“But I wouldn’t be on my own,” she said eagerly. “I’d be living with Iris.”
She had gone on once more about the awfulness of her life, how terribly unfair it all was, how he couldn’t possibly begin to imagine what it was like; how men got to do all the exciting things, got to go to all the best places, were able to do exactly as they pleased. Her father had muttered, grunted, not said anything discernible. Would he please think about it? she’d asked. Yes, he’d conceded, he would give it some thought; but there could be no promises.
That had been almost three months ago and nothing more on the matter had been said by either one of them since. Now she understood Iris’s reluctance to live with their father, and his to have her—Daisy—come and live with him. How he must have panicked when Iris had announced—because that was what she had done; she never asked for permission—that she was going to live in London, and furthermore, that she was going to rent a flat in Chelsea and set up a business nearby.
How easy it was to make sense of everything once one was in possession of the facts, Daisy thought now. She dipped the fine sable tip of her paintbrush into the verdurous color on the palette and glanced up at the branch of holly lying on the polished surface next to her, propped up against the snow globe. But her head continued to pound, and when her mother appeared in the drawing room doorway, Daisy gave up and put down her paintbrush.
“Jessop’s gone to fetch Benedict and Miles, but I fear for him on those snowy roads . . . and the trains are bound to be running late,” said Mabel.
She came and stood next to Daisy by the window, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, and Daisy—watching her, taking in all of her—thought, how can he not love her? How can he be so cruel?
Mabel raised her eyes, watching snowflakes descend once more. “Tiresome, really,” she said, thinking aloud. “I shall have to tell Mrs. Jessop to delay luncheon until one thirty . . . though she won’t be happy, and your father so hates meals to be late.”
“Well, he’s not the bloody king!”
Mabel shot her a look.
“Sorry.”
Mabel moved over to the table, picked up the branch of holly and stared at it for a moment. Then she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped it over the table’s polished surface and left the room, taking Daisy’s holly with her.
It was almost two o’clock by the time the newly swelled family assembled in the dining room and sat down to Mrs. Jessop’s rabbit fricassee with dumplings as hard as the ice outside. Looking down the long linen-covered table—newly festooned with arrangements of berried holly, eucalyptus and ivy, each one as evenly spaced as the three candelabra—Mabel apologized for the unavoidable delay. Howard sighed, pushing the hardened lumps to one side of his plate. And Noonie said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mabel. I’ve decided to stop eating meat . . . because of my teeth,” she added in a loud whisper, and offering her daughter a clenched smile, she revealed her new false teeth.
Miles, as usual, monopolized the conversation, his booming voice louder than ever as he went on and on about his work at the bank and interest rates and the likelihood of a promotion: January, he thought. How Lily put up with him Daisy did not know, but Lily had always wanted to marry a banker, as though they had unlimited access to the vaults. Their wedding present from Howard had been a three-bedroom house in Putney, from which Miles could easily commute by train into the city. Lily’s life was made up of tennis and bridge, shopping, afternoon calls and at homes, emulating—albeit on a different scale—something of her mother’s and grandmother’s lives. She simply lacked the imagination for anything else, Daisy thought.
They would have a typically suburban life, Iris had said, and she’d predicted that Miles would probably one day keep a mistress in some shabby part of town. “It’s the sort of thing bankers do,” she’d added.
“Are you still a socialist, Dosia?” asked Miles now.
She must get so bored of that question, Daisy thought. But before Dosia could reply, Howard intervened. “Miles . . . please. No politics at luncheon.”
There then followed some discussion about Daisy’s pallor, initiated by Mabel, who said, “You really are awfully pale, dear . . . are you still feeling under the weather?”
“No, I am not feeling under the weather,” Daisy replied, unintentionally sharp—and glancing over at Ben Gifford.
“She’s certainly taken on the hue of the weather,” Iris suggested.
“Or the hue of the Christmas tree,” added Lily, smiling at Miles.
“Green!” said Noonie. “The girl’s quite green, Mabel.”
