Absent in the Spring by Agatha writing as Mary Westmacott Christie Read Free Book Online

only was laid at the table. She called, and the Indian came in.
    He was looking excited.
    â€˜Train not come, Memsahib.’
    â€˜Not come? You mean it’s late?’
    â€˜Not come at all. Very heavy rain down line – other side Nissibin. Line all wash away – no train get through for three four five six days perhaps.’
    Joan looked at him in dismay.
    â€˜But then – what do I do?’
    â€˜You stay here, Memsahib. Plenty food, plenty beer, plenty tea. Very nice. You wait till train come.’
    Oh dear, thought Joan, these Orientals. Time means nothing to them.
    She said, ‘Couldn’t I get a car?’
    He seemed amused.
    â€˜Motor car? Where would you get motor car? Track to Mosul very bad, everything stuck other side of wadi.’
    â€˜Can’t you telephone down the line?’
    â€˜Telephone where? Turkish line. Turks very difficult people – not do anything. They just run train.’
    Joan thought, rallying with what she hoped was amusement, This really is being cut off from civilization! No telephones or telegraphs, no cars.
    The Indian said comfortingly:
    â€˜Very nice weather, plenty food, all very comfortable.’
    Well, Joan thought, it’s certainly nice weather. That’s lucky. Awful if I had to sit inside this place all day.
    As though reading her thoughts, the man said:
    â€˜Weather good here, very seldom rain. Rain nearer Mosul, rain down the line.’
    Joan sat down at the laid place at the table and waited for her breakfast to be brought. She had got over her momentary dismay. No good making a fuss – she had much too much sense for that. These things couldn’t be helped. But it was rather an annoying waste of time.
    She thought with a half smile: It looks as though what I said to Blanche was a wish that has come true. I said I should be glad of an interval to rest my nerves. Well, I’ve got it! Nothing whatever to do here. Not even anything to read. Really it ought to do me a lot of good. Rest cure in the desert.
    The thought of Blanche brought some slightly unpleasant association – something that, quite definitely, she didn’t want to remember. In fact, why think of Blanche at all?
    She went out after breakfast. As before, she walked a reasonable distance from the rest house and then sat down on the ground. For some time she sat quite still, her eyes half closed.
    Wonderful, she thought, to feel this peace and quiet oozing into her. She could simply feel the good it was doing her. The healing air, the lovely warm sun – the peace of it all.
    She remained so for a little longer. Then she glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes past ten.
    She thought: The morning is passing quite quickly …
    Supposing she were to write a line to Barbara? Really it was extraordinary that she hadn’t thought of writing to Barbara yesterday instead of those silly letters to friends in England.
    She got out the pad and her pen.
    â€˜Darling Barbara,’ she wrote. ‘I’m not having a very lucky journey. Missed Monday night’s train and now I’m held up here for days apparently. It’s very peaceful and lovely sunshine so I’m quite happy.’
    She paused. What to say next. Something about the baby – or William? What on earth could Blanche have meant – ‘ don’t worry about Barbara’ . Of course! That was why Joan hadn’t wanted to think about Blanche. Blanche had been so peculiar in the things she had said about Barbara.
    As though she, Barbara’s mother, wouldn’t know anything there was to know about her own child.
    â€˜I’m sure she’ll be all right now .’ Did that mean that things hadn’t been all right?
    But in what way? Blanche had hinted that Barbara was too young to have married.
    Joan stirred uneasily. At the time, she remembered, Rodney had said something, of the kind. He had said, quite suddenly, and in an unusually peremptory