Mum, in her ignorance, continued to believe Avril had been trying to say something far more profound. I heard her explaining it to Champ one day, assuming that in doing so she was only supporting Avril; meanwhile, Avril thought no such thing. Mum took Champ’s enthusiastic support for granted too, of course, which is understandable given the way he is when she’s talking like that. He finds nothing more entertaining than hearing her speak heatedly and specifically to him, in her special, singsong doggy voice.He senses he’s being included in something important, even if the details pass him by, and can’t get enough of Mum’s wild hand gestures. For him, it’s like the equivalent of watching a great Broadway show. In his puppyhood, it was practically the only thing that could persuade him to sit still and forget about the possibility of chewing diaries, leather phone cases, or chargers for a minute or two.
What Mum guessed (incorrectly) that Avril Mattingley had meant was this: There were not, in fact, two sides to the Agatha Christie Book Club War. Everyone involved thought there were, but they were wrong. The truth was that they all agreed with each other but didn’t realize it.
They all agreed that the question of whether or not the Mary Westmacott books were Agatha Christie novels had a right answer and a wrong one and that these existed in the realm of objective fact, unalterable by human opinion. Whereas, as far as Mum could see, there was no fixed truth and no obligation to define anything in any particular way. Humans can change the way they label things whenever the mood takes them—by group consensus or as individuals. Both Deryn Dickinson and Corinne Sullivan would have agreed that there were two separate collections of novels under discussion, even if they would have described them differently. Group number one was either “proper Agatha Christie books” or “Agatha’s crime-genre novels,” depending on your point of view, and the Mary Westmacotts were either “the Westmacotts” (from one side) or “Agatha’s Mary books” (from the other).
In Mum’s opinion, the unanimous agreement that there were two distinct groups of novels, and about which ones belonged in which group, could and should have been held up as a happystarting point. “We agree about so much!” would have made the perfect first line of a fruitful discussion.
Couldn’t they all see this would be a far more promising opening gambit, likely to yield a better result for all involved? Nope. It was the “all involved” part, in particular, that gained no traction, because everyone sought a happy ending only for their own gang and chose to view even the tiniest sliver of compromise as a betrayal of deeply held principles.
“The sad truth, Champy, is that the Agatha Christie Book Club could so easily have been saved,” I overheard Mum tell my furry little brother one day. “And here’s what no one in Swaffham Tilney will ever admit: Both sides were equally responsible for the wrecking of it—yes, they were! They were, my darling boy. Each side insisted upon its own much closer relationship to God-given truth, while demonizing the other side as enemies of objective reality. Once that approach infected the discussion, things went rapidly downhill.”
I saw Mum’s point, though one could quibble about the “downhill” part, since there’s no flatter village in England than Swaffham Tilney. But she was right that the Agatha Christie Book Club War soon escalated on every possible front.
She first suspected the situation was getting out of hand when the what-do-we-want-to-call-everything argument moved from books to club members. Predictably, the “Pro-Marys” objected to their opponents calling themselves the “Agatha Purists,” claiming this was what they were too; were they suggesting thatWuthering Heightsby Emily Brontë should be added to the reading list? No, they blooming well weren’t. The Agatha Purists objected equallyto their antagonists giving themselves the name “the Pro-Marys,” implying as it did that the Agatha Purists were anti the Westmacott novels—and no, they flipping well weren’t. They simply believed—as had Agatha herself, they insisted, as her two separate author names proved—that Christie and Westmacott must be treated, and thought of, as two distinct authorly identities.
Deryn Dickinson and her supporters (which by this stage included a rabid Maureen Gledhill) tried to get Corinne Sullivan expelled from the book group. Vinie Skinner, a retired barrister, defended her. Mum voted in favor of Corinne then too but felt bad for doing no more than raise her hand at the relevant moment—though surely there was nothing useful anyone could have added to Vinie’s ever so polite and elegant but nonetheless blistering speech, which had included the phrase “In the absence of any criminal or morally depraved activity.”
The row spread to the whole village, even to those who never read anything more than the Rebel of the Reeds’s “Lite Bites” menu. It spread to the Swaffham Tilney husbands, some of whom, without adequate forethought or preparation, launched themselves into the fray in support of their wives, only to slink off soon afterward, having discovered that no amount of reading fat historical tomes about the Battle of the Somme could have prepared them for the indignities of this particular conflict.
