Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener (5 page)

So on Friday morning he went and rang her doorbell and asked a flustered Agatha – flustered because she was still in her dressing-gown – out to dinner at a new restaurant in Moreton, the Game Bird.

Gardening forgotten for once, Agatha passed the day in a daze of preparation, finding to her delight that gardening, along with a moderate diet, definitely had its compensations, for all her dresses now fitted her beautifully. She winced at the sight of a green dress. Definitely not green. Mary never wore anything else. She wondered vaguely about the mentality of a woman who always wore one colour. She took herself off to Oxford and got her hair cut and shaped. She bought new cosmetics. She bought new high heels and then, when she returned from Oxford, realized she had only left herself an hour to get ready, and she had originally planned to take two hours beautifying herself.

The doorbell rang just as she had finished. Thinking James was ten minutes early, she went to answer it. Mary stood there wearing the inevitable green; green blouse, green jacket, green slacks, green leather high-heeled sandals. She blinked a little at the sight of the new Agatha Raisin in little black dress, gold jewellery, and with her short brown hair gleaming in the light over the door.

“Coming to the pub?” asked Mary.

“Can’t,” said Agatha cheerfully. “James is taking me out for dinner.”

Mary’s blue eyes went quite blank and then she said with a little laugh. “Tomorrow then?”

“I’ll meet you there at seven,” said Agatha. Mary waited, but no, Agatha was not going to spoil this golden meeting by inviting Mary in and risking having Mary include herself in the invitation when James arrived. “See you,” said Agatha brightly and slammed the door.

She then waited in the hall in a frenzy of impatience. What if Mary should now call on James? What if they both came back together?

What if James said, ‘Mary’s going to join us’? What if…?

The doorbell rang, making her jump. Crossing the fingers of one hand, she opened the door with the other and let out a sigh of relief to see James there on his own, wearing a well-cut dark suit and looking heart-wrenchingly handsome.

“Whose car are we taking?” asked Agatha. “Which one of us is going to do without drink?”

“Neither,” he said with a smile. He looked down the lane. “Our taxi is just arriving.”

Agatha, made shy by happiness, sat very upright in the back seat of the taxi with James. Mrs Mason stopped on the corner and looked curiously at them as she passed and then made her way to the Red Lion. By midnight, there would be very few people in Carsely who did not know that James Lacey had driven off with Agatha Raisin in a taxi.

Agatha, although she was slowly coming to appreciate good food and yet still was quite happy with junk, nonetheless had a sharp eye for a rip-off and her heart sank a little as they entered the elegant country-house atmosphere of the Game Bird. And yet all was calm and soothing. They had a drink in the small bar, seated in chintz-covered armchairs before a roaring log fire. Perhaps, thought Agatha, it was because the tablecloths in the dining-room were pink, as were the napkins. There was always something suspicious about restaurants which went in for pink tablecloths.

When they sat down at the table, huge menus were handed to them, the kind that are handwritten as if by a doctor, the writing is so nearly indecipherable.

It was very expensive and she blinked at the prices. But she was very hungry after her weeks of dieting and gardening – no fruit diet, just eating less – and decided to splash out. She ordered bouillabaisse, followed by the ‘venison special’, despite James’s murmur that April might not be a good time to order venison.

“You forget,” said Agatha, “that there is a lot of farm venison around these days.”

They talked about people in the village and James said he, too, would be planting out his seedlings. The bouillabaisse arrived. But it was nothing more than a rather thin fish bisque – no bits of seafood – and served only with one sliver of toast melba, and the soup was served in a very small bowl.

James had a tiny portion of pâté, which was beautifully arranged on a small plate.

Determined to be good and not to make a fuss, Agatha drank her soup. She was still hungry when she had finished but then there was the venison to look forward to. The wine, although French vintage, and claiming to be Montrechat, tasted even to Agatha’s untutored palate thin and vinegary.

But then her venison arrived. It was a small piece surrounded by carefully sculptured vegetables and covered in a cranberry sauce. No vulgar fattening potatoes. “That looks good,” said James heartily, a shade too heartily. He had ordered duck in orange sauce.

