The Christie Affair(8)

‘Archie!’ she cried, running down the long drive. ‘Archie!’

Dust flew up from the tyres, a cloud in front of her. Archie didn’t even turn to glance through the back windscreen. His shoulders were set, firm and determined. He was gone from her, unreachable in every possible way.

‘Unreachable’ is the same word Honoria used later, to describe Agatha. It was Honoria’s job to wake Teddy and ready her for school, and after she’d risen, she heard loud voices from inside Mr Christie’s study: a marital squabble and a bad one at that. So she went to the nursery, where Teddy sat in a corner, already awake and playing with her dolls. That was the sort of child Teddy was, a seven-year-old who could climb out of bed and set to amusing herself, troubling no one.

‘Hello there, Teddy.’

‘Good morning.’ Teddy pushed dark hair out of her eyes. She was not surprised to see Honoria. Often Teddy awoke to find both parents already gone for the day. Before she was five her parents had left her an entire year, to travel round the world. Agatha herself had been raised largely by a beloved servant she called ‘Nursie’. To Agatha, it was a perfectly reasonable way to bring up a child.

‘Come,’ Honoria said, reaching out her hand. ‘Let’s find you some breakfast. Then it’s dressed and off to school.’

Teddy got to her feet and slipped her hand into Honoria’s. The two of them reached the top of the stairs just as Archie was escaping Agatha’s histrionics in his study. Teddy reached out, as if to wave in greeting, but Archie didn’t see her. He closed the door behind him. It only stood closed a moment before Agatha emerged, the air around her so thick with urgency that for a moment Honoria thought she’d been attacked. She stepped forward as Agatha flung the door open and ran outside. Teddy grabbed the edge of Honoria’s cardigan, keeping her there with her, and Honoria hugged the child to her ample hip, patting her in comfort, as Agatha cried, ‘Archie! Archie!’

Honoria waited inside, politely pretending none of this was happening. She heard the car drive away, but Agatha didn’t return. So she shepherded Teddy downstairs and into the kitchen. Then she went back into the front hall. Styles boasted great windows at the front and back of the house. Through the former, Honoria could see Agatha standing in her dressing gown and slippers, her hair moving in the slight wind, the dust around her settling in the flat morning light. Honoria had never seen a person stand so still and yet emanate so kinetic a sense of disarray.

‘Agatha?’ Honoria said, stepping outside. The two women were intimate enough to put aside the formality of employee and grand lady. Honoria reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Agatha, are you all right?’

Agatha stood as if she couldn’t hear, looking after the long-gone car in disbelief. When Honoria spoke again, she didn’t answer. Honoria didn’t feel right going back into the house, leaving her alone, but it felt so odd, the two of them. One fully clothed and ready for the day, one still as a statue, dressed as an invalid with a long road to recovery.

The spell didn’t last too long. Agatha roused herself and headed into Archie’s study, where she sat down to write a letter to her husband. It may have been a plea. It may have been a declaration of war. Nobody would ever know, except for Archie, who read it once then threw it in the fire.

I wonder now if Agatha had a plan. A writer, after all, she would have carefully considered every line of prose she wrote and every possibility to spring from her next movement. When I picture her at her desk, I don’t see a woman in a fugue state or on the verge of amnesia. I see the kind of determination you only recognize if you’ve felt it yourself. Determination borne of desperation transformed into purpose. Soon afterwards, when I learned of her disappearance, I wasn’t the least surprised. I understood.

I had disappeared once, too.





Here Lies Sister Mary





PERHAPS YOU’RE FINDING it difficult to feel kindly towards a homewrecker like me. But I don’t require your affection. I only ask you to see me on a wintry day in Ireland, riding in a borrowed milk wagon. I was nineteen years old.

A sorrowful Irishman – old by my standards at the time – held the reins of two shaggy horses who pulled the cart. My coat wasn’t warm enough for the damp chill. If Finbarr had driven me instead of his father, I could have cuddled beside him for extra warmth. But Finbarr never would have driven me where we were headed. Mr Mahoney, though, was not entirely without kindness. Every now and then he would let one hand go of the reins and pat my shoulder. It may have made him feel better but it did nothing for me. Empty milk bottles clanged as we rode over rutted dirt roads. If the bottles had been full, I expect the milk would have frozen by the time we reached the convent. It was a long road to Sunday’s Corner from Ballycotton.

‘I won’t be here long,’ I said, allowing my father’s brogue into the rhythm of my words, as if anything could endear me to Mr Mahoney. ‘Finbarr will come for me as soon as he recovers.’

‘If he recovers.’ His eyes were grim and looking anywhere but at me. Which would be worse? I wondered. His only son dying? Or recovering and claiming me and the shame I’d brought? As far as Mr Mahoney was concerned the best outcome would be Finbarr getting well, then forgetting he’d ever laid eyes on me. For now what he wanted was me safely locked and stored away so he could get home and see his son alive at least one more time.