Read Online The Hollow by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Agatha Christie
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of acumen, he's so pleased to be going to the Angkatells.
Poor John, he worked so hard! His life was so unselfish, so completely devoted to others. No wonder he looked forward to this long weekend. And, her mind harking back to the conversation at lunch, she said, as she let in the clutch rather too suddenly so that the car leapt forward from the curb:
“You know, John, you really shouldn't make jokes about hating sick people. It's wonderful of you to make light of all you do, and I understand. But the children don't. Terry, in particular, has such a very literal mind.”
“There are times,” said John Christow, “when Terry seems to me almost human - not like Zena! How long do girls go on being a mass of affectation?”
Gerda gave a little, quite sweet laugh. John, she knew, was teasing her. She stuck to her point. Gerda had an adhesive mind.
“I really think, John, that it's good for children to realize the unselfishness and devotion of a doctor's life.”
“Oh, God!” said Christow.
Gerda was momentarily deflected. The traffic lights she was approaching had been green for a long time. They were almost sure, she thought, to change before she got to them. She began to slow down... Still green...
John Christow forgot his resolutions of keeping silent about Gerda's driving and said, “What are you stopping for?”
“I thought the lights might change -”
She pressed her foot on the accelerator, the car moved forward a little, just beyond the lights, then, unable to pick up, the engine stalled. The lights changed.
The cross traffic hooted angrily.
John said, but quite pleasantly:
“You really are the worst driver in the world, Gerda!”
“I always find traffic lights so worrying. One doesn't know just when they are going to change.”
John cast a quick-sideways look at Gerda's anxious unhappy face.
Everything worries Gerda, he thought, and tried to imagine what it must feel like to live in that state. But since he was not a man of much imagination, he could not picture it at all.
“You see,” Gerda stuck to her point, “I've always impressed on the children just what a doctor's life is - the self-sacrifice, the dedication of oneself to helping pain and suffering - the desire to serve others. It's such a noble life - and I'm so proud of the way you give your time and energy and never spare yourself -”
John Christow interrupted her.
“Hasn't it ever occurred to you that I like doctoring - that it's a pleasure, not a sacrifice! Don't you realize that the damned thing's interesting!”
But, no, he thought, Gerda would never realize a thing like that! If he told her about Mrs. Crabtree and the Margaret Russell Ward she would only see him as a kind of angelic helper of the Poor with a capital P.
“Drowning in treacle,” he said under his breath.
“What?” Gerda leaned towards him.
He shook his head.
If he were to tell Gerda that he was trying to “find a cure for cancer,” she would respond - she could understand a plain sentimental statement. But she would never understand the peculiar fascination of the intricacies of Ridgeway's Disease - he doubted if he could even make her understand what Ridgeway's Disease actually was. (Particularly, he thought with a grin, as we're not really quite sure ourselves! We don't really know why the cortex degenerates!)
But it ocurred to him suddenly that Terence, child though he was, might be interested in Ridgeway's Disease. He had liked the way that Terence had eyed him appraisingly before stating: “I think Father does mean it...”
Terence had been out of favour the last few days for breaking the Cona coffee machine - some nonsense about trying to make ammonia... Ammonia? Funny kid, why should he want to make ammonia? Interesting in a way...
Gerda was relieved at John's silence. She could cope with driving better if she were not distracted by conversation. Besides, if John was absorbed in thought, he was not so likely to notice that jarring noise
Poor John, he worked so hard! His life was so unselfish, so completely devoted to others. No wonder he looked forward to this long weekend. And, her mind harking back to the conversation at lunch, she said, as she let in the clutch rather too suddenly so that the car leapt forward from the curb:
“You know, John, you really shouldn't make jokes about hating sick people. It's wonderful of you to make light of all you do, and I understand. But the children don't. Terry, in particular, has such a very literal mind.”
“There are times,” said John Christow, “when Terry seems to me almost human - not like Zena! How long do girls go on being a mass of affectation?”
Gerda gave a little, quite sweet laugh. John, she knew, was teasing her. She stuck to her point. Gerda had an adhesive mind.
“I really think, John, that it's good for children to realize the unselfishness and devotion of a doctor's life.”
“Oh, God!” said Christow.
Gerda was momentarily deflected. The traffic lights she was approaching had been green for a long time. They were almost sure, she thought, to change before she got to them. She began to slow down... Still green...
John Christow forgot his resolutions of keeping silent about Gerda's driving and said, “What are you stopping for?”
“I thought the lights might change -”
She pressed her foot on the accelerator, the car moved forward a little, just beyond the lights, then, unable to pick up, the engine stalled. The lights changed.
The cross traffic hooted angrily.
John said, but quite pleasantly:
“You really are the worst driver in the world, Gerda!”
“I always find traffic lights so worrying. One doesn't know just when they are going to change.”
John cast a quick-sideways look at Gerda's anxious unhappy face.
Everything worries Gerda, he thought, and tried to imagine what it must feel like to live in that state. But since he was not a man of much imagination, he could not picture it at all.
“You see,” Gerda stuck to her point, “I've always impressed on the children just what a doctor's life is - the self-sacrifice, the dedication of oneself to helping pain and suffering - the desire to serve others. It's such a noble life - and I'm so proud of the way you give your time and energy and never spare yourself -”
John Christow interrupted her.
“Hasn't it ever occurred to you that I like doctoring - that it's a pleasure, not a sacrifice! Don't you realize that the damned thing's interesting!”
But, no, he thought, Gerda would never realize a thing like that! If he told her about Mrs. Crabtree and the Margaret Russell Ward she would only see him as a kind of angelic helper of the Poor with a capital P.
“Drowning in treacle,” he said under his breath.
“What?” Gerda leaned towards him.
He shook his head.
If he were to tell Gerda that he was trying to “find a cure for cancer,” she would respond - she could understand a plain sentimental statement. But she would never understand the peculiar fascination of the intricacies of Ridgeway's Disease - he doubted if he could even make her understand what Ridgeway's Disease actually was. (Particularly, he thought with a grin, as we're not really quite sure ourselves! We don't really know why the cortex degenerates!)
But it ocurred to him suddenly that Terence, child though he was, might be interested in Ridgeway's Disease. He had liked the way that Terence had eyed him appraisingly before stating: “I think Father does mean it...”
Terence had been out of favour the last few days for breaking the Cona coffee machine - some nonsense about trying to make ammonia... Ammonia? Funny kid, why should he want to make ammonia? Interesting in a way...
Gerda was relieved at John's silence. She could cope with driving better if she were not distracted by conversation. Besides, if John was absorbed in thought, he was not so likely to notice that jarring noise
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