Endless Night. Agatha Christie

note from her. She was going abroad with her family to the South of France immediately after her birthday.

      ‘But don’t worry,’ she wrote, ‘we shall be back again in two or three weeks’ time, on our way to America this time. But anyway we’ll meet again then. I’ve got something special I want to talk to you about.’

      I felt restless and ill at ease not seeing Ellie and knowing she’d gone abroad to France. I had a bit of news about the Gipsy’s Acre property too. Apparently it had been sold by private treaty but there wasn’t much information about who’d bought it. Some firm of London solicitors apparently were named as the purchasers. I tried to get more information about it, but I couldn’t. The firm in question were very cagey. Naturally I didn’t approach the principals. I palled up to one of their clerks and so got a little vague information. It had been bought for a very rich client who was going to hold it as a good investment capable of appreciation when the land in that part of the country was becoming more developed.

      It’s very hard to find out about things when you’re dealing with really exclusive firms. Everything is as much of a deadly secret as though they were M.I.5 or something! Everyone is always acting on behalf of someone else who can’t be named or spoken of! Takeover bids aren’t in it!

      I got into a terrible state of restlessness. I stopped thinking about it all and I went and saw my mother.

      I hadn’t been to see her for a good long time.

       CHAPTER 6

      My mother lived in the same street she had lived in for the last twenty years, a street of drab houses all highly respectable and devoid of any kind of beauty or interest. The front doorstep was nicely whitened and it looked just the same as usual. It was No. 46. I pressed the front-door bell. My mother opened the door and stood there looking at me. She looked just the same as usual, too. Tall and angular, grey hair parted in the middle, mouth like a rat-trap, and eyes that were eternally suspicious. She looked hard as nails. But where I was concerned there was a core of softness somewhere in her. She never showed it, not if she could help it, but I’d found out that it was there. She’d never stopped for a moment wanting me to be different but her wishes were never going to come true. There was a perpetual state of stalemate between us.

      ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘so it’s you.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s me.’

      She drew back a little to let me pass and I came into the house and went on past the sitting-room door and into the kitchen. She followed me and stood looking at me.

      ‘It’s been quite a long time,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing?’

      I shrugged my shoulders.

      ‘This and that,’ I said.

      ‘Ah,’ said my mother, ‘as usual, eh?’

      ‘As usual,’ I agreed.

      ‘How many jobs have you had since I saw you last?’

      I thought a minute. ‘Five,’ I said.

      ‘I wish you’d grow up.’

      ‘I’m fully adult,’ I said. ‘I have chosen my way of life. How have things been with you?’ I added.

      ‘Also as usual,’ said my mother.

      ‘Quite well and all that?’

      ‘I’ve no time to waste being ill,’ said my mother. Then she said abruptly, ‘What have you come for?’

      ‘Should I have come for anything in particular?’

      ‘You usually do.’

      ‘I don’t see why you should disapprove so strongly of my seeing the world,’ I said.

      ‘Driving luxurious cars all over the Continent! Is that your idea of seeing the world?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘You won’t make much of a success in that. Not if you throw up the job at a day’s notice and go sick, dumping your clients in some heathen town.’

      ‘How did you know about that?’

      ‘Your firm rang up. They wanted to know if I knew your address.’

      ‘What did they want me for?’

      ‘They wanted to re-employ you I suppose,’ said my mother. ‘I can’t think why.’

      ‘Because I’m a good driver and the clients like me. Anyway, I couldn’t help it if I went sick, could I?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said my mother.

      Her view clearly was that I could have helped it.

      ‘Why didn’t you report to them when you got back to England?’

      ‘Because I had other fish to fry,’ I said.

      She raised her eyebrows. ‘More notions in your head? More wild ideas? What jobs have you been doing since?’

      ‘Petrol pump. Mechanic in a garage. Temporary clerk, washer-up in a sleazy night-club restaurant.’

      ‘Going down the hill in fact,’ said my mother with a kind of grim satisfaction.

      ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘It’s all part of the plan. My plan!’

      She sighed. ‘What would you like, tea or coffee? I’ve got both.’

      I plumped for coffee. I’ve grown out of the tea-drinking habit. We sat there with our cups in front of us and she took a home-made cake out of a tin and cut us each a slice.

      ‘You’re different,’ she said, suddenly.

      ‘Me, how?’

      ‘I don’t know, but you’re different. What’s happened?’

      ‘Nothing’s happened. What should have happened?’

      ‘You’re excited,’ she said.

      ‘I’m going to rob a bank,’ I said.

      She was not in the mood to be amused. She merely said:

      ‘No, I’m not afraid of your doing that.’

      ‘Why not? Seems a very easy way of getting rich quickly nowadays.’

      ‘It would need too much work,’ she said. ‘And a lot of planning. More brainwork than you’d like to have to do. Not safe enough, either.’

      ‘You think you know all about me,’ I said.

      ‘No, I don’t. I don’t really know anything about you, because you and I are as different as chalk and cheese. But I know when you’re up to something. You’re up to something now. What is it, Micky? Is it a girl?’

      ‘Why should you think it’s a girl?’

      ‘I’ve always known it would happen some day.’

      ‘What do you mean by “some day”? I’ve had lots of girls.’

      ‘Not the way I mean. It’s only been the way of a young man with nothing to do. You’ve kept your hand in with girls but you’ve never been really serious till now.’

      ‘But you think I’m serious now?’

      ‘Is it a girl, Micky?’

      I didn’t meet her eyes. I looked away and said, ‘In a way.’

      ‘What kind of a girl is she?’

      ‘The right kind for me,’ I said.

      ‘Are you going to bring her to see me?’

      ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘It’s