Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 33

Excited, I started work. I had no book on hand at the moment. Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.rs Ten Little n.i.g.g.e.rs had been successfully running at the St. James' Theatre until that theatre was bombed; it then transferred to the Cambridge for some further months. I was just playing about with a new idea for a book, so this was just the moment to get started on an Egyptian detective story. had been successfully running at the St. James' Theatre until that theatre was bombed; it then transferred to the Cambridge for some further months. I was just playing about with a new idea for a book, so this was just the moment to get started on an Egyptian detective story.

There is no doubt that I was bullied into it by Stephen. There was no doubt, either, that if Stephen was determined that I should write a detective story set in ancient Egypt, I should have to do so. He was that kind of man.

As I pointed out to him in the ensuing weeks and months, he must have become extremely sorry that he had urged me to do anything of the sort. I was continually ringing him up and demanding information which, as he said, only took me three minutes to ask for, but which he usually had to look through eight different books to find. 'Stephen, what did they eat for meals? How did they have their meat cooked? Were there any special things for special feasts? Did the men and women eat together? What sort of rooms did they sleep in?'

'Oh dear,' Stephen would groan, and then he would have to look up things, pointing out to me that one has to deduce a great deal from little evidence. There were pictures of reed birds on spits being served, pictures of loaves, of bunches of grapes being pickedand so on. Anyway, I got enough to make my daily life of the period sound all right, and then I came back with a few more queries.

'Did they eat at the table, or on the floor? Did the women occupy a separate part of the house? Did they keep linen in chests or in cupboards? What sort of houses did they have?'

Houses were far more difficult to find out about than temples or palaces, owing to the fact that the temples and palaces were still there, being built of stone, whereas houses had been of more perishable material.

Stephen argued with me a great deal on one point of my denouement, denouement, and I am sorry to say that I gave in to him in the end. I was always annoyed with myself for having done so. He had a kind of hypnotic influence about that sort of thing; He was so positive himself that he was and I am sorry to say that I gave in to him in the end. I was always annoyed with myself for having done so. He had a kind of hypnotic influence about that sort of thing; He was so positive himself that he was right right that you couldn't help having doubts yourself. Up to then, on the whole, though I have given in to people on every subject under the sun, that you couldn't help having doubts yourself. Up to then, on the whole, though I have given in to people on every subject under the sun, I have never given in to anyone over what I write. I have never given in to anyone over what I write.

If I think I have got a certain thing right right in a bookthe way it should beI'm not easily moved from it. In this case, against my better judgment, I in a bookthe way it should beI'm not easily moved from it. In this case, against my better judgment, I did did give in. It was a moot point, but I still think now, when I re-read the book, that I would like to re-write the end of itwhich shows that you should stick to your guns in the first place, or you will be dissatisfied with yourself. But I was a little hampered by the grat.i.tude I felt to Stephen for all the trouble he had taken, and the fact that it had been give in. It was a moot point, but I still think now, when I re-read the book, that I would like to re-write the end of itwhich shows that you should stick to your guns in the first place, or you will be dissatisfied with yourself. But I was a little hampered by the grat.i.tude I felt to Stephen for all the trouble he had taken, and the fact that it had been his his idea to start with. Anyway, idea to start with. Anyway, Death Comes as the End Death Comes as the End was duly written. was duly written.

Shortly after that, I wrote the one book that has satisfied me completely. It was a new Mary Westmacott, the book that I had always wanted to write, that had been clear in my mind. It was the picture of a woman with a complete image of herself, of what she was, but about which she was completely mistaken. Through her own actions, her own feelings and thoughts, this would be revealed to the reader. She would be, as it were, continually meeting herself, meeting herself, not recognising herself, but becoming increasingly uneasy. What brought about this revelation would be the fact that for the first time in her life she was not recognising herself, but becoming increasingly uneasy. What brought about this revelation would be the fact that for the first time in her life she was alone alonecompletely alonefor four or five days.

