The Love from Hell ar-11 Read online

  When Agatha finally left, it was dark and late and she was hungry. She stopped at a pub on the road home and had a simple meal and a glass of water. Now to deal with James.

  ♦

  Residents of Carsely, walking their dogs along Lilac Lane where Agatha and James had their cottages, were to describe later how they had heard Agatha shouting, and then the sound of breaking china. James had decided to put his foot down. Agatha was told in no uncertain terms that she had to give up this stupid job and start trying to behave like a married woman.

  If he had been angry at that point, Agatha might, just might have capitulated. But it was the calm scorn in his voice that got to her. He looked pained, as if she were giving him another headache. She had never thought of herself before as a china-smashing woman, but the row took place in the kitchen and so Agatha swept a whole shelf of dishes to the floor and danced with rage on the shards.

  “You disgust me,” said James quietly. And then he had walked out, leaving Agatha red-faced, panting, and totally demoralized.

  Wearily, she packed up her belongings and carried them next door to her own cottage. She went back and cleaned up the mess of broken china, boxed it up, and left it out for the garbage collection. She collected the same number of plates she had broken from the supply in her own cottage and placed them on James’s kitchen shelf. Then she called to her cats who followed her next door, their raised fur only just beginning to settle after the fright they had received from their mistress’s noisy scene. Once in her own house, Agatha forced herself to relax. She would apologize to James for the broken china.

  ♦

  Next day she was kept busy – reporting to the shoe company, hiring a rehearsal hall and meeting the pop group. Agatha had dealt with pop groups before and found Stepping Out refreshingly pleasant. The group consisted of three young men and three girls. All were in their late teens. They had a clean-cut, happy look. Agatha felt she was on a winner. She plunged into work, but always at the back of her mind was a black cloud of misery. If only she could confide in someone – but no one, no one, must know that Agatha Raisin’s marriage was a failure.

  Several times she thought about phoning James, to clear the air, to apologize. But each time she held back. How on earth could he be so old-fashioned? And yet, and yet, she thought weakly, she had made a dreadful scene, had broken his china, behaved like a fish-wife. Why did people still blame fish-wives for violence and bad language? she wondered. What fish-wives, anyway? Probably from the old days of Billingsgate fish market.

  Harry Best studied her. She was quite a girl, he thought. Look at the way she had set to and helped load the equipment into the rehearsal room. Look at the way she had established a rapport with the young people. She wasn’t nearly as hard-boiled as he had first imagined. In fact, he thought, there were times when she looked almost on the edge of tears. Funny woman.

  Agatha was sorry when the long day was over. Two of the young men were already working on a sort of rambling pop song. “Don’t be scared of being old-fashioned,” Agatha had urged. “Make it sound like something cheery – something people will want to whistle as they walk along a country road.”

  When she drove back to Carsely, she braced herself for a confrontation with James. But when she let herself into his cottage – she never thought of it as their home – it was to find it dark and silent. With a beating heart, she ran up to the bedroom and checked the closet. All James’s clothes were still there.

  She sat down on the bed and wondered what to do. Where would James be? Probably in the pub.

  Perhaps it might be an idea to follow him there. He could hardly make a scene in front of the villagers, thought Agatha, forgetting that she was the one who usually made the scenes.

  She went to her own cottage and changed into a blond silk trouser-suit and wrapped a deep-bronze lamb’s-wool stole about her shoulders, then walked slowly along to the pub. She would be breezy, cheerful, as if nothing had happened.

  Somehow, the fact of taking some action brightened her immensely as she strode along the lane under the heavy blossom of the lilac trees which gave it its name. Agatha’s great weakness was that not for one minute would she admit to herself that she was afraid of James. She would admit to being afraid of losing him, but to being actually scared of him was something that Agatha, who had laminated her soul over the years with layers of hardness, could not even begin to contemplate. Nor would she realize that love had made the unacceptable almost acceptable – the put-downs, the scorn, the silences, the lack of easy, friendly affection.

  She walked into the Red Lion with a smile on her face.

  Her smile faded.

  James was sitting at a corner table by the log fire, laughing and smiling at a slim, blonde-haired woman whom Agatha recognized as Melissa Sheppard. As she watched, Melissa leaned forward and squeezed James’s hand.

  As Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, was to describe it later, Agatha Raisin went ‘ape-shit.’ Sour jealousy rose like bile in her throat. In seconds, the misery she had endured flashed across her mind. She strode across and confronted the startled Melissa. “Leave my husband alone, you trollop.”

  Melissa rose and grabbed her handbag and sidled around Agatha and made for the door. Agatha leaned across the table. “You bastard,” she shouted. “I’ll kill you and that philandering bitch!”

  James rose, his face dark with anger. He seized her wrists. “Stop making a scene,” he hissed.

  Agatha broke free of his grip, picked up his half tankard of beer and poured it over his head and then turned and ran out. She ran all the way to her cottage, stumbling over the cobbles. Once safely inside her own cottage, she sat down in her kitchen and cried and cried.

  Then she went upstairs and carefully washed her face in cold water and put on fresh make-up. James would call to continue the row and she wanted to be armoured against him.

  The doorbell rang. Agatha gave a pat to her hair, squared her shoulders and marched down the stairs.

  “Now, see here…” she began as she opened the door. But it was not James who stood there but her old friend, Sir Charles Fraith.

  “I called next door but James told me you were here,” said Charles. “Can I come in?”

  “Why not?” said Agatha bleakly, and walked back into the cottage, leaving him to follow her.

  “What’s up?” asked Charles, following her into the kitchen. “Don’t tell me the marriage has broken up already.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Agatha. “We’re divinely happy. Would you like a drink?”

  “Whisky, if you’ve got it.”

  Agatha was torn between telling him to leave in case James came and yet wanting him to stay in case James did not. She led the way into the sitting-room, lit the fire which she had set earlier, poured him a generous measure of malt whisky and then one for herself.

  Charles sat down on the sofa and surveyed Agatha, who had slumped into an armchair opposite him.

  “Been crying?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I cut myself.”

  “Where?”

  “What d’you mean, where?”

  “Aggie, cut the crap. This act of being a happily married woman must be killing you.”

  She looked at him in silence. He sat there in her sitting-room where he had sat so many times before, neat, groomed, well-tailored, as self-contained as a cat.

  Agatha gave a weary shrug. “Okay, you may as well have it. The marriage is a disaster.”

  “I won’t say I told you so.”

  “Don’t dare.”

  “I suppose the problem is that James is just being bachelor James and wants his usual lifestyle and you are getting in the way with your rotten cooking and your nasty cigarettes. Criticized your clothes yet?”

  “Never stops. How did you know?”

  “It is a well-known fact that stuffy men, once they are married to the object of their desire, start to criticize the very style of dressing that attracted them in the first place. I b
et he told you not to wear high heels and that your make-up was too heavy.”

  “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 know 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 up 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 Love from Hell ∧

  2

  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 Jam
es 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.