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Dear Victoria – gateway to the world beyond England – how I love your continental platform. And how I love trains […] a big snorting, hurrying, companionable train, with its big puffing engine, sending up clouds of steam, and seeming to say impatiently, ‘I’ve got to be off!’3
Early, acidic Miss Marple is actually the Miss Marple I prefer. But perhaps that’s because I’m a nasty old cat myself.
that each story is an artefact of its writer’s class and time.
‘The saddest thing in life,’ she wrote, ‘is the knowledge that there is someone you love very much whom you cannot save from suffering…
Living in the dark, deceiving herself, Joan is excluded from the grace of God.
‘couldn’t quite believe she was as shy as everyone said. Perhaps she just didn’t want to be bothered.’
Long walks are off, and, alas, bathing in the sea; fillet steaks and apples and raw blackberries (teeth difficulties) and reading fine print. But there is a great deal left… sitting in the sun – gently drowsy… and there you are again – remembering. ‘I remember, I remember, the house where I was born…’
As long ago as 1936, Max had written Agatha a love letter. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, but not so very often two people find real love together as we do… we know that what we have cannot perish… for me you will remain beautiful and precious with the passing of years.55 After her death, a photo of Mathew, and that same letter, folded up small, were found in Agatha’s purse. She had carried it with her for thirty-nine years.
