Free The Hollow by Agatha Christie Page A

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?”
    â€œI 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:
    â€œYou really are the worst driver in the world, Gerda!”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œEverything 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œHasn’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.
    â€œDrowning in treacle,” he said under his breath.
    â€œWhat?” 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 peculiarfascination 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 occurred 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 of her occasional forced changes of gear. (She never changed down if she could help it.)
    There were times, Gerda knew, when she changed gear quite well (though never with confidence), but it never happened if John were in the car. Her nervous determination to do it right this time was almost disastrous, her hand fumbled, she accelerated too much or not enough, and then she pushed the gear lever quickly and clumsily so that it shrieked in protest.
    â€œStroke it in, Gerda, stroke it in,” Henrietta had pleaded once, years ago. Henrietta had demonstrated. “Can’t you feel the way it wants to go—it wants to slide in—keep your hand flat till you get the feeling of it—don’t just push it anywhere— feel it.”
    But Gerda had never been able to feel anything about a gearlever. If she was pushing it more or less in the proper direction it ought to go in! Cars