“And when would we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Say, the end of next week?”
“Fine. Where are you going?”
“Back home to make some phone calls.”
Inside her cottage, Agatha looked at the phone and then decided she must simply communicate such marvellous news to her friend Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. She let her cats out into the garden and then hurried off to the vicarage.
With her grey hair and gentle face, Mrs. Bloxby always acted like a sort of balm on the turmoil of Agatha’s feelings.
“Come in, Mrs. Raisin,” she said. “You are all flushed.”
Both Agatha and Mrs. Bloxby were members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society and it was an old-fashioned tradition among the members that only second names should be used.
“We’ll sit in the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby, leading the way. “Such a glorious day. Coffee?”
“No, don’t bother.” Agatha sat down in a garden chair and Mrs. Bloxby took the seat opposite her. Please let it not be anything to do with James, prayed Mrs. Bloxby. I do so hope she’s got over that.
“It’s James!” exclaimed Agatha, and Mrs. Bloxby’s heart sank.
“I thought you were never going to have anything to do with him again.”
“Oh, it was because of that terrible party that I told you about. Well, just listen to this. He is arranging to take me on holiday.”
“Where?”
“It’s to be a surprise.”
“Is that such a good idea? It might be somewhere you’ll hate.”
“He’s a travel writer now and travel writers don’t write about dreary places. I must lose weight if I’m going to look good on the beach.”
“But how do you know you are going to the beach?”
Agatha began to feel cross. “Look, he obviously wants to make it a romantic holiday. You’re a bit depressing about all this.”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Of course I hope you will have a wonderful time. It’s just…”
“What?” snapped Agatha.
“It’s just that James has always behaved like a confirmed bachelor and he can be quite self-centred. This holiday will be what he wants, not what he would think you would like.”
Agatha rose angrily to her feet. “Well, sage of the ages, I’m off to do some shopping.”
“Don’t be angry with me,” pleaded Mrs. Bloxby. “I most desperately don’t want to see you getting hurt again.” But the slamming of the garden door was her only reply.
* * *
Agatha threw herself into a fever of shopping: new swimsuit, filmy evening dress, beach clothes and beach bag. In her fantasies, James and she stood on the terrace of a hotel, looking out at the moonlight on the Mediterranean. He took her in his arms, his voice husky with desire and he said, “I’ve always loved you.”
Patrick Mulligan, Phil Marshall and Harry Beam all assured her they could easily cope in her absence.
When the great day of departure arrived, she could hear James tooting angrily on the car horn as she packed and repacked. At last, heaving a suitcase that was so heavy it felt as if it had an anvil in it, she emerged from her cottage. The lover of her fantasies fled, to be replaced by the very real and present James Lacey. He lifted her suitcase into the boot and said, “I thought you were going to be in there all day.”
“Well, here I am,” said Agatha brightly.
Agatha had been unable to sleep the previous night because of excitement. Shortly after they had driven off, she fell into a heavy sleep. After two hours, she awoke with a start. Rain was smearing the windscreen. The scenery seemed to consist of factories.
“Are we at the airport yet?” she asked.
“We’re not going to the airport. Shut up, Agatha. This is supposed to be a surprise.”
Must be going to take the ferry, thought Agatha. Oh, how marvellous it would be to get out of dreary grey England and into the foreign sunshine. The factories and then some villas gave way to rain-swept countryside where wet sheep huddled in the shelter of drystone walls. A kestrel sailed overhead like a harbinger of doom.
“Where are we?” asked Agatha.
“Sussex.”
“Which Channel ferry runs from Sussex?”
“Don’t spoil the surprise, Agatha, by asking questions.”
With rising apprehension, Agatha watched the miles of rainsoaked countryside go by. Were they going to Brighton? Now that would be really unoriginal.
James drove along a cliff road, then turned off. After two miles, he pulled into the side of the road in front of a sign that said “Snoth-on-Sea.”
“This is the surprise,” he said portentously. “This is one of the last unspoilt seaside resorts in Britain. I used to come here as a boy with my parents. Beautiful place. You’ll love it.”
Agatha was stricken into silence, thinking of all the light clothes and beachwear and all the bottles of suntan lotion, face creams and make-up that were weighing down her suitcase. She tried to get Mrs. Bloxby’s gentle voice out of her head. “This holiday will be what he wants, not what he would think you would like.”
James drove slowly down into the town, prepared to savour every moment. On the outskirts, he received his first shock. There was a large housing estate—a grubby, depressed-looking housing estate. With rising anxiety, he motored on into the town. He had booked them rooms at the Palace Hotel, which he remembered as an endearingly grand Edwardian building facing the sea and the pier. Oh, that wonderful theatre at the end of the pier where his parents had taken him with his sister to watch vaudeville shows.
As he headed for the seafront, he saw that all the little shops that used to sell things like ice cream and postcards had been replaced by chain stores. The main street that ran parallel to the seafront had been widened and was full of traffic. He longed now to reach the genteel relaxation of the Palace. He edged through a snarl of traffic. On the front, the black-and-grey sea heaved angrily, sending up plumes of spray. There was the pier, but the part where the theatre had been had fallen into the sea.
He parked in front of the Palace and waited for someone to rush out and take their suitcases. No one appeared. There was a flashing neon sign at the side that said, “ar ark,” two of the necessary letters having rusted away. He drove in. Agatha was ominously silent. He heaved their cases out of the boot and began to trundle them round to the front of the hotel. A gust of rain met them as they emerged from the car park, and Agatha’s carefully coiffed hair whipped about her face. Inside, the entrance lounge, once a haven of large armchairs and log fire and palm trees, was dotted about with fake leather chairs, and where the log fire had been was an electric heater.
James checked them in. In his youth, the staff had worn smart uniforms. But it was a languid, pallid girl with a nose stud who checked the reservations.
Separate rooms, thought Agatha. I might have known it. There was no porter, so James had to lug the suitcases into the lift. “You’re in room twenty,” he said brightly. “Here’s your key.” No modern plastic cards at the Palace. The only relic of the old days lay in the large brass key he handed to Agatha.
She took it from him silently. He unlocked the door for her. “See you downstairs in about—what—an hour?”
“Sure,” said Agatha. She wheeled her case into the room and shut the door on him.
She sat down on the bed and looked around. A massive mahogany wardrobe loomed over the room. There was a round table at the window covered with a faded lace cloth. The carpet, which had once been green and covered with red roses, had worn down to a uniform dull colour. There was a badly executed seascape on one wall. A reminder of the hotel’s glory days was a marble fireplace, but the hearth had been sealed up and a two-bar electric heater squatted in front of it. Beside the fireplace was a meter box for coins. No mini bar. No free coffee or tea. Rain rattled against the window and the wind moaned like a banshee. The bed was covered in a slippery pink quilt, the forerunner of the duvet and the kind of covering guaranteed to slide off the bed on a cold night.
Agatha wondered what to do. Common sense told her to ring down for a taxi and get the hell out of Snoth- on-Sea. Fantasy told her that the weather might change and the sun might shine and James and she would get married again.
