N or M?
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by
Collins 1941
Agatha Christie® Tommy & Tuppence® N or M?™
Copyright © 1941 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover illustration based on photograph © 2014 Endor Productions. Stills photographer: Robert Viglasky
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Source ISBN: 9780007590612
Ebook Edition © Jan 2015 ISBN: 9780007422616
Version: 2017-04-17
Contents
Tommy Beresford removed his overcoat in the hall of the flat. He hung it up with some care, taking time over it. His hat went carefully on the next peg.
He squared his shoulders, affixed a resolute smile to his face and walked into the sitting-room, where his wife sat knitting a Balaclava helmet in khaki wool.
It was the spring of 1940.
Mrs Beresford gave him a quick glance and then busied herself by knitting at a furious rate. She said after a minute or two:
‘Any news in the evening paper?’
Tommy said:
‘The Blitzkrieg is coming, hurray, hurray! Things look bad in France.’
Tuppence said:
‘It’s a depressing world at the moment.’
There was a pause and then Tommy said:
‘Well, why don’t you ask? No need to be so damned tactful.’
‘I know,’ admitted Tuppence. ‘There is something about conscious tact that is very irritating. But then it irritates you if I do ask. And anyway I don’t need to ask. It’s written all over you.’
‘I wasn’t conscious of looking a Dismal Desmond.’
‘No, darling,’ said Tuppence. ‘You had a kind of nailed to the mast smile which was one of the most heartrending things I have ever seen.’
Tommy said with a grin:
‘No, was it really as bad as all that?’
‘And more! Well, come on, out with it. Nothing doing?’
‘Nothing doing. They don’t want me in any capacity. I tell you, Tuppence, it’s pretty thick when a man of forty-six is made to feel like a doddering grandfather. Army, Navy, Air Force, Foreign Office, one and all say the same thing—I’m too old. I may be required later.’
Tuppence said:
‘Well, it’s the same for me. They don’t want people of my age for nursing—no, thank you. Nor for anything else. They’d rather have a fluffy chit who’s never seen a wound or sterilised a dressing than they would have me who worked for three years, 1915 to 1918, in various capacities, nurse in the surgical ward and operating theatre, driver of a trade delivery van and later of a General. This, that and the other—all, I assert firmly, with conspicuous success. And now I’m a poor, pushing, tiresome, middle-aged woman who won’t sit at home quietly and knit as she ought to do.’
Tommy said gloomily:
‘This