“Fresh air’s what’s needed,” declared Dosia, standing up to reach over and fork Howard’s dumplings. “Young girls these days don’t get enough of it. Of course, I’ve always slept with my window wide open, even in winter, and have never had a problem with my cycle.”
“Does Dosia keep a bicycle in her bedroom at London?” Noonie quietly asked Mabel.
Daisy tried to smile. She pushed her food about—arranging and rearranging it in different locations on the patterned Crown Derby, lifting only the tiniest of morsels to her mouth. It was the smell, she thought, that made her feel so nauseous. But her head continued to pound, and in truth, she felt worse than ever.
When pudding arrived, a hitherto silent Howard raised a hand and declined peach melba, but Noonie took his and hers, saying, “Peaches! I could live for all eternity on tinned peaches!” Howard then pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, muttering something toward the window about heartburn, and excused himself. After that, everyone seemed to slump in collective relief.
Daisy glanced up at Ben, sitting directly opposite her, between Lily and Iris, but her profound disappointment in her father seemed to have eked into everything and everyone around her. Benedict Gifford was less than she’d been expecting. He was not at all as she remembered him. He was older, a good deal older, and his hair was thinning and not dark after all. He did not look at her, had barely said a word to her since his arrival, and when he did speak she was surprised by his voice: tremulous and slightly high-pitched. But Daisy, too, had been unusually quiet, mainly due to the nausea—which swept over her at regular intervals, and through which she had been on the point of excusing herself and running to the cloakroom; but also because she had decided not to speak unless she had to when her father was in the same room.
It had stopped snowing and Lily suggested a walk through the grounds after lunch, which everyone agreed would be rather lovely. They could take the old toboggan from the coach house, Miles said, and head over to the Devil’s Punchbowl. Then Nancy came in with the tray of coffee and a telegram for Mabel.
When Daisy heard the name, she at first wondered if she was simply more ill than she’d realized, maybe even delirious. But then her mother said it again. Coincidence surely, Daisy thought, smiling and feeling her face flush. Mabel remained turned toward Nancy, giving an update on the numbers for dinner.
“Do apologize to Mrs. Jessop, but I’ve only just received confirmation,” said Mabel, and Nancy—with an odd sort of smile, Daisy noted—left the room.
“Confirmation?” repeated Daisy.
“Yes, only just had it confirmed. Mrs. Vincent and her son, Valentine, will be joining us for Christmas.”
Daisy glanced over to Iris, who seemed oblivious and was talking to Dosia; she looked to Lily, who was busy making eyes at Miles, and then to Noonie, as she slithered a last peach into her mouth. Daisy felt sick. She felt hot. She stammered, “But . . . but . . . who is this Mrs. Vincent? And why is she coming here?”
“Daisy! Really. Where are your manners?”
“I think I need to speak with you, Mother. In private.”
Chapter Eight
Mabel sat down at her desk, seemingly unperturbed but momentarily distracted by the ever-increasing paperwork and scrawled lists in front of her. “Gracious, so much
to do,” she said with a sigh. Then she turned to Daisy, standing in stupefied silence. “And so?”
“Well . . . it’s just that . . . I think you need to know . . .”
“Yes?”
“Know a few things.”
Mabel blinked and shrugged. “A few things . . .”
“I’m not entirely sure about Mrs. Vincent.”
“Not sure? What on earth do you mean?”
Daisy began to pace about the room and then stopped. Her head spun. She said, “We don’t know her.”
“You don’t know her, perhaps, but Mrs. Vincent happens to be an old friend of your father’s.”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes, of course I do. Not as well as Daddy, but I’ve met her on a number of occasions. She’s an actress, a rather fine actress. And she’s also a widow and has only her son, Valentine. So I decided to invite her for Christmas.”
“You invited her?”
Mabel smiled as she nodded.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, Daisy thought, as another wave of nausea rose through her. “Oh, Mummy . . . But Margot is . . .”
“Ah, so you have heard of her. She is rather famous, and I do believe you have met her, when you were quite small—after your father and I took you to see her on the London stage in—”
“You mean he’s known her all these years?”