I had the background now, which I had not had in my mind before. It would be one of those resthouses on journeys through Mesopotamia, where you are immobilised, you cannot travel on, there is no one there but natives who hardly speak Englishwho bring you meals and nod their heads and agree to what you say. There is nowhere to go, no one to see, and you are stuck there till you can go on. So you sit and think about yourself, yourself, having read the only two books you have with you. You think about yourself. And my starting pointI had always known what that would bewas when she was leaving Victoria, going out to see one of her daughters who was married abroad, looking back as the train moved out of the station, at her husband's back retreating up the platform, and the sudden pang it gave her as he went striding along, striding along just like a man who was terrifically relieved, who was released from bondage, who was going to have a holiday. It was so surprising that she could hardly believe her eyes. Of course she was mistaken, of course Rodney was going to miss her terribly, and yetthat little seedit would stay in her mind worrying her; and then, she was all alone and began thinking, the pattern of her life would unroll little by little. It was going to be technically difficult to do, the way I wanted it; lightly, colloquially, but with a growing feeling of tension, of uneasiness, the sort of feeling one haseveryone has, sometime, I thinkof having read the only two books you have with you. You think about yourself. And my starting pointI had always known what that would bewas when she was leaving Victoria, going out to see one of her daughters who was married abroad, looking back as the train moved out of the station, at her husband's back retreating up the platform, and the sudden pang it gave her as he went striding along, striding along just like a man who was terrifically relieved, who was released from bondage, who was going to have a holiday. It was so surprising that she could hardly believe her eyes. Of course she was mistaken, of course Rodney was going to miss her terribly, and yetthat little seedit would stay in her mind worrying her; and then, she was all alone and began thinking, the pattern of her life would unroll little by little. It was going to be technically difficult to do, the way I wanted it; lightly, colloquially, but with a growing feeling of tension, of uneasiness, the sort of feeling one haseveryone has, sometime, I thinkof who am I? who am I? What am I like What am I like really? really? What do all the people I love think of me? Do they think of me as I think they do? What do all the people I love think of me? Do they think of me as I think they do?

The whole world looks different; you begin to see it in different terms. You keep rea.s.suring yourself, but the suspicion, the anxiety comes back.

I wrote that book in three days flat. On the third day, a Monday, I sent an excuse to the Hospital, because I did not dare leave my book at that pointI had to go on until I had finished it. It was not a long booka mere fifty thousand wordsbut it had been with me a long time.

It is an odd feeling to have a book growing inside you, for perhaps six or seven years knowing that one day you will write it, knowing that it is building up, all the time, to what it already is. Yes, it is there alreadyit just has to come more clearly out of the mist. All the people are there, ready, waiting in the wings, ready to come on to the stage when their cues are calledand then, suddenly, one gets a clear and sudden command: Now! Now!

Now is when you are ready. Now, you know all about it. Oh, the blessing that for once one is able to do it then and there, that now now is is really really now. now.

I was so frightened of interruptions, of anything breaking the flow of continuity, that after I had written the first chapter in a white heat, I proceeded to write the last chapter, because I knew so clearly where I was going that I felt I must get it down on paper. Otherwise I did not have to interrupt anythingI went straight through.

I don't think I have ever been so tired. When I finished, when I had seen that the chapter I had written earlier needed not a word changed, I fell on my bed, and as far as I remember slept more or less for twenty-four hours straight through. Then I got up and had an enormous dinner, and the following day I was able to go to the Hospital again.

I looked so peculiar that everyone was upset about me there. 'You must have been really ill,' they said, 'you have got the most enormous circles under your eyes.' It was only fatigue and exhaustion, but to have that fatigue and exhaustion was worth-while when for once writing had been no difficultyno difficulty at all, that is, beyond the physical effort. Anyway, it was a very rewarding experience to have had.

I called the book Absent in the Spring, Absent in the Spring, from that sonnet of Shakespeare's which begins with those words: from that sonnet of Shakespeare's which begins with those words: 'From you have I been absent in the spring.' 'From you have I been absent in the spring.' I don't know myself, of course, what it is really like. It may be stupid, badly written, no good at all. But it was written with integrity, with sincerity, it was written as I meant to write it, and that is the proudest joy an author can have. I don't know myself, of course, what it is really like. It may be stupid, badly written, no good at all. But it was written with integrity, with sincerity, it was written as I meant to write it, and that is the proudest joy an author can have.

A few years later I wrote another book of Mary Westmacottcalled The Rose and the Yew Tree. The Rose and the Yew Tree. It is one I can always read with great pleasure, though it was not an imperative, like It is one I can always read with great pleasure, though it was not an imperative, like Absent in the Spring. Absent in the Spring. But there again, the idea behind the book had been with me a long timein fact since about 1929. Just a sketchy picture, that I knew would come to life one day. But there again, the idea behind the book had been with me a long timein fact since about 1929. Just a sketchy picture, that I knew would come to life one day.

One wonders where these things come from fromI mean the ones that are a must. Sometimes I think that is the moment one feels nearest to G.o.d, because you have been allowed to feel a little of the joy of pure creation. You have been able to make something that is not yourself. You know a kins.h.i.+p with the Almighty, as you might on a seventh day, when you see that what you have made is good.

