Agatha Christie: Hercule Poirot's Christmas / Рождество Эркюля Пуаро. Книга для чтения на английском языке

He put a gentle arm round her. ‘Your tongue runs away with you [29] Your tongue runs away with you – ( разг. ) Ты сначала говоришь, потом думаешь , Lydia. There’s no reason for you to be jealous.’

She gave him a quick remorseful kiss, a delicate caress on the tip of his ear.

‘I know. All the same, Alfred, I don’t believe I should have been in the least jealous of your mother. I wish I’d known her.’

‘She was a poor creature [30] was a poor creature – ( разг. ) была очень несчастной ,’ he said.

His wife looked at him interestedly.

‘So that’s how she struck you… as a poor creature… That’s interesting.’

He said dreamily: ‘I remember her as nearly always ill… Often in tears…’ He shook his head. ‘She had no spirit.’

Still staring at him, she murmured very softly: ‘How odd…’

But as he turned a questioning glance on her, she shook her head quickly and changed the subject.

‘Since we are not allowed to know who our mysterious guests are I shall go out and finish my garden.’

‘It’s very cold, my dear, a biting wind.’

‘I’ll wrap up warmly.’

She left the room. Alfred Lee, left alone, stood for some minutes motionless, frowning a little to himself, then he walked over to the big window at the end of the room. Outside was a terrace running the whole length of the house. Here, after a minute or two, he saw Lydia emerge, carrying a flat basket. She was wearing a big blanket coat. She set down the basket and began to work at a square stone sink slightly raised above ground level.

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 [31] It’s rather arid – ( зд. ) Какое-то оно скучное (безжизненное) , 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! [32] What a standby he is! – ( разг. ) Он такой надежный! 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 [33] he’d lie himself blue in the face – ( разг. ) будет врать до изнеможения (до посинения) 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 [34] what shall we do about it – ( разг. ) как нам поступить ?’

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 [35] Burne-Jones – Эдуард Берн-Джонс (1833–1898), английский живописец и иллюстратор, близкий по духу к прерафаэлитам. Широко известен своими витражами. 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 [36] never troubling to conceal it – ( разг. ) даже не пытался это скрывать .’