“Yes, since long before he met me.”
“I don’t want her to come . . . And I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”
“Please don’t be silly, Daisy. I know what I’m doing. Your father’s been working very hard and this is a little surprise for him,” said Mabel, glancing away. “It’s always lovely to see old friends.”
A little surprise for him, Daisy mused, a little surprise . . . She felt hot, she felt sick and for a moment she thought she might faint. She grabbed hold of the mantelshelf. “When is she arriving?”
“In an hour or so, and I expect—”
“An hour!”
Mabel stood up. She stepped toward Daisy and placed her hand on Daisy’s brow. “Oh my, but you’re feverish.”
“I’m not feverish, Mother. I’m simply a little . . .”
Daisy heard Mabel say something about sitting down, but as the lights began to flicker, her mother’s words were sucked out of the room, and then everything went black.
It must have been a little while later, because Daisy had that sense of being more removed than she should have been from what came before. She could hear the voices. Her father was saying it looked nasty and her mother said it probably wasn’t as bad as it looked and that Nancy would tidy it up. But how could Nancy be expected to tidy up the snow?
When Daisy opened her eyes, she was lying on her back on the tartan chaise longue in Mabel’s boudoir. Howard was seated on the cane chair next to her, leaning over her, stroking her brow. She pushed his hand away.
“Dodo,” he said, “what’s all this about, hmm? Your mother tells me that you don’t want anyone coming to stay . . . but it’s Christmas, your favorite time of year, and we always have people to stay at Christmas.”
Iris and Lily stood next to Mabel: Lily watching intently with her arms folded, Iris smiling kindly and Mabel frowning.
Daisy heard Lily whisper, “I really think you should send for the doctor . . . what with last night and then this.”
Bloody Lily. She’d call out the doctor to attend to a midge bite.
Daisy tried to sit up. “No, I don’t want any doctor. I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine,” she said.
Mabel immediately moved closer. “Do lie down, dear. You’ve had a rather nasty fall.”
That’s when Daisy felt the pain and lifted her hand to her head. Her hairline and forehead were wet, sticky, and when she looked at her fingers they were coated red.
“You fainted,” Howard said, watching her. “And as you fell you caught your head on the corner of your mother’s desk.”
At that moment Nancy appeared clutching a bottle of iodine and a roll of white cotton. Howard stood back while Nancy bathed Daisy’s head, Nancy all the time looking back at Daisy and cooing, “Poor love . . . poor little lamb . . .”
“Will it need stitches?” Howard asked, hovering.
“No, I don’t think so,” Nancy replied. Then, to Daisy, she said, “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to wash your hair for a few days. Not until that cut you’ve given yourself is all better, but I think I’ve got most of the blood out.”
“No, I don’t need a bandage . . .”
“Oh, but you do. Best keep it clean and protected.”
“But for how long?”
“Only a few days.”
“Only a few days! It’s Christmas . . . I can’t possibly go about with a bandage on at Christmas. I’ll look like an idiot—and in front of everyone . . . in front of . . .”
Daisy didn’t and couldn’t finish the sentence. And it wasn’t the thought of wearing a bandage that made her dissolve into tears, though she knew it would seem like that to those present; it was that everything was spoiled and gone wrong. And as she tried to turn away, covering her face with her hands, it was her father who was suddenly back at her side, saying, “Dodo, please don’t cry.”
Daisy turned to him. “This is all your fault . . . all of it!”
It was then that Nancy left the room, followed by Iris and then Lily. Howard rose to his feet with a heavy sigh, and Mabel said, “She’s had a fall, Howard, bumped her head. She doesn’t mean it. I know.”
The two of them then carried on a whispered conversation just as though Daisy were not there: “What about sending for Dr. Milton? Just to be on the safe side? . . .” “No, Howard, there’s no need. She’ll be fine. I’ll stay here with her; you go . . .” “Are you sure? . . .” “Yes, quite sure. Nancy will serve tea in the drawing room. Keep everyone amused and I’ll be along in a little while . . .” “I’ll bring you a cup of tea . . .” “No, there’s no need. I’ll be along presently, Howard. Please, just go . . .”