I was to make one more variation from my usual literary work. I wrote a book out of nostalgia, because I was separated from Max, could so seldom get news of him, and recalled with such poignant remembrance the days we had spent in Arpachiyah and in Syria. I wanted to re-live our life, to have the pleasure of rememberingand so I wrote Come, Tell Me How You Live, Come, Tell Me How You Live, a light-hearted frivolous book; but it does mirror the times we went through, so many little silly things one had forgotten. People have liked that book very much. There was only a small edition of it, because paper was short. a light-hearted frivolous book; but it does mirror the times we went through, so many little silly things one had forgotten. People have liked that book very much. There was only a small edition of it, because paper was short.

Sidney Smith, of course, said to me: 'You can't publish that, Agatha.' 'I'm going to,' I said.

'No,' he said. 'You had better not publish that.'

'But I want to.' Sidney Smith looked at me disapprovingly. It was not the kind of sentiment he would approve of. Doing what you personally wanted did not go with Sidney's somewhat Calvinist outlook.

'Max might not like it.'

I considered that doubtfully.

'I don't think he'll mind. He'll probably like remembering about all the things we did, too. I would never try to write a serious serious book about archaeology; I know that I'd make far too many silly mistakes. But this is different, this is book about archaeology; I know that I'd make far too many silly mistakes. But this is different, this is personal. personal. And I am going to publish it,' I continued. 'I want something to hold on to, to remember. You can't trust your own memory. Things go. So that's why I want to publish it.' And I am going to publish it,' I continued. 'I want something to hold on to, to remember. You can't trust your own memory. Things go. So that's why I want to publish it.'

'Oh! well,' said Sidney. He still sounded doubtful. However, 'Oh! well' was a concession when it came from Sidney.

'Nonsense,' said his wife Mary. 'Of course you can publish it. Why not? It is very amusing. And I quite see what you mean about liking to remember and read back over it.'

The other people who didn't like it were my publishers. They were suspicious and disapproving, afraid that I was getting completely out of hand. They had hated Mary Westmacott writing anything. They were now prepared to be suspicious of Come, Tell Me How You Live, Come, Tell Me How You Live, or anything, in fact, that enticed me away from mystery stories. However, the book was a success, and I think they then regretted that paper was so short. I published it under the name of Agatha Christie Mallowan so that it should not be confused with any of my detective books. or anything, in fact, that enticed me away from mystery stories. However, the book was a success, and I think they then regretted that paper was so short. I published it under the name of Agatha Christie Mallowan so that it should not be confused with any of my detective books.

IV

There are things one does not want to go over in one's mind again. Things that you have to accept because they have happened, but you don't want to think of them again.

Rosalind rang me up one day and told me that Hubert, who had been in France now for some time, had been reported missing, believed killed.

That is, I think, the most cruel thing that can happen to any young wife in wartime. The awful suspense. To have your husband killed is bad enough; but it is something you have got to live with, and you know that you have. This fatal holding out of hope is cruel, cruel... cruel... And no one can help you. And no one can help you.

I went down to join her, and stayed at Pwllywrach for some time. We hopedof course one always hopesbut I don't think Rosalind, in her own heart, ever did quite hope. She had always been one to expect the worst. And I think, too, that there had always been something about Hubertnot exactly melancholy, but that touch or look of someone who is not fated for long life. He was a dear person; good to me always, with, I think, a great vein, not exactly of poetry, but of something of that kind in him. I wish I had had a greater chance to know him better; not just a few short visits and encounters.

It was not for a good many months that we got any further news. Rosalind, I think, had had the news for a full twenty-four hours before she said anything to me. She had behaved just the same as usual; she was and always has been a person of enormous courage. Finally, hating to do so but knowing it had to be done, she said abruptly: 'You had better see this, I suppose,' and she handed me the telegram which reported that he was now definitely cla.s.sified as killed in action.

The saddest thing in life and the hardest to live through, is the knowledge that there is someone you love very much whom you cannot save from suffering. You can do things to aid people's physical disabilities; but you can do little to help the pain of the heart. I thought, I may have been wrong, that the best thing I could do to help Rosalind was to say as little as possible, to go on as usual. I think that would have been my own feeling. You hope no one will speak to you, or enlarge upon things. I hope that was was best for her, but you cannot know for another person. It may be it would have been easier for her if I had been the determined kind of mother who broke her down and insisted on her being more demonstrative. Instinct cannot be infallible. One wants so badly not to hurt the person one lovesnot to do the wrong thing for them. One feels one ought to best for her, but you cannot know for another person. It may be it would have been easier for her if I had been the determined kind of mother who broke her down and insisted on her being more demonstrative. Instinct cannot be infallible. One wants so badly not to hurt the person one lovesnot to do the wrong thing for them. One feels one ought to know, know, but one can never be sure. but one can never be sure.

