M.C. Beaton: The Love from Hell

The doorbell rang. Agatha gave a pat to her hair, squared her shoulders and marched down the stairs.

“Now, see here…” she began as she opened the door. But it was not James who stood there but her old friend, Sir Charles Fraith.

“I called next door but James told me you were here,” said Charles. “Can I come in?”

“Why not?” said Agatha bleakly, and walked back into the cottage, leaving him to follow her.

“What’s up?” asked Charles, following her into the kitchen. “Don’t tell me the marriage has broken up already.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Agatha. “We’re divinely happy. Would you like a drink?”

“Whisky, if you’ve got it.”

Agatha was torn between telling him to leave in case James came and yet wanting him to stay in case James did not. She led the way into the sitting-room, lit the fire which she had set earlier, poured him a generous measure of malt whisky and then one for herself.

Charles sat down on the sofa and surveyed Agatha, who had slumped into an armchair opposite him.

“Been crying?”

“No. I mean, yes. I cut myself.”

“Where?”

“What d’you mean, where?”

“Aggie, cut the crap. This act of being a happily married woman must be killing you.”

She looked at him in silence. He sat there in her sitting-room where he had sat so many times before, neat, groomed, well-tailored, as self-contained as a cat.

Agatha gave a weary shrug. “Okay, you may as well have it. The marriage is a disaster.”

“I won’t say I told you so.”

“Don’t dare.”

“I suppose the problem is that James is just being bachelor James and wants his usual lifestyle and you are getting in the way with your rotten cooking and your nasty cigarettes. Criticized your clothes yet?”

“Never stops. How did you know?”

“It is a well-known fact that stuffy men, once they are married to the object of their desire, start to criticize the very style of dressing that attracted them in the first place. I bet he told you not to wear high heels and that your make-up was too heavy.”

“Am I such a fool? I should have known this. But it seemed to me we had so much in common.”

Charles took a sip of his drink and eyed her sympathetically.

“People never realize that love is indeed blind. They feel like a soul mate of the loved one. No awful loneliness of spirit. Two against the world. So they marry, and what happens? After a certain time, they look across the breakfast table and find they are looking at a stranger.”

“But there are happy marriages. You know there are.”

“Some are lucky; most go in for compromise.”

“You mean, I should dress the way James wants and live the way James wants me to?”

“If you want to stay married. Or go to one of those marriage counsellors.”

“I don’t see how a bachelor like you can know anything about marriage.”

“Intelligent observation.”

Agatha clutched her hair. “I don’t know what to do. I made such a scene in the pub. James was flirting with this Melissa woman and I happen to know he once had a fling with her.”

“James is not a bad sort, you know. You probably rub him up the wrong way. You’re a bit of a bully.”

“You haven’t heard the whole story. He doesn’t want me to work!”

“And are you? Working, I mean.”

“I’ve got a short-term contract with a shoe company in Mircester. James hit the roof. He said I should leave work for those that need it.”

“Maybe the pair of you should go back to separate lives and date occasionally.”

“I’ll make it work,” said Agatha suddenly. “I love James. He must be made to see reason.”

“Does he talk to anyone about his troubles?”

Agatha laughed. “James! Not on your life.”

♦

James at that moment was sitting in the vicarage parlour facing the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby.

“It’s not too late to call?” James was asking.

“No, not at all,” said Mrs. Bloxby, amused that James had not seemed to notice that she was in her night-gown and dressing-gown.

“I really don’t know what to do about Agatha,” James said. “I am a very worried man.”

“What is the matter? Would you like some tea or something stronger?”

“No, I feel if I don’t talk to someone, I’ll burst. You’re a friend of Agatha.”

“I hope a very good one.”

“Has she said anything to you about our marriage?”

“If she had complained to me, I would not tell you. But as a matter of fact, she has not. What was the scene in the pub about? It’s all round the village.”

“I went along to the pub and Melissa was there, so we had a drink together. Agatha came in and threw a jealous scene.”

“That is understandable. It is well know in the village that you had an…er…episode with Melissa before your marriage.”

“Well, it’s all the other things. She’s a lousy housekeeper.”

“She has Doris Simpson to clean for her, that is, her own cottage. Why not let Doris do yours?”

“But Agatha should do it.”

“You are very old-fashioned. You cannot expect a woman who has been successful in business and who has always paid someone to do her cleaning to do yours.”

James went on as if she had not spoken. “Then, she knows I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. She smells of cigarettes.”

“Mrs. Raisin was smoking when you first met her and when you were married.”

“But she promised to give up. She said she would. And she said she would never smoke in my cottage. But she puffs away when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“You said, “my cottage.” It’s a very odd marriage. Why did you encourage Mrs. Raisin to keep her own cottage?”

“Because mine is too small.”

“The pair of you have surely enough money to sell your homes and move into a bigger house.”

“Perhaps. Now she’s taken a job. A public relations job for some shoe company in Mircester.”

“What is up with that?”

“Agatha doesn’t need to work.”

“I think Mrs. Raisin does need to work from time to time, perhaps you made her feel like a failed wife. Do you complain a lot?”

“Only when she does something wrong, and she always glares at me and says something rude.”

“And does she often do something wrong?”

“All the time – bad meals, sloppy housekeeping, tarty clothes…”

Mrs. Bloxby held up one hand. “Wait a minute. Mrs. Raisin’s clothes tarty? Really, I cannot allow that. She is always smartly dressed. And it does seem as if you complain a lot and you are not prepared to compromise on anything. I know you have been a confirmed bachelor, but you are married now, and must make certain allowances. Why are you so angry and touchy?”

There was a long silence and then James gave a sigh. “There’s something else. I have been having these recurring headaches, so I got a scan. It says I have a brain tumour. I have to go in soon for treatment.”

“Oh, you poor man. It is operable?”

“They are going to try chemotherapy first.”

“Mrs. Raisin must be distressed.”

“She does not know and you are not to tell her.”

“But you must tell her. That is what marriage is all about, sharing the bad times as well as the good.”

“I feel if I tell her, then somehow there will be no hope for me. It will make the brain tumour very, very real. I must get through this on my own.”

“But I can see the whole thing is putting you under a great deal of stress. In fact, you are ruining your marriage by not telling Mrs. Raisin.”

“You must not tell her! You must promise me you will not tell her!”

“Very well. But I beg you to reconsider. Mrs. Raisin does not deserve the treatment you have been meting out to her. Tell her.”