Howard left the room, and Mabel—after telling Daisy to “have a nap, darling. You’ll feel so much better after a little snooze”—moved over to her desk and began to rustle papers.
Daisy turned onto her side and watched her mother: the busy back, the tiny frame—organizing their lives, all of them. Where would they be without her? It was an unimaginable, dark thought, and Daisy pushed it away and glanced about the room. Lamplit, small and cluttered, it had a womblike feel and always had had to her. Mabel’s sanctuary, her boudoir, was the place she could almost always be found. How many times had Daisy run in from the garden and raced down the passageway, sliding in her stocking feet along the polished parquet floor to announce some great injustice or drama; to tell tales or to be given a kiss to make everything better? And she could tell tales now, but how could Mabel make everything better?
“Mummy . . .”
“Yes, darling?”
Daisy stared at the shape of her mother: Turning a blind eye for years . . .
“Oh, nothing.”
Mabel and Howard collided in the passageway.
“I’ve just seen a taxi on the driveway. We’re not expecting anyone, are we?” Howard asked.
“Yes, actually we are. It’s a little surprise I’ve organized for you, dear.”
Howard feigned a grimace and took hold of his wife’s hand. “You’re too good to me, Mabel, really, you are.”
They walked together toward the main hallway, where the Christmas tree stood resplendent. The door to the outer lobby stood open and a car engine rumbled beyond. Mabel could hear the gramophone in the drawing room and Dosia and Noonie becoming heated over cards. She could hear the distant clanking of pans from the kitchen, and she fixed her smile.
Blundy appeared first, carrying a large hatbox, a portmanteau and a dark red leather jewe
lry case under his arm. Mabel watched her husband. She saw his eyes narrow as he stared at the jewelry case, saw his smile fall away. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Margot! How lovely to see you again. It’s been too long . . .” Then she turned to her husband: “Surprise!”
“Surprise!” echoed the woman, smiling at Howard and waving her hands in the air.
Chapter Nine
When Daisy awoke, it was dark outside and her mother had gone. She lifted her hand to her still aching, newly bandaged head, then slowly rose to her feet and walked over to the wall-mounted mirror. In the dim light her face was exactly the same, apart from a shadow beneath her right eye. The white cotton bandanna lent her a look she would have welcomed years before, when she had pleaded with her nanny to bandage any small cut or bruise: to appear wounded and brave. Now she was wounded, and yet her real wound was not visible. How many seemingly healthy, perfect and whole people walked about with invisible gaping wounds? she wondered, moving away from the mirror and opening the door.
The thing to do was stay calm, she thought, walking down the long passageway. To control one’s feelings—anger, rage, irritation. To be more like Mabel: smile . . . turn a blind eye . . . turn the other cheek as the Bible said, and for Mabel’s sake more than anything else. But how dare that trumped-up floozy push her way into their house at Christmas! Daisy stopped: Mabel had invited her.
Daisy could hear the voices, ever louder as she tiptoed across the hallway toward the bright light of the room. She paused outside the open doorway. Ahead of her, the three spaniels—Pippa, Ruby and Boy—lay sprawled out on the rug in front of the fire, snoring loudly amidst the chatter and chink of teacups. She moved her eye to the crack in the door: She could see Iris on the other side of the room by the gramophone, looking through records with Dosia and shimmying again, and love-struck Lily and Miles sitting in the window, and Howard, loitering in the middle of the room with Ben. She crouched down to see beneath the arrangement of winter foliage obscuring her view on the other side of the door, only to glimpse the skirted bottom half of three female figures seated together on the large sofa, two of which she knew belonged to her mother and Noonie. Quietly, carefully, she pushed the Chippendale chair along the polished floor nearer to the door, slipped off her shoes, climbed up onto its leather padded seat and moved her eye back to the crack . . .
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