She continued to live at Pwllywrach in the big empty house with Mathewan enchanting little boy, and always, in my memory, such a happy little boy: he had a great knack for happiness. He still has. I was so glad that Hubert saw his son; that he knew he had a son, though it sometimes seemed more cruel to know that he was not to come back and live in the home he loved, or to bring up the son whom he had wanted so much.

Sometimes one cannot help a tide of rage coming over one when one thinks of war. In England we had too much war in too short a time.

The first war seemed unbelievable, amazing; it seemed so unnecessary. But one did hope and believe that the thing had been scotched then, that the wish for war would never arise again in the same German hearts. But it didwe know now, from the doc.u.ments which are part of history, that Germany was planning for war in the years before the Second War came.

But one is left with the horrible feeling now that war settles nothing; nothing; that to that to win win a war is as disastrous as to lose one! War, I think, has a war is as disastrous as to lose one! War, I think, has had had its time and place; when, unless you its time and place; when, unless you were were warlike, you would not live to perpetuate your speciesyou would die out. To be meek, to be gentle, to give in easily, would spell disaster; war was a necessity then, because either you or the others would perish. Like a bird or animal, you had to fight for your territory. War brought you slaves, land, food, womenthe things you needed to survive. But now we have got to learn to avoid war, not because of our nicer natures or our dislike of hurting others, but because war is not profitable, we shall not survive war, but shall, as well as our adversaries, be warlike, you would not live to perpetuate your speciesyou would die out. To be meek, to be gentle, to give in easily, would spell disaster; war was a necessity then, because either you or the others would perish. Like a bird or animal, you had to fight for your territory. War brought you slaves, land, food, womenthe things you needed to survive. But now we have got to learn to avoid war, not because of our nicer natures or our dislike of hurting others, but because war is not profitable, we shall not survive war, but shall, as well as our adversaries, be destroyed destroyed by war. The time of the tigers is over; now, no doubt, we shall have the time of the rogues and the charlatans, of the thieves, the robbers and pickpockets; but that is betterit is a stage on the upward way. by war. The time of the tigers is over; now, no doubt, we shall have the time of the rogues and the charlatans, of the thieves, the robbers and pickpockets; but that is betterit is a stage on the upward way.

There is at least the dawn, I believe, of a kind of good will. We mind when we hear of earthquakes, of spectacular disasters to the human race. We want want to help. That is a real achievement; which I think must lead somewhere. Not quicklynothing happens quicklybut at any rate we can hope. I think sometimes we do not appreciate that second virtue which we mention so seldom in the trilogyfaith, hope and charity. Faith we have had, shall we say, almost to help. That is a real achievement; which I think must lead somewhere. Not quicklynothing happens quicklybut at any rate we can hope. I think sometimes we do not appreciate that second virtue which we mention so seldom in the trilogyfaith, hope and charity. Faith we have had, shall we say, almost too too much offaith can make you bitter, hard, unforgiving; you can abuse faith. Love we cannot but help knowing in our own hearts is the essential. But how often do we forget that there is hope as well, and that we seldom think about hope? We are ready to despair too soon, we are ready to say, 'What's the good of doing anything?' Hope is the virtue we should cultivate most in this present day and age. much offaith can make you bitter, hard, unforgiving; you can abuse faith. Love we cannot but help knowing in our own hearts is the essential. But how often do we forget that there is hope as well, and that we seldom think about hope? We are ready to despair too soon, we are ready to say, 'What's the good of doing anything?' Hope is the virtue we should cultivate most in this present day and age.

We have made ourselves a Welfare State, which has given us freedom from fear, security, our daily bread and a little more than our daily bread; and yet it seems to me that now, in this Welfare State, every year it becomes more difficult for anybody to look forward to the future. Nothing is worth-while. Why? Is it because we no longer have to fight for existence? Is living not even interesting any more? We cannot appreciate the fact of being alive. Perhaps we need the difficulties of s.p.a.ce, of new worlds opening up, of a different kind of hards.h.i.+p and agony, of illness and pain, and a wild yearning for survival?

Oh well, I am a hopeful person myself. The one virtue that would never, I think, be quenched for me, would be hope. That is where I always have found my dear Mathew such a rewarding person to be with. He has always had an incurably optimistic temperament. I remember once when he was at his prep school, and Max was asking him whether he thought he had any chance of getting into the First Cricket Eleven. 'Oh well,' said Mathew, with a beaming smile, 'there's always hope!'

