The Listerdale Mystery – Agatha Christie
“If only Father – hadn’t speculated – and borrowed – “
“My dear,” said Mrs. St. Vincent. “Your father was never, in any sense of the word, a businessman.” She said it with a graceful kind of finality, and Barbara came over and gave her an aimless sort of kiss as she murmured, “Poor old Mums. I won’t say anything.”
Mrs. St. Vincent took up her pen again and bent over her desk. Barbara went back to the window. Presently the girl said:
“Mother. I heard from – from Jim Masterton this morning. He wants to come and see me.” Mrs. St. Vincent laid down her pen and looked up sharply.
“Here?” she exclaimed.
“Well, we can’t ask him to dinner at the Ritz very well,” sneered Barbara. Her mother looked unhappy. Again she looked round the room with innate distaste.
“You’re right,” said Barbara. “It’s a disgusting place. Genteel poverty! Sounds all right – a whitewashed cottage in the country, shabby chintzes of good design, bowls of roses, crown Derby tea service that you wash up yourself. That’s what it’s like in books. In real life, with a son starting on the bottom rung of office life, it means London. Frowsy landladies, dirty children on the stairs, haddocks for breakfasts that aren’t quite – quite and so on.”
“If only – ” began Mrs. St. Vincent. “But, really, I’m beginning to be afraid we can’t afford even this room much longer.”
“That means a bed-sitting-room – horror! – for you and me,” said Barbara. “And a cupboard under the tiles for Rupert. And when Jim comes to call, I’ll receive him in that dreadful room downstairs with tabbies all round the walls knitting, and stating at us, and coughing that dreadful kind of gulping cough they have!” There was a pause.
“Barbara,” said Mrs. St. Vincent at last. “Do you-mean – would you – ?’
She stopped, flushing a little.
“You needn’t be delicate, Mother,” said Barbara. “Nobody is nowadays. Marry Jim, I suppose you mean? I would like a shot if he asked me. But I’m so awfully afraid he won’t.”
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