Agatha attacked her venison. One cut, one mouthful proved her worst fears. Never had she seen a piece of meat with so much gristle. Her stomach let out a baffled rumble of disappointment.

She cracked.

Agatha imperiously summoned the head waiter. “Yes, madam?” He stooped over the table.

“Can you tell me,” said Agatha in a thin voice, “which part of the animal this comes from? Its hooves? Its knees? The bit between its eyes?”

“Perhaps madam is not accustomed to venison?”

Deep down inside her, Agatha’s working-class soul flinched. Her temper snapped. “Don’t you dare patronize me,” she said. “This is a lump of gristle. And while we’re on the subject, that bouillabaisse was a rip-off, too.”

“Dear me,” said an acidulous-looking woman with a strangled would-be upper-class voice from the table behind Agatha, “the tourist season is here again.”

Agatha whipped round. “Screw you,” she said contemptuously. Then she turned her bearlike eyes back to the head waiter. “I’m telling you this stuff is crap.”

Her voice had been overloud. Everyone had stopped talking and was staring at her. She flushed red.

“I don’t know about the venison,” said James mildly, “but this duck is as tough as old boots and appears to have been microwaved.”

“I will get the owner,” intoned the head waiter.

“I’m sorry, James,” said Agatha miserably.

He leaned across the table and poked at Agatha’s venison experimentally with his fork. “You know, you’re right,” he said. “It is a lump of gristle. And here, unless I am mistaken, comes the owner.”

A huge man bore down on their table. He had a large body and a surprisingly small head. “I know your sort,” he said in a thick Italian accent. “Get outta here. You don’t wanna pay. So don’t pay.”

“We do not mind paying,” said James stiffly, “just so long as you take this away and bring us some decent food.”

The owner let out a growl of rage like a Klingon at a death ritual and seized the four corners of the tablecloth. He gathered up the lot and strode off to the kitchen with it over his shoulder, wine and gravy dripping down his massive back.

“Time to leave,” said James. He stood up and helped Agatha out of her chair.

Covered in shame, Agatha went outside. It was a clear, starry night. Far above the Fosse they twinkled, cold and remote from the social anguish of one middle-aged lady who felt she had not only blown the evening but destroyed all her hopes of romance. And then she realized James was laughing. He was leaning against the wall of the restaurant, laughing and laughing. At last he looked down at her, his eyes glinting in the streetlights. “Oh, Agatha Raisin,” he said, “I do love you when you’re angry.”

And suddenly the stars above whirled and the Fosse became a Parisian boulevard and the world was young again and Agatha Raisin was young and pretty and attractive.

She grinned and said, “Let’s go to the pub next door and get some beer and sandwiches.”

Most of the pubs in the Cotswolds are comfortable places, redolent of age and centuries of good living. The sandwiches were delicious and the beer was good. They talked comfortably like old friends, Agatha cautiously determined to be on her best behaviour.

“We must do this again,” he said after he had called for a taxi to take them home. “A very cheap evening after all.”

And Agatha, a few minutes later sitting beside him in the taxi, reflected that if one is in the grip of an obsession, nothing is ever enough. She had told herself at the beginning of the evening that all she wanted was for them to be friends again, but now she longed for him to put an arm around her shoulders in the darkness of the taxi and kiss her. The longing was so intense that she felt her breathing becoming ragged and was half sad, half relieved when the short journey was over and he refused her offer of coffee, but said he would no doubt see her in the pub on the following day.

Agatha’s heart sang as she went to bed. She fell asleep remembering every word and every look.

A visit from Mrs Mason the following day brought her down to earth. “I saw you driving off with Mr Lacey in a taxi,” said Mrs Mason, settling her large bottom more comfortably in one of Agatha’s armchairs.

“Yes, we had a nice evening,” said Agatha.

“Where did you go?”

“That new restaurant in Moreton, the Game Bird.”

“He entertains well when he takes the ladies out,” said Mrs Mason. “I’ve heard it’s expensive.”

“What do you mean, he entertains well?”

“I know he took Mrs Fortune to the Lygon in Broadway at least a couple of times and once to the Randolph in Oxford.”