One should adopt something like that, I think, as one's motto in life. It made me mad with anger to hear of one middle-aged couple who had been living in France when the war broke out. When they thought the Germans might be approaching on their march across France, they decided the only thing to be done was to commit suicide, which they did. But the waste! The pity of it! They did no good good to anyone by their suicide. They could have lived through a difficult life of enduring, of surviving. Why should one give up any hope until one is dead? to anyone by their suicide. They could have lived through a difficult life of enduring, of surviving. Why should one give up any hope until one is dead?

It reminds me of the story that my American G.o.dmother used to tell me years and years ago about two frogs who fell into a pail of milk. One said: 'Ooh, I'm drowning, I'm drowning!' The other frog said, 'I 'I'm not going to drown.' 'How can you stop drowning?' asked the other frog. 'Why, I'm going to hustle around, and hustle around, and hustle around like mad,' said the second frog. Next morning the first frog had given up and drowned, and the second frog, having hustled around all night, was sitting there in the pail, right on top of a pat of b.u.t.ter. not going to drown.' 'How can you stop drowning?' asked the other frog. 'Why, I'm going to hustle around, and hustle around, and hustle around like mad,' said the second frog. Next morning the first frog had given up and drowned, and the second frog, having hustled around all night, was sitting there in the pail, right on top of a pat of b.u.t.ter.

Everyone, I think, got a bit restless towards the last years of the war. Ever since D-day there was a feeling that there could be an end to the war, and many people who had said there couldn't were beginning to eat their words.

I began to feel restless. Most patients had moved out of London, though of course there were still the out-patients. Even there, one sometimes felt, it was not as it had been in the last war, where you were patching up wounded men straight from the trenches. Half the time, now, you had only to give out large quant.i.ties of pills to epilepticsnecessary work, but it lacked that involvement with war that one felt one needed. The mothers brought their babies to the Welfareand I used to think they often would have done much better to have kept them at home. In this the chief pharmacist entirely agreed with me.

I considered one or two projects at this time. One young friend of mine who was in the W.A.A.F. arranged for me to see a friend of hers with a view to doing some intelligence photographic work. I was furnished with an impressive pa.s.s which enabled me to wander through what seemed miles of subterranean corridors underneath the War Office, and I was finally received by a grave young lieutenant who frightened me to death. Although I had had a lot of experience in photography, the one thing I had never done and knew nothing about was aerial photography. In consequence, I found it practically impossible to recognise any photograph that was shown me. The only one I was reasonably sure of was one of Oslo, but I had become so defeatist by that time that I didn't dare say so, having made several boss shots already. The young man sighed, looked at me as the complete moron I was, and said gently: 'I think perhaps you had better go back to hospital work.' I departed feeling completely deflated.

Towards the beginning of the war, Graham Greene had written to me and asked if I would like to do propaganda work. I did not think I was the kind of writer who would be any good at propaganda, because I lacked the single-mindedness to see only one side of the case. Nothing could be more ineffectual than a lukewarm propagandist. You want to be able to say 'X is black as night' and feel feel it. I didn't think I could ever be like that. it. I didn't think I could ever be like that.

But every day now I was getting more restless. I wanted work that had at least something to do with the war. I got an offer to be a dispenser to a doctor in Wendover; it was near where some friends of mine were living. I thought that that would be very nice for me, and I would like being in the country. Only, if Max were to come home from North Africaand after three years, he might comeI should feel I was treating my doctor badly.

I also had a theatrical project. It was possible that I might go with E.N.S.A. as a sort of extra producer or something on a tour of North Africa. I was thrilled by that idea. It would be wonderful if I got out to North Africa. It was fortunate that I did nothing of the kind. About a fortnight before I would have left England, I got a letter from Max saying that he quite probably would be coming back from North Africa to the Air Ministry in two to three weeks' time. What misery, if I had arrived out in North Africa with E.N.S.A. just at the moment he came home.

The next few weeks were agony. There I was, all keyed up, waiting. In a fortnight, in three weeks, no, perhaps longerI told myself that these things always took longer than one expected.

I went down for a weekend to Rosalind in Wales and came back by a late train on the Sunday night. It was one of those trains one had so often to endure in wartime, freezing cold, and of course when one got to Paddington there was no means of getting anywhere. I took some complicated train which finally landed me at a station in Hampstead not too far away from Lawn Road Flats, and from there I walked home, carrying some kippers and my suitcase. I got in, weary and cold, and started by turning on the gas, throwing off my coat and putting my suitcase down. I put the kippers in the frying pan. Then I heard the most peculiar clanking noise outside, and wondered what it could be. I went out on the balcony and I looked down the stairs. Up them came a figure burdened with everything imaginablerather like the caricatures of Old Bill in the first warclanking things hung all over him. Perhaps the White Knight would have been a good description of him. It seemed impossible that anyone could be hung over with so much. But there was no doubt who it wasit was my husband! Two minutes later I knew that all my fears that things might be different, that he would have changed, were baseless. This was Max! He might have left yesterday. He was back again. We We were back again. A terrible smell of frying kippers came to our noses and we rushed into the flat. were back again. A terrible smell of frying kippers came to our noses and we rushed into the flat.

