M.C. Beaton: The Love from Hell

He shook his head. “It is my cross and I must bear it alone. Agatha is very independent. Why, she even still uses her old married name, as if mine isn’t good enough for her. You even call her Mrs. Raisin.”

“That’s because she asked me to. You see, she might have listened to you if you had only complained about that one thing, but you do seem to have criticized her a great deal.”

“It’s her fault,” said James stubbornly. “I’d better go.”

“Please stay a moment longer. You must be terribly frightened and worried.”

James, who had half risen from his chair, sank back again and buried his head in his hands.

“Mrs. Raisin would be a great help,” said Mrs. Bloxby gently.

“I should never have married her,” muttered James.

“I assume you were in love with her.”

“Oh, yes, but she’s so messy and infuriating.”

“I think you are very hard on her because you are frightened and ill.”

James got to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”

♦

As he walked home, he thought guiltily that he had seemed to go on and on too much about Agatha’s faults. All he had to do was tell her what was up with him. But when he turned into Lilac Lane, he recognized the car outside Agatha’s cottage. Sir Charles Fraith. And still there! So Agatha had gone back to her old ways. Two could play at that game!

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

2

THE fact that Agatha and her new husband were living in separate cottages, not speaking to each other, spread round the village like wildfire. Mrs. Bloxby kept quiet about James’s revelation about his brain tumour. She did not even tell her husband, the vicar, Alf Bloxby, who, on hearing the news of the breakdown of Agatha’s marriage, merely remarked sourly, “Don’t know how anyone could live with that woman.”

James was often seen with Melissa Sheppard, Agatha with Charles.

This miserable state of affairs might have gone on forever had not James had a change of heart. He was afraid of dying. He did not want to depart the world and leave bitterness and misery behind. He wanted to be missed. He wanted to be mourned.

He bought a large bunch of red roses and presented himself on Agatha’s doorstep a week after what was known in the village as The Great Scene in the Pub.

Agatha answered the door and stood for a moment looking at him and then at the bouquet he held in his hand. “Come in,” she said, and walked off to the kitchen without waiting to see whether he was following her or not.

“Sit down,” she said, leaning on the kitchen counter. “Why have you come?”

The correct answer, the sensible answer would have been, “Agatha, I have a brain tumour, and I think I am going to die,” but instead James remarked, “You look terrible.”

Agatha had deep pouches under her eyes and her normally glossy hair was dull. She was wearing a shapeless print house-dress and flat sandals.

“I have been working hard. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s the real stuff,” said Agatha, plugging in the electric percolator. “No unleaded in this house.”

“Fine,” said James, stretching out his long legs.

Agatha sat down opposite him. As if by silent consent, both of them waited until the coffee was ready. Agatha filled two mugs and then looked at James.

“You still seeing that tramp, Melissa?”

“I felt I needed company while you were running around with Charles Fraith.”

“Charles is just a friend.”

“That makes a change,” said James sourly. “You had an affair with him in Cyprus.”

“That was before we were married. And you had a fling with Melissa.”

“We are just friends,” said James stiffly. “You shouldn’t be working. You don’t need to work. You look awful.”

“Well, Mr. Health and Beauty, you’ve been nagging me for ages about wearing make-up and heels. You ought to be happy. Why did you come here? To nag me again?”

“I thought we should give the marriage another go,” said James.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a quitter and neither are you.”

“Couldn’t you say it was because you loved me?”

“Oh, Agatha, you know what I’m like. I never was any good at that lovey-dovey stuff.”

“All right. I’ll try again. But you have to stop seeing Melissa.”

“She’s a friend.”

“I’ll stop seeing Charles or any other man, if you stop seeing Melissa.”

“Very well.”

Agatha suddenly smiled at him. “What a pair of chumps we are,” she said happily. “Wait there until I put some make-up on. It’s all right for you, James. The thing I love about you is that you always seem so fit and healthy.” She went out of the kitchen. I should have told her, thought James. But we’ll have dinner this evening. I’ll tell her then.

♦

Happiness is a great rejuvenator. Agatha returned to work that afternoon looking fresh and businesslike. The rambling song was a jaunty whistle-along tune. Delly Shoes proclaimed themselves delighted with Agatha. She was to arrange a concert in Mircester to launch the new boot and the new song. She bought herself a dark blue dress ornamented with glass beads and pearls. It had a square neckline and a very short hemline. She then bought sheer stockings and a garter belt, the latter being an item of clothing which Agatha despised, but she planned a hot night and was prepared to sacrifice her comfort.

She carried her purchases home and proceeded to prepare herself for the evening ahead. James was to drive them into Oxford for dinner at a French restaurant on Blue Boar Street.

She bathed and made up her face with care and then brushed her hair until it gained some of its lost shine. Then she put on the dress and stood in front of the mirror.

And scowled.

The sequins and beads had glittered in the electric light of the shop and had looked beguiling. In the late sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, it looked vulgar, tasteless, and middle-aged. And that same cruel sunlight fell on her face, showing Agatha Raisin that she had an incipient moustache. She tore off the dress and left it on a crumpled heap on the floor. In the bathroom, she applied depilatory to the area between her nose and her upper lip and then went to her closet to rake through her clothes to find something suitable. Five try-ons later, she realized she had forgotten all about the depilatory and was only reminded by a burning sensation on her face. She went back to the bathroom and washed it off. Above her upper lip there was now a scarlet line. “I hate being old,” howled Agatha at the mirror.

She returned to the bedroom and gloomily selected a white satin blouse and a short black velvet skirt. Now to do something about her face. She had planned to wear only a little light make-up, but heavy foundation cream would be needed to cover that red mark.

♦

When she finally got into James’s car, although he glanced at her without comment, she could sense his disapproval. She should tell him what had happened, but somehow to confess that she had reached the shaving age seemed impossible.

James actually thought Agatha had put on too much make-up as an act of defiance. His cancer treatment was to start the following week. He would start to lose his hair and men he would need to tell her something. He had meant to tell her that evening, imagining a soft and sympathetic and womanly Agatha. But Agatha, he thought sourly, had never been soft or womanly.

So on the road to Oxford and throughout dinner, he talked about his new book, which was to be about the Normandy landings in World War II. Agatha ventured that surely enough had been written on them already and then promptly realized that, once again, she had said the wrong thing. As usual with James, she felt she was facing an unbreakable wall of resentment.