a€a€?Two years?a€I said, dismayed.

a€?No, it would be fatal.a€?

a€?Well, I think,a€I said, a€?thata€?s very silly. I am already a great many years older than he is. What on earth is the point of waiting until I am older stillHe might as well have such youth as Ia€?ve got.a€?

a€?I think it would be very bad for him,a€said Katharine. a€?Very bad for him at his age to think he can have everything he wants at once. I think it would be better to make him wait for ita€“a good long apprenticeship.a€?

This was an idea that I could not agree with. It seemed to me to be a severe and puritanical point of view.

To Max I said that I thought his marrying me was all wrong, and that he must think it over very carefully.

a€?What do you suppose Ia€?ve been doing for the last three months?a€he said. a€?Ia€?ve been thinking about it all the time I was in France. Then I thought: a€?Well, I shall know when I see her again, in case I have imagined everything.a€But I hadna€?t. You were just as I remembered you, and you were just as I want you.a€?

a€?Ita€?s a terrible risk.a€?

a€?Ita€?s not a risk for me. You may think it a risk for you. But does it matter taking risksDoes one get anywhere if one doesna€?t take risks?a€?

To that I agreed. I have never refrained from doing anything on the grounds of security. I was happier after that. I felt, a€?Well, it is my risk, but I believe it is worth taking a risk to find a person with whom you are happy. I shall be sorry if it goes wrong for him, but after all that is his risk, and he is regarding it quite sensibly.a€I suggested we might wait for six months. He said he did not think that would be any good. a€?After all,a€he added, a€?Ia€?ve got to go abroad again, to Ur. I think we ought to get married in September.a€I talked to Carlo and we made our plans.

I had had so much publicity, and been caused so much misery by it, that I wanted things kept as quiet as possible. We agreed that Carlo and Mary Fisher, Rosalind and I should go to Skye and spend three weeks there. Our marriage banns could be called there, and we would be married quietly in St. Columbaa€?s Church in Edinburgh.

Then I took Max up to visit Punkie and Jamesa€“James, resigned but sad, Punkie actively endeavouring to prevent our marriage.

In fact I came very near to breaking the whole thing off just before, in the train going up, as Max, paying more attention to my account of my family than he had so far, said: a€?James Watts, did you sayI was at New College with a Jack Watts. Could that have been your onea€?s sonA terrific comediana€“did wonderful imitations.a€I felt shattered that Max and my nephew were contemporaries. Our marriage seemed impossible. a€?You are too young,a€I said desperately. a€?You are too young.a€This time Max was really alarmed. a€?Not at all,a€he said. a€?Anyway, I went to the University rather young, and all my friends were so serious; I wasna€?t at all in Jack Wattsa€gay set.a€But I felt conscience-stricken.

Punkie did her best to reason with Max, and I began to be afraid that he would take a dislike to her, but the contrary proved true. He said she was so genuine, and so desperately anxious for me to be happya€“and also, he added, so funny. That was always the final verdict on my sister. a€?Dear Punkie,a€my nephew Jack used to say to his mother, a€?I do love youa€“you are so funny and so sweet.a€And really that described her very well.

The visit finished with Punkie retiring in storms of tears, and James being very kind to me. Fortunately my nephew Jack was not therea€“he might have upset the applecart.

a€?Of course I knew at once that you had made up your mind to marry him,a€said my brother-in-law. a€?I know that you dona€?t change your mind.a€?

a€?Oh Jimmy, you dona€?t know. I seem to be changing it all day long.a€?

a€?Not really. Well, I hope it turns out all right. Ita€?s not what I would have chosen for you, but you have always shown good sense, and I think he is the sort of young man who might go far.a€?

How much I loved dear James, and how patient and long-suffering he always was. a€?Dona€?t mind Punkie,a€he said. a€?You know what she is likea€“shea€?ll turn right round when ita€?s really done.a€?

Meanwhile we kept it a secret.

I asked Punkie if she would like to come to Edinburgh to our marriage, but she thought she had better not. a€?I shall only cry,a€she said, a€?and upset everyone.a€I was really rather thankful. I had my two good, calm Scottish friends to provide a stalwart background for me. So I went to Skye with them and with Rosalind.

I found Skye lovely, I did sometimes wish it wouldna€?t rain every day, though it was only a fine misty rain which did not really count. We walked miles over the moor and the heather, and there was a lovely soft earthy smell with a tang of peat in it.

One of Rosalinda€?s remarks caused some interest in the hotel dining-room a day or two after our arrival. Peter, who was with us, did not, of course, attend meals in the public rooms, but Rosalind, in a loud voice, in the middle of lunch, announced to Carlo: a€?Of course, Carlo, Peter really ought to be your husband, oughtna€?t heI mean, he sleeps in your bed, doesna€?t he?a€The clientele of the hotel, mostly old ladies, as one person turned a barrage of eyes upon Carlo.