'What on earth are you eating?' asked Max.

'Kippers,' I said. 'You had better have one.' Then we looked at each other. 'Max!' I said. 'You are two stone heavier.'

'Just about. And you haven't lost any weight yourself,' he added.

'It's because of all the potatoes,' I said. 'When you haven't meat and things like that, you eat too many potatoes and too much bread.'

So there we were. Four stone between us more than when he left. It seemed all wrong. It ought to have been the other way round.

'Living in the Fezzan Desert ought ought to be very slimming,' I said. Max said that deserts were not at all slimming, because one had nothing else to do but sit and eat oily meals, and drink beer. to be very slimming,' I said. Max said that deserts were not at all slimming, because one had nothing else to do but sit and eat oily meals, and drink beer.

What a wonderful evening it was! We ate burnt kippers, and were happy.

PART XI

AUTUMN

I

I am writing this in 1965. And that was in 1945. Twenty years, but it does not seem like twenty years. The war years do not seem like real years, either. They were a nightmare in which reality stopped. For some years afterwards I was always saying, 'Oh, so-and-so happened five years ago,' but each time, really, I ought to have added another five. Now, when I say a few years ago, I mean quite a lot of years. Time has altered for me, as it does for the old.

My life began again, first with the ending of the German war. Though technically the war continued with j.a.pan, our our war ended then. Then came the business of picking up the pieces, all the bits and pieces scattered everywherebits of one's life. war ended then. Then came the business of picking up the pieces, all the bits and pieces scattered everywherebits of one's life.

After having some leave, Max went back to the Air Ministry. The Admiralty decided to derequisition Greenwayas usual, at a moment's noticeand the date they chose for it was Christmas Day. There could not have been a worse day for having to take over an abandoned house. We narrowly missed one bit of good fortune. Our electric generator engine, by which we made our own electricity, had been on its last legs when the Admiralty took over. The American Commander had told me several times he was afraid it would conk out altogether before long. 'Anyway,' he said, 'we'll put you in a jolly good new one when we do replace it, so you will have something to look forward to.' Unfortunately the house was derequisitioned just three weeks before the electric generator was scheduled to be replaced.

Greenway was beautiful when we went down there again on a sunny winter's daybut it was wild, wild as a beautiful jungle. Paths had disappeared, the kitchen garden, where carrots and lettuces had been grown, was all a ma.s.s of weeds, and the fruit-trees had not been pruned. It was sad in many ways to see it like that, but its beauty was still there. The inside of the house was not as bad as we had feared. There was no linoleum left, which was tiresome, and we could not obtain a permit to get any more because the Admiralty had taken it over and paid us for it when they moved in. The kitchen was indescribable, with the blackness and oily soot of the wallsand there were, as I have said, fourteen lavatories along the stone pa.s.sage down there.

I had a splendid man who battled for me with the Admiralty, and I must say the Admiralty needed some battling with. Mr Adams was a firm ally of mine. Somebody had told me that he was the only man capable of wringing blood from a stone or money from the Admiralty!

They refused to allow sufficient to redecorate rooms on the absurd pretext that the house had been freshly painted only a year or two before they took overtherefore they'd only allow for a portion of each room. How can you decorate three quarters of a room? However, it turned out the boat house had been a good deal damaged, with stones removed, steps broken down, and various things like that, and this was costly structural damage, for which they had had to payso when I got the money for that I was able to redecorate the kitchen. to payso when I got the money for that I was able to redecorate the kitchen.

We had another desperate battle about the lavatories, because they said they ought to be charged against me me as as improvements. improvements. I said it was no improvement to have fourteen lavatories that you didn't need along a kitchen pa.s.sage. What you needed there was the larder and the wood shed and the pantry that had been there originally. They said all those lavatories would be an enormous improvement if the place was going to be turned into a girls' school. I pointed out it was I said it was no improvement to have fourteen lavatories that you didn't need along a kitchen pa.s.sage. What you needed there was the larder and the wood shed and the pantry that had been there originally. They said all those lavatories would be an enormous improvement if the place was going to be turned into a girls' school. I pointed out it was not not going to be turned into a girls' school. They going to be turned into a girls' school. They could could leave me leave me one one extra lavatory, I said, very graciously. However, they wouldn't do that. Either they were going to take extra lavatory, I said, very graciously. However, they wouldn't do that. Either they were going to take all all the lavatories away, or I should have to pay the cost of them as installed against what was allowed for other damage. So, like the Red Queen, I said, 'Take them all away!' the lavatories away, or I should have to pay the cost of them as installed against what was allowed for other damage. So, like the Red Queen, I said, 'Take them all away!'

