Read Online Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online
Authors: M. C. Beaton
Ads: Link
the dreadful high tea over with and clear off in the morning. Will you be free for Christmas dinner?’
‘Aggie, it’s October.’
‘I know, but I am going to have a really splendid old-fashioned Christmas.’
‘Your last Christmas dinner was a disaster. What’s with you and Christmas?’
‘I want to have one Christmas the way it’s supposed to be.’
‘It never is, Aggie. Grow up. People are under stress. They drink too much, they fight, they decide they’ve always hated each other. You’re a romantic.’
‘And what’s wrong with that? It’s all sex, sex, sex these days.’
‘Love usually comes along disguised as lust or because of delayed gratification like Brave New World.’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Agatha. ‘Just turn up for my Christmas dinner, that’s all.’
‘Aha, there’s more to this than meets the eye. Where’s James?’
‘Travelling. But I’m sure he’ll be home for Christmas.’
‘And standing under the mistletoe?’
‘I’m going in,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘Oh, was that a spot of rain?’
Charles looked up at the sky. ‘Feels like it.’
‘I thought the weather would break with a magnificent thunderstorm,’ said Agatha.
‘And Phyllis would slump dead over the dining table to crashes of thunder, her dead face lit by flashes of lightning?’
Agatha gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Something like that.’
‘Stop writing scripts. Life is so often boring and predictable.’
A sullen company shuffled back into the dining room at six o’clock. Outside the windows, rain was falling steadily. They took their places as ordered by Phyllis, who took
her customary place at the head of the table. Apart from Agatha and Charles, the remainder consisting of Sadie, Fran, Sir Henry, Bert, Alison and Jimmy slumped into their chairs. High tea was
already laid out. An urn with cups, milk and sugar stood on the sideboard. A large cake stand in the centre of the table held thin slices of white buttered bread on the bottom layer, teacakes on
the second, scones on the third and ersatz-cream cakes on the top.
In front of each person was a plate containing two thin slices of shiny ham, peas, chips, as well as a bowl of peculiar-looking salad.
Agatha poked at the salad with her fork. ‘What’s in this?’
‘My own creation,’ said Phyllis proudly. ‘Parsley, grated parsnip, grated carrot, grated turnip and lettuce. Have the others gone home?’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Jimmy. His face in the grey light from the rain-washed windows looked pale.
‘Their loss,’ said Phyllis. ‘Dig in. I’ve sent the village women home. No use paying people to serve you when you can serve yourselves.’
Phyllis made several attempts at conversation but no one replied. Agatha, unable to bear the following silence, started talking about the weather, saying that although the gardens needed the
rain, it was all very depressing. Her voice tailed off as no one seemed to be paying attention.
After another long silence, Fran suddenly picked up her bowl of salad and threw it into the empty fireplace. ‘Sod you, Mother, and your bloody rabbit food and your cheap ways. You’re
about to disinherit your own flesh and blood!’ She burst into tears and ran from the table.
To Agatha’s surprise, Phyllis’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘You asked for that,’ said Bert.
‘We’d better get out and find a pub this evening,’ muttered Charles to Agatha. ‘I can’t eat any of this muck.’
Jimmy half-rose from the table. ‘Mother, I want to sell the shop!’
‘It’s in my name, son. You’ll get the title deeds when I’m dead.’
In a bitter little voice, Jimmy said, ‘And when will that be?’
Phyllis looked shocked and hurt for the first time since Agatha had met her.
She rose to her feet and stumbled. An odd expression crossed her face. She tried to take a step and fell over on the floor. Jimmy rushed to help her to her feet.
‘I’m tired, that’s all,’ said Phyllis. ‘Help me to
‘Aggie, it’s October.’
‘I know, but I am going to have a really splendid old-fashioned Christmas.’
‘Your last Christmas dinner was a disaster. What’s with you and Christmas?’
‘I want to have one Christmas the way it’s supposed to be.’
‘It never is, Aggie. Grow up. People are under stress. They drink too much, they fight, they decide they’ve always hated each other. You’re a romantic.’
‘And what’s wrong with that? It’s all sex, sex, sex these days.’
‘Love usually comes along disguised as lust or because of delayed gratification like Brave New World.’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Agatha. ‘Just turn up for my Christmas dinner, that’s all.’
‘Aha, there’s more to this than meets the eye. Where’s James?’
‘Travelling. But I’m sure he’ll be home for Christmas.’
‘And standing under the mistletoe?’
‘I’m going in,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘Oh, was that a spot of rain?’
Charles looked up at the sky. ‘Feels like it.’
‘I thought the weather would break with a magnificent thunderstorm,’ said Agatha.
‘And Phyllis would slump dead over the dining table to crashes of thunder, her dead face lit by flashes of lightning?’
Agatha gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Something like that.’
‘Stop writing scripts. Life is so often boring and predictable.’
A sullen company shuffled back into the dining room at six o’clock. Outside the windows, rain was falling steadily. They took their places as ordered by Phyllis, who took
her customary place at the head of the table. Apart from Agatha and Charles, the remainder consisting of Sadie, Fran, Sir Henry, Bert, Alison and Jimmy slumped into their chairs. High tea was
already laid out. An urn with cups, milk and sugar stood on the sideboard. A large cake stand in the centre of the table held thin slices of white buttered bread on the bottom layer, teacakes on
the second, scones on the third and ersatz-cream cakes on the top.
In front of each person was a plate containing two thin slices of shiny ham, peas, chips, as well as a bowl of peculiar-looking salad.
Agatha poked at the salad with her fork. ‘What’s in this?’
‘My own creation,’ said Phyllis proudly. ‘Parsley, grated parsnip, grated carrot, grated turnip and lettuce. Have the others gone home?’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Jimmy. His face in the grey light from the rain-washed windows looked pale.
‘Their loss,’ said Phyllis. ‘Dig in. I’ve sent the village women home. No use paying people to serve you when you can serve yourselves.’
Phyllis made several attempts at conversation but no one replied. Agatha, unable to bear the following silence, started talking about the weather, saying that although the gardens needed the
rain, it was all very depressing. Her voice tailed off as no one seemed to be paying attention.
After another long silence, Fran suddenly picked up her bowl of salad and threw it into the empty fireplace. ‘Sod you, Mother, and your bloody rabbit food and your cheap ways. You’re
about to disinherit your own flesh and blood!’ She burst into tears and ran from the table.
To Agatha’s surprise, Phyllis’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘You asked for that,’ said Bert.
‘We’d better get out and find a pub this evening,’ muttered Charles to Agatha. ‘I can’t eat any of this muck.’
Jimmy half-rose from the table. ‘Mother, I want to sell the shop!’
‘It’s in my name, son. You’ll get the title deeds when I’m dead.’
In a bitter little voice, Jimmy said, ‘And when will that be?’
Phyllis looked shocked and hurt for the first time since Agatha had met her.
She rose to her feet and stumbled. An odd expression crossed her face. She tried to take a step and fell over on the floor. Jimmy rushed to help her to her feet.
‘I’m tired, that’s all,’ said Phyllis. ‘Help me to
Similar Books