Rosalind also gave me a few words of advice on the subject of marriage: a€?You know,a€she said, a€?when you are married to Max, you will have to sleep in the same bed as him?a€?

a€?I know,a€I said.

a€?Well, yes, I supposed you did know, because after all you were married to Daddy, but I thought you might not have thought of it.a€I assured her I had thought of everything relevant to the occasion.

So the weeks passed. I walked on the moor and had fits of occasional misery when I thought I was doing the wrong thing and ruining Maxa€?s life.

Meanwhile Max threw himself into an extra amount of work at the British Museum and elsewhere, finishing off his drawings of pots and archaeological work. The last week before the marriage he stayed up till five in the morning every night, drawing. I have a suspicion that Katharine Woolley induced Len to make the work even heavier than it might have been: she was much annoyed with me for not postponing the marriage.

Before we left London, Len had called round to see me. He was so embarrassed that I couldna€?t think what was the matter with him.

a€?You know,a€he said, a€?it is perhaps going to make it rather awkward for us. I mean at Ur and in Baghdad. I mean it wouldna€?t bea€“you do understand?a€“it wouldna€?t be in any way possible for you to come on the expedition. I mean, there is no room for anyone but archaeologists.a€?

a€?Oh, no,a€I said, a€?I quite understand thata€“wea€?ve talked it over. Ia€?ve no useful knowledge of any kind. Both Max and I thought it would be much better this way, only he didna€?t want to leave you high and dry at the beginning of the season, where there would be very little time to find anybody else to replace him.a€?

a€?I thoughta€|I knowa€|a€Len paused. a€?I thought perhaps thata€“well, I mean people might think it rather odd if you didna€?t come to Ur.a€?

a€?Oh, I dona€?t know why they should think that,a€I said. a€?After all, I shall come out at the end of the season to Baghdad.a€?

a€?Oh yes, and I hope you will come down then and spend a few days at Ur.a€?

a€?So thata€?s all right, isna€?t it?a€I said encouragingly.

a€?What I thoughta€“what we thoughta€“I mean, what Katharinea€“I mean, what we both thoughta€|a€?

a€?Yes?a€I said.

a€?-was that it might be better if you didna€?t come to Baghdada€“now. I mean, if you are coming with him as far as Baghdad, and then he goes to Ur and you go home, dona€?t you think that perhaps it would look oddI mean, I dona€?t know that the Trustees would think it a good idea.a€?

That suddenly aroused my annoyance. I was quite willing not to come to Ur. I should never have suggested it, because I thought it would be a very unfair thing to do: but I could see no reason why I could not come to Baghdad if I wanted to.

Actually I had already decided with Max that I did not want to come to Baghdad: it would be a rather meaningless journey. We were going to Greece for our honeymoon, and from Athens he would go to Iraq and I should return to England. We had already arranged this, but at this moment I was not going to say so.

I replied with some asperity: a€?I think Len, it is hardly for you to suggest to me where I should and should not travel in the Middle East. If I want to come to Baghdad, I shall come there with my husband, and it is nothing to do with the dig or with you.a€?

a€?Oh! Oh, I do hope you dona€?t mind. It was just that Katharine thoughta€|a€?

I was quite sure that it was Katharinea€?s thought, not Lena€?s. Though I was fond of her, I was not going to have her dictate my life. When I saw Max, therefore, I said that though I did not propose to come to Baghdad, I had carefully not told Len that that was so. Max was furious. I had to calm him down.

a€?Ia€?m almost inclined to insist that you come,a€he said.

a€?That would be silly. It would mean a lot of expense, and it would be rather miserable parting from you there.a€?

It was then that he told me that he had been approached by Dr Campbell-Thompson and that there was a possibility that in the following year he would go and dig at Nineveh in the north of Iraq. In all probability I should be able to accompany him there. a€?Nothing is settled,a€he said. a€?It all has to be arranged. But I am not going to be parted from you for another six months the season after this. Len will have had plenty of time to find a successor by then.a€?

The days passed in Skye, my banns were duly read in church, and all the old ladies sitting round beamed on me with the kindly pleasure all old ladies take in something romantic like marriage.

Max came up to Edinburgh, and Rosalind and I, Carlo, Mary, and Peter came over from Skye. We were married in the small chapel of St Columbaa€?s Church. Our wedding was quite a triumpha€“there were no reporters there and no hint of the secret had leaked out. Our duplicity continued, because we parted, like the old song, at the church door. Max went back to London to finish his Ur work for another three days, while I returned the next day with Rosalind to Cresswell Place, where I was received by my faithful Bessie, who was in on the secret. Max kept away, then two days later drove up to the door of Cresswell Place in a hired Daimler. We drove off to Dover and from thence crossed the Channel to the first stopping-place of our honeymoon, Venice.

Max had planned the honeymoon entirely himself: it was going to be a surprise. I am sure nobody enjoyed a honeymoon better than we did. There was only one jarring spot on it, and that was that the Orient Express, even in its early stages before Venice, was once again plagued by the emergence of bed-bugs from the woodwork.