Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell (3 page)

‘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 known 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 wrong 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.’

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 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 in 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 then 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.

‘We should be talking about what we really need to talk about,’ said Agatha abruptly, cutting through one of James’s history lessons. ‘I can assure you, Charles is just a friend. Nothing has been going on. What about you and Melissa? What prompted you to take her for a drink in the first place?’

That usual look of distaste and weariness which always crossed James’s face when confronted with any intimacy of conversation was back again. ‘I told you, I happened to meet her in the pub. Then I knew Charles was with you, and so . . . Do we really need to go through all this?’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Agatha. ‘Did you sleep with her?’

‘No,’ said James. He despised the euphemism. What he had done with Melissa could hardly be described as sleeping.

‘Do I have your word on that?’

‘I have to trust what you say about Charles and you have to trust what I say about Melissa, or there is no point in going on.’ He suddenly smiled at her. ‘Let’s forget about the whole sordid quarrel.’