Agatha Christie - Giant’s Bread

‘Yes. You can’t remember her, of course, darling.’

He didn’t say that he remembered her perfectly. Why should one say things?

‘She’s in the schoolroom, darling. Go and find her and make friends.’

Vernon went slowly. He didn’t know whether he was pleased or not. A girl! He was at the age to despise girls. Rather a nuisance having a girl about. On the other hand, it would be jolly having someone . It depended what the kid was like. One would have to be decent to her if she’d just lost her mother.

He opened the schoolroom door and went in. Josephine was sitting on the window-sill swinging her legs. She stared at him and Vernon’s attitude of kindly condescension fell from him.

She was a squarely built child of about his own age. She had dead black hair cut very straight across her forehead. Her jaw stuck out a little in a determined way. She had a very white skin and enormous eyelashes. Although she was two months younger than Vernon, she had the sophistication of twice his years—a kind of mixture of weariness and defiance.

‘Hallo,’ she said.

‘Hallo,’ said Vernon rather feebly.

They went on looking at each other, suspiciously, as is the manner of children and dogs.

‘I suppose you’re my cousin Josephine,’ said Vernon.

‘Yes, but you’d better call me Joe. Everyone does.’

‘All right—Joe.’

There was a pause. To bridge it, Vernon whistled.

‘Rather jolly, coming home,’ he observed at last.

‘It’s an awfully jolly place,’ said Joe.

‘Oh! do you like it?’ said Vernon, warming to her.

‘I like it awfully. Better than any of the places I’ve lived.’

‘Have you lived in a lot of places?’

‘Oh, yes. At Coombes first—when we were with Father. And then at Monte Carlo with Colonel Anstey. And then at Toulon with Arthur—and then a lot of Swiss places because of Arthur’s lungs. And then I went to a convent for a bit after Arthur died. Mother couldn’t be bothered with me just then. I didn’t like it much—the nuns were so silly. They made me have a bath in my chemise. And then after Mother died, Aunt Myra came and fetched me here.’

‘I’m awfully sorry—about your mother, I mean,’ said Vernon awkwardly.

‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘it’s rotten in a way—though much the best thing for her.’

‘Oh!’ said Vernon, rather taken aback.

‘Don’t tell Aunt Myra,’ said Joe. ‘Because I think she’s rather easily shocked by things—rather like the nuns. You have to be careful what you say to her. Mother didn’t care for me an awful lot, you know. She was frightfully kind and all that—but she was always soppy about some man or other. I heard some people say so in the hotel, and it was quite true. She couldn’t help it, of course. But it’s a very bad plan. I shan’t have anything to do with men when I grow up.’

‘Oh!’ said Vernon. He was still feeling very young and awkward beside this amazing person.

‘I liked Colonel Anstey best,’ said Joe reminiscently. ‘But of course Mother only ran away with him to get away from Father. We stayed at much better hotels with Colonel Anstey, Arthur was very poor. If I ever do get soppy about a man when I grow up, I shall take care that he’s rich. It makes things so much easier.’

‘Wasn’t your father nice?’

‘Oh! Father was a devil—Mother said so. He hated us both.’

‘But why?’

Joe wrinkled her straight black brows in perplexity.

‘I don’t quite know. I think—I think it was something to do with me coming. I think he had to marry Mother because she was going to have me—something like that—and it made him angry.’

They looked at each other—solemn and perplexed.

‘Uncle Walter’s in South Africa, isn’t he?’ went on Joe.

‘Yes. I’ve had three letters from him at school. Awfully jolly letters.’

‘Uncle Walter’s a dear. I loved him. He came out to Monte Carlo, you know.’

Some memory stirred in Vernon. Of course, he remembered now. His father had wanted Joe to come to Abbots Puissants then.

‘He arranged for me to go to the convent,’ said Joe. ‘Reverend Mother thought he was lovely—a true type of high-born English gentleman—such a funny way of putting it.’

They both laughed a little.

‘Let’s go out in the garden. Shall we?’ said Vernon.

‘Yes, let’s. I say, I know where there are four different nests—but the birds have all flown away.’

They went out together amicably discussing birds’ eggs.

To Myra, Joe was a perplexing child. She had nice manners, answered promptly and politely when spoken to, and submitted to caresses without returning them. She was very independent and gave the maid told off to attend to her little or nothing to do. She could mend her own clothes and keep herself neat and tidy without any outside urging. She was, in fact, the sophisticated hotel child whom Myra had never happened to come across. The depths of her knowledge would have horrified and shocked her aunt.

But Joe was shrewd and quick-witted, well used to summing up the people with whom she came in contact. She refrained carefully from ‘shocking Aunt Myra’. She had for her something closely akin to a kindly contempt.

‘Your mother,’ she said to Vernon, ‘is very good—but she’s a little stupid too, isn’t she?’

‘She’s very beautiful,’ said Vernon hotly.

‘Yes, she is,’ agreed Joe. ‘All but her hands. Her hair’s lovely. I wish I had red gold hair.’

‘It comes right down below her waist,’ said Vernon.

He found Joe a wonderful companion, quite unlike his previous conception of ‘girls’. She hated dolls, never cried, was as strong if not stronger than he was, and was always ready and willing for any dangerous sport. Together they climbed trees, rode bicycles, fell and cut and bumped themselves, and in the summer holidays took a wasps’ nest together, with a success due more to luck than skill.

To Joe, Vernon could talk and did. She opened up to him a strange new world, a world where people ran away with other people’s husbands and wives, a world of dancing and gambling and cynicism. She had loved her mother with a fierce protective tenderness that almost reversed the roles.

‘She was too soft,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not going to be soft. People are mean to you if you are. Men are beasts anyway, but if you’re a beast to them first, they’re all right. All men are beasts.’

‘That’s a silly thing to say, and I don’t think it’s true.’

‘That’s because you’re going to be a man yourself.’

‘No, it isn’t. And anyway I’m not a beast.’

‘No, but I daresay you will be when you’re grown up.’

‘But, look here, Joe, you’ll have to marry someone some day, and you won’t think your husband a beast.’

‘Why should I marry anyone?’

‘Well—girls do. You don’t want to be an old maid like Miss Crabtree.’

Joe wavered. Miss Crabtree was an elderly spinster who was very active in the village and who was very fond of ‘the dear children’.

‘I shouldn’t be the kind of old maid Miss Crabtree is,’ she said weakly. ‘I should—oh! I should do things. Play the violin, or write books, or paint some marvellous pictures.’

‘I hope you won’t play the violin,’ said Vernon.

‘That’s really what I should like to do best. Why do you hate music so, Vernon?’

‘I don’t know. I just do. It makes me feel all horrible inside.’

‘How queer. It gives me a nice feeling. What are you going to do when you grow up?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to marry someone very beautiful and live at Abbots Puissants and have lots of horses and dogs.’

‘How dull,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t think that would be exciting a bit.’