This meant a lot of trouble and expense for the Admiralty, but they had to take them away. Then Mr Adams got their people to come back again and again to take them away properly, properly, as they always left pipes and bits of things sticking out, and to replace the pantry and larder fittings. It was a long dreary battle. as they always left pipes and bits of things sticking out, and to replace the pantry and larder fittings. It was a long dreary battle.

In due course, the removers came and redistributed the furniture all over the house. It was amazing how little anything had been damaged or spoilt, apart from the destruction by moths of carpets. They had been told to mothproof them, but had neglected to do so through false optimism: 'It will be all over by Christmas.' A few books had been damaged by dampbut surprisingly few. Nothing had come through the roof of the drawing-room, and all the furniture had remained in remarkably good condition.

How beautiful Greenway looked in its tangled splendour; but I did wonder if we would ever clear any of the paths again, or even find where they were. The place became more of a wilderness every day, and was regarded as such in the neighbourhood. We were always turning people out of the drive. They would often walk up there in the spring, pulling off great branches of rhododendrons, and carelessly ruining the shrubs. Of course the place was empty for a time after the Admiralty moved out. We were in London, and Max was still at the Air Ministry. There was no caretaker, and everybody came in to help themselves freely to everythingnot just picking picking flowers, but breaking off the branches anyhow. flowers, but breaking off the branches anyhow.

We were able to settle in at last, and life began again, though not as it had been before. There was the relief that peace had at last come, but no certainty in the future of peace, or indeed of anything. We went gently, thankful to be together, and tentatively trying out life, to see what we would be able to make of it. Business was worrying too. Forms to fill up, contracts to sign, tax complicationsa whole welter of stuff one didn't understand.

It is only now that I fully realise, looking back over my wartime output, that I produced an incredible incredible amount of stuff during those years. I suppose it was because there were no distractions of a social nature; one practically never went out in the evenings. amount of stuff during those years. I suppose it was because there were no distractions of a social nature; one practically never went out in the evenings.

Besides what I have already mentioned, I had written an extra two books during the first years of the war. This was in antic.i.p.ation of my being killed in the raids, which seemed to be in the highest degree likely as I was working in London. One was for Rosalind, which I wrote firsta book with Hercule Poirot in itand the other was for Maxwith Miss Marple in it. Those two books, when written, were put in the vaults of a bank, and were made over formally by deed of gift to Rosalind and Max. They were, I gather, heavily insured against destruction.

'It will cheer you up,' I explained to them both, 'when you come back from the funeral, or the Memorial Service, to think that you have got a couple of books, one belonging to each of you!' They said they would rather have me, me, and I said: 'I should hope so, indeed!' And we all laughed a good deal. and I said: 'I should hope so, indeed!' And we all laughed a good deal.

I cannot see why people are always so embarra.s.sed by having to discuss anything to do with death. Dear Edmund Cork, my agent, always used to look most upset when I raised the question of 'Yes, but supposing I should die?' die?' But really the question of death is so important nowadays, that one has to discuss it. As far as I could make out from what lawyers and tax people told me about death dutiesvery little of which I ever understoodmy demise was going to be an unparalleled disaster for all my relations, and their only hope was to keep me alive as long as possible! But really the question of death is so important nowadays, that one has to discuss it. As far as I could make out from what lawyers and tax people told me about death dutiesvery little of which I ever understoodmy demise was going to be an unparalleled disaster for all my relations, and their only hope was to keep me alive as long as possible!

Seeing the point to which taxation has now risen, I was pleased to think it was no longer really worth-while for me to work so hard: one book a year was ample. If I wrote two books a year I should make hardly more than by writing one, and only give myself a great deal of extra work. Certainly there was no longer the old incentive. If there was something out of the ordinary that I really wanted wanted to do, that would be different. to do, that would be different.

About then the B.B.C. rang me up and asked me if I would like to do a short radio play for a programme they were putting on for some function to do with Queen Mary. She had expressed the wish to have something of mine, as she liked my books. Could I manage that for them quite soon? I was attracted by the idea. I thought hard, walked up and down, then rang them back and said Yes. An idea came to me that I thought would do, and I wrote the little radio sketch called Three Blind Mice. Three Blind Mice. As far as I know Queen Mary was pleased with it. As far as I know Queen Mary was pleased with it.