Agatha felt bleak. What was one disastrous dinner compared to what appeared to be a chain of good and expensive dinners he had enjoyed with Mary Fortune? She imagined them together on a long drive to Oxford. All the glory of the previous evening was tarnished. Agatha also found to her surprise that she actually liked Mary. Mary had become a good friend. Perhaps the most graceful thing to do would be to give up trying. On the other hand, James had shown no particular interest in Mary of late.

With only half her mind on what Mrs Mason was saying, Mrs Mason having gone on to talk about parish matters, Agatha wrestled with the problem of whether to go to the Red Lion that evening or not. Perhaps she should give up this village life and return to work in London. She still had not said no to Wilson’s offer. He had phoned her again and been most persuasive. But, she thought, looking at the motherly bulk of Mrs Mason, friends had not dropped round to her flat for a chat in London. In fact, she had had no friends at all.

After Mrs Mason left, she went out into her garden, which was cleared and ready for planting. It was a balmy day with big castles of white clouds floating over the Cotswold hills. Yes, she would go to the pub, but not to see James Lacey, just to meet people and have a chat.

But that evening she dressed with special care. She did not want to look
too
dressed up for a village pub and at last settled on a soft silk chiffon blouse of deep red worn with a short straight black skirt and black suede shoes with a modest heel. She gave herself a temporary facelift with white of egg, very effective provided one did not smile too much, and strolled off in the direction of the pub. James’s house had an empty look. He must be already there. With a feeling of going on-stage, she opened the pub door and went into the smoky low-ceilinged room. James was standing at the bar talking to Mr Bernard Spott, the man who headed the horticultural society. James hailed Agatha and bought her a gin and tonic. She had just taken her first sip and was looking for an inroad into the conversation about dahlias that James was having with Bernard when the pub door opened and Mary Fortune sailed in. Agatha had known the pangs of jealousy before but never anything as bad as this. She felt her face becoming stiff, as stiff as if she had just applied the white of egg. Mary was wearing a short white jersey dress and gold jewellery. The dress clung to her excellent figure. It was the first time Agatha had seen her wear anything other than green. The skirt of the dress was very short, exposing Mary’s long legs encased in tan stockings and ending in high-heeled strapped sandals. Her golden hair glowed in the light. Her eyes were very wide and very blue. She had never looked more magnificent and her entrance was greeted with a sudden appreciative silence. James, too, had fallen silent and was gazing at Mary in open admiration. Oh, jealousy as sour as bile engulfed Agatha. She felt old and diminished.

James found his voice. “Mary,” he said warmly. “What are you having?”

“Campari soda, darling.” Mary linked her hand over his arm and smiled at him in an intimate way that made Agatha want to strike her. Old Bernard was tugging at his tie and staring at her in rapture. “What were you talking about?” asked Mary.

“Gardening,” said James.

“Tomorrow’s my big day,” declared Agatha. “I’m planting out my seedlings.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Agatha,” exclaimed Mary. “There’s going to be a big frost on Sunday night. I’m leaving mine until the weather settles.”

Was it Agatha’s soured imagination, or was this delivered with a certain, well, patronizing air?

“I didn’t hear anything about frost,” she said mulishly.

Bernard Spott was a tall, thin man in his eighties, whose sparse grey hair was greased in strips over his scalp. He had a large beaky nose with which he looked down at whomever he was speaking to. He waggled an admonitory finger under Agatha’s nose. “Better listen to what Mary says. She’s our expert.”

“Certainly is,” murmured James.

Agatha gave what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. The evening then proceeded to be a total disaster for her. If one has never had anything to do with gardening before, then one has little to contribute to a conversation in which a bewildering set of Latin names fly back and forth. And so Agatha stood mostly silent, as the names came and went and mulch was discussed and other organic fertilizers. Mary held court and Agatha stood on the outskirts. At last, when she saw her cleaner, Doris Simpson, and her husband seated over in a corner of the bar, Agatha murmured an excuse and went to join them.

Doris did not help Agatha’s burning jealousy by remarking, “Mrs Fortune looks like one of them film stars tonight.”

Agatha turned the conversation away from Mary but all the while she talked of village matters she had half an ear tuned to the sound of James’s frequent bursts of laughter.