For several months the strange phenomenon of sideways jogging was observed in Swaffham Tilney, regularly if not daily: a village resident would set out on their morning run, see a Pro-Mary or an Agatha Purist approaching (sometimes even a suspected-to-be-partisan relative of a minor player was enough to setit off), and then jog lightly (so as not to appear rude) but determinedly in an unexpected direction—on one occasion, into a field and almost under the enormous wheels of the Farmer’s tractor.
What Mum couldn’t know, as she followed Corinne up her winding drive to the mulberry-colored front door of Ismys House (a huge village mystery was where the name of Corinne’s house had come from and what, if anything, it meant), was how her own role in the book club drama had been perceived. Corinne would, of course, remember that Mum voted in her favor whenever voting took place, but did she think Mum had done enough? Maybe she did, and that was the only reason that unconditional “I’ll help you” had been issued. There was no doubting or disputing what Corinne had said—so why did Mum feel so afraid if being helped was all that was about to happen to her? Why did she fear that an attack was imminent?
If only Corinne could have heard the stern talking-to Mum gave Dad when she realized he’d been allowing Champ to wee against the weeds growing up Corinne’s front wall…
Mum stopped the thought in its tracks. “If onlys” were pointless, she knew, because here she was inside Corinne’s home, feeling as if she’d stepped through a portal to a new reality that she’d never be able to come back from. There was something so different about Corinne, nothing like anyone else Mum had ever met…
She ordered herself to stop feeling scared, stop imagining that Corinne was about to turn on her. It made no sense to fear your angel of rescue, which Mum wanted to believe Corinne was. The irresistibility of her allure—the power you imagined you might acquire simply by being in her presence and having her fullattention fall on you—was a significant part of what made her seem daunting.
Corinne clapped her hands together and turned to face Mum with a severe expression on her face. “Right!” she said, and Mum thought,My life will never be the same again, feeling absolutely certain it was true and having no idea whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing.
13
Monday 17 June 2024
Sally
“When are you coming back?” Mark’s puzzled voice sounds a jarring note in Sally’s ear. “We’re all starving.”
“Is Champ all right? Has anything happened? Anyone been round, or—?”
“Champ’s fine. He’s just had his dinner. Unlike me and the kids. Where are you?”
“Has anyone tried to make contact in any way? Police people or the Gaveys or…anyone?”
“No, Sal.” Mark sighs.
“Thank God.”
From the sofa on the other side of her lounge, Corinne does a double thumbs-up gesture, though her expression remains grave. She wasn’t best pleased when Sally said she had to ring Mark first before she could explain anything, but Sally insisted she needed to check Champ was okay; it was important at this early stage to have as accurate a grip as possible on how fast or slowly this horror was unfolding.
“When are you coming back?” Mark says again.
“I don’t know. I can’t really talk now. I’m at Corinne’s. She’s offered to help us.” It would have been truer to say she’d already helped. Sally has no doubt she’s in the best and right place. Everything Corinne has done since the two of them arrived at Ismys House has been helpful: She’s made Sally a cup of some sort of smoky tea, which can’t be a coincidence. Corinne must have remembered from the Agatha Christie Book Club days that Sally’s favorite was Lapsang souchong, black. This isn’t Lapsang, but it’s definitely smoky, and its beneficial effect, after a few sips, is considerable. Corinne has also provided an iPhone charger and rigged up an extension lead so that Sally can sit in the most comfortable and comforting chair in this vast room, in which no plug socket is anywhere near an item of furniture, and talk to Mark on the phone for as long as she needs to.
“Great!” Mark says. “If Corinne fancies coming round and whipping up a spaghetti puttanesca, I’m fine with that.” His attempt at a joke makes Sally feel so much worse. What the hell does he think he’s doing, mentioning the name of the meal Old Sally, pre-nightmare Sally, said this morning that she planned to cook tonight, as if that still applies or matters?
If Corinne wasn’t listening, Sally would probably scream at him, “Do you really think you’re still getting a puttanesca tonight? Made by me? Are you mad?” She doesn’t want to scream, because it’s not Mark’s fault. He isn’t upsetting her deliberately; he just doesn’t get it yet, but he will.