That would seem to be the end of that, but shortly afterwards it was suggested I might enlarge it into a short story. The Hollow, The Hollow, which I had adapted for the stage, had been produced by Peter Saunders, and had been successful. I had so enjoyed it myself that I began to think about further essays in play-writing. Why not write a play instead of a book? Much more fun. One book a year would take care of finances, so I could now enjoy myself in an entirely different medium. which I had adapted for the stage, had been produced by Peter Saunders, and had been successful. I had so enjoyed it myself that I began to think about further essays in play-writing. Why not write a play instead of a book? Much more fun. One book a year would take care of finances, so I could now enjoy myself in an entirely different medium.

The more I thought of Three Blind Mice, Three Blind Mice, the more I felt that it might expand from a radio play lasting twenty minutes to a three-act thriller. It wanted a couple of extra characters, a fuller background and plot, and a slow working up to the climax. I think one of the advantages the more I felt that it might expand from a radio play lasting twenty minutes to a three-act thriller. It wanted a couple of extra characters, a fuller background and plot, and a slow working up to the climax. I think one of the advantages The Mousetrap, The Mousetrap, as the stage version of as the stage version of Three Blind Mice Three Blind Mice was called, has had over other plays is the fact that it was really written from a was called, has had over other plays is the fact that it was really written from a precis, precis, so that it had to be the bare bones of the skeleton coated with flesh. It was all there in proportion from the first. That made for good construction. so that it had to be the bare bones of the skeleton coated with flesh. It was all there in proportion from the first. That made for good construction.

For its t.i.tle, I must give full thanks to my son-in-law, Anthony Hicks. I have not mentioned Anthony before, but of course he is not really a memory, because he is with us. Indeed I do not know what I would do without him in my life. Not only is he one of the kindest people I know he is a most remarkable and interesting character. He has ideas. He can brighten up any dinner table by suddenly producing a 'problem'. In next to no time, everyone is arguing furiously.

He once studied Sanskrit and Tibetan, and can also talk knowledge-ably on b.u.t.terflies, rare shrubs, the law, stamps, birds, Nantgar as china, antiques, atmosphere and climate. If he has a fault, it is that he discusses wine at too great length; but then I am prejudiced because I don't like the stuff.

When the original t.i.tle of Three Blind Mice Three Blind Mice could not be usedthere was already a play of that namewe all exhausted ourselves in thinking of t.i.tles. Anthony came up with 'The Mousetrap'. It was adopted. He ought to have shared in the royalties, I think, but then we never dreamed that this particular play was going to make theatrical history. could not be usedthere was already a play of that namewe all exhausted ourselves in thinking of t.i.tles. Anthony came up with 'The Mousetrap'. It was adopted. He ought to have shared in the royalties, I think, but then we never dreamed that this particular play was going to make theatrical history.

People are always asking me to what I attribute the success of The Mousetrap. The Mousetrap. Apart from replying with the obvious answer, 'Luck!'because it is luck, ninety per cent. luck, at least, I should saythe only reason I can give is that there is a bit of something in it for almost everybody: people of different age groups and tastes can enjoy seeing it. Young people enjoy it, elderly people enjoy it, Mathew and his Eton friends, and later Mathew and his University friends, went to it and enjoyed it, dons from Oxford enjoy it. But I think, considering it and trying to be neither conceited nor over-modest, that, of its kindwhich is to say a light play with both humour and thriller appealit is well constructed. The thing unfolds so that you want to know what happens next, and you can't quite see where the next few minutes will lead you. I think, too, though there is a tendency for all plays that have run a long time to be acted, sooner or later, as if the people in them were caricatures, the people in Apart from replying with the obvious answer, 'Luck!'because it is luck, ninety per cent. luck, at least, I should saythe only reason I can give is that there is a bit of something in it for almost everybody: people of different age groups and tastes can enjoy seeing it. Young people enjoy it, elderly people enjoy it, Mathew and his Eton friends, and later Mathew and his University friends, went to it and enjoyed it, dons from Oxford enjoy it. But I think, considering it and trying to be neither conceited nor over-modest, that, of its kindwhich is to say a light play with both humour and thriller appealit is well constructed. The thing unfolds so that you want to know what happens next, and you can't quite see where the next few minutes will lead you. I think, too, though there is a tendency for all plays that have run a long time to be acted, sooner or later, as if the people in them were caricatures, the people in The Mousetrap The Mousetrap could all be real people. could all be real people.

There was a case once where three children were neglected and abused, after they had been placed by the Council on a farm. One child did die, and there had been a feeling that a slightly delinquent boy might grow up full of the desire for revenge. There was another murder case, too, remember, where someone had cherished a childish grudge of some kind for many years and had come back to try to avenge it. That part of the plot was not impossible.