Agatha Christie: Hercule Poirot's Christmas

Her husband watched for some time. At last he went out of the room, fetched himself a coat and muffler, and emerged on to the terrace by a side door. As he walked along he passed various other stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens, all the products of Lydia’s agile fingers.

One represented a desert scene with smooth yellow sand, a little clump of green palm trees in coloured tin, and a procession of camels with one or two little Arab figures. Some primitive mud houses had been constructed of plasticine. There was an Italian garden with terraces and formal beds with flowers in coloured sealing-wax. There was an Arctic one, too, with clumps of green glass for icebergs, and a little cluster of penguins. Next came a Japanese garden with a couple of beautiful little stunted trees, looking-glass arranged for water, and bridges modelled out of plasticine.

He came at last to stand beside her where she was at work. She had laid down blue paper and covered it over with glass. Round this were lumps of rock piled up. At the moment she was pouring out coarse pebbles from a little bag and forming them into a beach. Between the rocks were some small cactuses.

Lydia was murmuring to herself:

‘Yes, that’s exactly right – exactly what I want.’

Alfred said:

‘What’s this latest work of art?’

She started, for she had not heard him come up.

‘This? Oh, it’s the Dead Sea, Alfred. Do you like it?’

He said, ‘It’s rather arid, isn’t it? Oughtn’t there to be more vegetation?’

She shook her head.

‘It’s my idea of the Dead Sea. It is dead, you see–’

‘It’s not so attractive as some of the others.’

‘It’s not meant to be specially attractive.’

Footsteps sounded on the terrace. An elderly butler, white-haired and slightly bowed, was coming towards them.

‘Mrs George Lee on the telephone, madam. She says will it be convenient if she and Mr George arrive by the five-twenty tomorrow?’

‘Yes, tell her that will be quite all right.’

‘Thank you, madam.’

The butler hurried away. Lydia looked after him with a softened expression on her face.

‘Dear old Tressilian. What a standby he is! I can’t imagine what we should do without him.’

Alfred agreed.

‘He’s one of the old school. He’s been with us nearly forty years. He’s devoted to us all.’

Lydia nodded.

‘Yes. He’s like the faithful old retainers of fiction. I believe he’d lie himself blue in the face if it was necessary to protect one of the family!’

Alfred said:

‘I believe he would…Yes, I believe he would.’

Lydia smoothed over the last bit of her shingle.

‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s ready.’

‘Ready?’ Alfred looked puzzled.

She laughed.

‘For Christmas, silly! For this sentimental family Christmas we’re going to have.’

David was reading the letter. Once he screwed it up into a ball and thrust it away from him. Then, reaching for it, he smoothed it out and read it again.

Quietly, without saying anything, his wife, Hilda, watched him. She noted the jerking muscle (or was it a nerve?) in his temple, the slight tremor of the long delicate hands, the nervous spasmodic movements of his whole body. When he pushed aside the lock of fair hair that always tended to stray down over his forehead and looked across at her with appealing blue eyes she was ready.

‘Hilda, what shall we do about it?’

Hilda hesitated a minute before speaking. She had heard the appeal in his voice. She knew how dependent he was upon her – had always been ever since their marriage – knew that she could probably influence his decision finally and decisively. But for just that reason she was chary of pronouncing anything too final.

She said, and her voice had the calm, soothing quality that can be heard in the voice of an experienced nannie in a nursery:

‘It depends on how you feel about it, David.’

A broad woman, Hilda, not beautiful, but with a certain magnetic quality. Something about her like a Dutch picture. Something warming and endearing in the sound of her voice. Something strong about her – the vital hidden strength that appeals to weakness. An over-stout dumpy middle-aged woman – not clever – not brilliant – but with something about her that you couldn’t pass over. Force! Hilda Lee had force!

David got up and began pacing up and down. His hair was practically untouched by grey. He was strangely boyish-looking. His face had the mild quality of a Burne Jones knight. It was, somehow, not very real…

He said, and his voice was wistful:

‘You know how I feel about it, Hilda. You must.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But I’ve told you – I’ve told you again and again! How I hate it all – the house and the country round and everything! It brings back nothing but misery. I hated every moment that I spent there! When I think of it – of all that she suffered – my mother…’

His wife nodded sympathetically.

‘She was so sweet, Hilda, and so patient. Lying there, often in pain, but bearing it – enduring everything. And when I think of my father’ – his face darkened – ‘bringing all that misery into her life – humiliating her – boasting of his love affairs – constantly unfaithful to her and never troubling to conceal it.’

Hilda Lee said:

‘She should not have put up with it. She should have left him.’

He said with a touch of reproof:

‘She was too good to do that. She thought it was her duty to remain. Besides, it was her home – where else should she go?’

‘She could have made a life of her own.’

David said fretfully:

‘Not in those days! You don’t understand. Women didn’t behave like that. They put up with things. They endured patiently. She had us to consider. Even if she divorced my father, what would have happened? He would probably have married again. There might have been a second family. Our interests might have gone to the wall. She had to think of all those considerations.’

Hilda did not answer.

David went on:

‘No, she did right. She was a saint! She endured to the end – uncomplainingly.’

Hilda said, ‘Not quite uncomplainingly or you would not know so much, David!’

He said softly, his face lighting up:

‘Yes – she told me things – She knew how I loved her. When she died–’

He stopped. He ran his hands through his hair.

‘Hilda, it was awful – horrible! The desolation! She was quite young still, she needn’t have died. He killed her – my father! He was responsible for her dying. He broke her heart. I decided then that I’d not go on living under his roof. I broke away – got away from it all.’

Hilda nodded.

‘You were very wise,’ she said. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

David said:

‘Father wanted me to go into the works. That would have meant living at home. I couldn’t have stood that. I can’t think how Alfred stands it – how he has stood it all these years.’

‘Did he never rebel against it?’ asked Hilda with some interest. ‘I thought you told me something about his having given up some other career.’

David nodded.

‘Alfred was going into the army. Father arranged it all. Alfred, the eldest, was to go into some cavalry regiment, Harry was to go into the works, so was I. George was to enter politics.’

‘And it didn’t work out like that?’

David shook his head.

‘Harry broke all that up! He was always frightfully wild. Got into debt – and all sorts of other troubles. Finally he went off one day with several hundred pounds that didn’t belong to him, leaving a note behind him saying an office stool didn’t suit him and he was going to see the world.’