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61
The English undervalue Christie because they're so patronisingly
fond of her. When I saw Death on the Nile in Westcliff, the suburbanites
chuckled in agreement with the play's snobbery – its contempt for com-
mon socialists and funny, gesticulating foreigners – and smiled indul-
gently when the murderess's gun did not go off (which required her vic-
tim to keel over and die without the saving grace of a bullet).
Bumbling amateurism is at home in the staid, ancestral England
Christie has come to represent. Her admirers forget that it was her habit
to uncover corpses in Arcady. Tabulating alarmist headlines in 1970 –
gutted phone boxes, muggings of pensioners, race riots – she asked "Can
this be England?" Today, outside the theatre in Westcliff, a sign points
to the Southend mosque, a kebab joint jostles a Tandoori caff and a Tex-
Mex cantina, and a tattooing saloon exhibits shamanic art in its window,
with a display of grimacing voodoo masks. The England recreated on
stage is already defunct.
Christie made an initial foray to Baghdad in 1929, and returned to
Ur in 1930, where she met her second husband, the archaeologist Max
Mallowan. He took her to visit a Sumerian ziggurat; they got to know
each other underground, and even before their marriage she was anx-
iously asking "Where shall we be buried?"
She accompanied him on annual trips to Egypt, Syria and Iraq,
and took up photography to document his finds. She caught on camera a
chain of men at Nineveh handing up baskets from deep inside a 90ft pit
that might be the declivity of death itself, or a digger at Nimrod curled
up as if in his own tomb as he scraped away the enshrouding soil. She
also made herself useful by teaching the expedition cook to make choco-
late eclairs (filled with cream whipped up from buffalo milk) and dosing
sick workers with bicarbonate of soda.
When Mallowan apologised for his grubby profession, Christie
declared with gruesome zest "I adore stiffs". She was fascinated by the
necrology of Egypt, whose pharaohs invested all their wealth in a post-
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mortem life inside their sealed pyramids. A young freethinker in Death
on the Nile admires Egyptian fatalism, which considers death to be "a
mere incident – hardly noticeable", and teases Poirot's fussy concern
with culpability by accusing him of having written a monograph entitled
Death, the Recurring Decimal.
Poirot often turns up in Christie's Oriental novels (by contrast with
the parochial Miss Marple, who had to make do with a single tropical
jaunt in A Caribbean Mystery), and he recurrently likens his investiga-
tions to archaeological disinterments. Nefertiti in Christie's 1937 play
Akhnaton recites an anathema against disturbing a burial chamber. It is a
taboo that Christie and her detectives consistently outraged.
Visiting the site of a dig, the antiseptic nurse who narrates Murder
in Mesopotamia is disgusted to find nothing but mud. When she warns
an archaeologist against infection, he replies: "Nasty germs are my daily
diet." Finally she admits an attraction to ordure and the guilty, putrescent
past: "After all, perhaps dirt isn't really so unhealthy as one is brought up
to believe!"
Mallowan's sketchbooks record a skeleton he uncovered, "knees
sticking up, legs flexed"; at Ur, his team found a pit containing the rem-
nants of 74 women, slaughtered during a royal funeral. No wonder
Christie came to think of the Orient as one great crime scene. But the
victims she singled out were not ordinary and expendable, like those
women bundled into the pit.
In Appointment with Death she kills off one of the "mother god-
desses" whose totems the archaeologists often dug up: a malevolent ma-
triarch called Mrs Boynton, who squats like "a monstrous swollen fe-
male Buddha" in a red, uterine cave at Petra. At the same time, the earth
disgorged pots and pans, which reminded Christie, as she puts it in They
Came to Baghdad, of "the things that mattered – the little everyday
things". Wasn't civilisation about cooking for your family, rather than
conducting a conceptual quarrel with God?
The English undervalue Christie because they're so patronisingly mortem life inside their sealed pyramids. A young freethinker in Death
fond of her. When I saw Death on the Nile in Westcliff, the suburbanites on the Nile admires Egyptian fatalism, which considers death to be "a
chuckled in agreement with the play's snobbery – its contempt for com- mere incident – hardly noticeable", and teases Poirot's fussy concern
mon socialists and funny, gesticulating foreigners – and smiled indul- with culpability by accusing him of having written a monograph entitled
gently when the murderess's gun did not go off (which required her vic- Death, the Recurring Decimal.
tim to keel over and die without the saving grace of a bullet). Poirot often turns up in Christie's Oriental novels (by contrast with
Bumbling amateurism is at home in the staid, ancestral England the parochial Miss Marple, who had to make do with a single tropical
Christie has come to represent. Her admirers forget that it was her habit jaunt in A Caribbean Mystery), and he recurrently likens his investiga-
to uncover corpses in Arcady. Tabulating alarmist headlines in 1970 – tions to archaeological disinterments. Nefertiti in Christie's 1937 play
gutted phone boxes, muggings of pensioners, race riots – she asked "Can Akhnaton recites an anathema against disturbing a burial chamber. It is a
this be England?" Today, outside the theatre in Westcliff, a sign points taboo that Christie and her detectives consistently outraged.
to the Southend mosque, a kebab joint jostles a Tandoori caff and a Tex- Visiting the site of a dig, the antiseptic nurse who narrates Murder
Mex cantina, and a tattooing saloon exhibits shamanic art in its window, in Mesopotamia is disgusted to find nothing but mud. When she warns
with a display of grimacing voodoo masks. The England recreated on an archaeologist against infection, he replies: "Nasty germs are my daily
stage is already defunct. diet." Finally she admits an attraction to ordure and the guilty, putrescent
Christie made an initial foray to Baghdad in 1929, and returned to past: "After all, perhaps dirt isn't really so unhealthy as one is brought up
Ur in 1930, where she met her second husband, the archaeologist Max to believe!"
Mallowan. He took her to visit a Sumerian ziggurat; they got to know Mallowan's sketchbooks record a skeleton he uncovered, "knees
each other underground, and even before their marriage she was anx- sticking up, legs flexed"; at Ur, his team found a pit containing the rem-
iously asking "Where shall we be buried?" nants of 74 women, slaughtered during a royal funeral. No wonder
She accompanied him on annual trips to Egypt, Syria and Iraq, Christie came to think of the Orient as one great crime scene. But the
and took up photography to document his finds. She caught on camera a victims she singled out were not ordinary and expendable, like those
chain of men at Nineveh handing up baskets from deep inside a 90ft pit women bundled into the pit.
that might be the declivity of death itself, or a digger at Nimrod curled In Appointment with Death she kills off one of the "mother god-
up as if in his own tomb as he scraped away the enshrouding soil. She desses" whose totems the archaeologists often dug up: a malevolent ma-
also made herself useful by teaching the expedition cook to make choco- triarch called Mrs Boynton, who squats like "a monstrous swollen fe-
late eclairs (filled with cream whipped up from buffalo milk) and dosing male Buddha" in a red, uterine cave at Petra. At the same time, the earth
sick workers with bicarbonate of soda. disgorged pots and pans, which reminded Christie, as she puts it in They
When Mallowan apologised for his grubby profession, Christie Came to Baghdad, of "the things that mattered – the little everyday
declared with gruesome zest "I adore stiffs". She was fascinated by the things". Wasn't civilisation about cooking for your family, rather than
necrology of Egypt, whose pharaohs invested all their wealth in a post- conducting a conceptual quarrel with God?
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