The Snow Globe

by Judith Kinghorn

  “See anything interesting?”

  Daisy jumped—almost but not quite losing her footing.

  “Steady,” the voice whispered.

  She turned. His dark hair was slicked back and he bore a striking resemblance to a young Valentino: Every inch a Valentine, she thought. He smiled up at her. “I’m Valentine.”

  “Yes, I know who you are.”

  She took hold of his hand, soft and warm, and stepped down from the chair. “I was actually trying to get a cobweb,” she said, glancing downward, putting on her shoes.

  “Nasty things.”

  She could detect amusement in his voice, and as she turned to push the chair back into place, he said, “Allow me.”

  “I’m Daisy . . . Daisy Forbes.”

  “Yes, I thought so,” he said, turning back to her and glancing to her bandaged head.

  “I had a fall earlier.”

  “And very nearly another just now.”

  “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather you didn’t mention any of this . . . to anyone.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Forgotten already. Are you going to go in?”

  She nodded, and he stepped aside to let her enter the room.

  Noonie cried out, “Ah, and here she is, our wounded little soldier!”

  Mabel quickly rose to her feet and rushed over. “Oh, darling, are you feeling quite better?”

  Daisy nodded. As she did so, Valentine Vincent walked into the room—past her—and joined the others by the window. Then Mabel said, “Margot, here’s my poor Daisy, who had such a horrid fall earlier.”

  A woman in mauve rose from the sofa. “Dear Daisy . . .” She put down her teacup and came over to where Daisy stood with her mother. “I was so very sorry to hear about your accident. A moment of distraction, loss of concentration and, oh my goodness, what can happen.”

  In the same way that her son was every inch his name, Mrs. Vincent was, to Daisy, every inch the actress. And there were many inches of her. Tall, large boned and voluptuous—and with unfashionably large breasts, Daisy noted—she possessed a voice that was at once sure and deep, commanding and tremulous. Her face was made up, powdered and rouged, and her golden hair was piled up in that Edwardian way.

  The actress turned to Mabel. “I myself had the most horrendous fall last winter at His Majesty’s.”

  For a moment Daisy thought she meant the palace and had a flash of Mrs. Vincent tumbling headfirst down a gilt staircase.

  “My ankle gave way and I simply crashed down the theater steps and landed in a heap! Luckily nothing was broken. But my poor ankle has never been the same.”

  Her eyes smiled as she spoke and her fingers moved in slow gesticulation as though describing a ballet—not a random fall, Daisy thought.

  Mrs. Vincent turned to Daisy, glancing once more to her bandaged head, smiling and frowning at the same time, empathizing, Daisy thought. “Alas, old bones don’t heal the way gorgeous young ones do,” she said.

  She appeared to Daisy to be acutely conscious of every nuance and inflection, each pause and intake of breath; overly sincere in the way people a little in love with themselves were; possessed more by herself than by anyone else. Each and every utterance—from her own lips or someone else’s—evoked a little smile, as though she knew and understood it all. Everything.

  Mrs. Vincent turned. “Valentine, dear heart . . . Val, do come and say hello to poor Daisy. She’s had the most frightful day.”

  He moved easily across the room. He wore a dark blue velvet jacket, white shirt and dark paisley-patterned cravat. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, extending his hand for a second time.

  Maybe it was the fire—they were standing directly in front of it—or maybe it was the effects of her fall or the awful situation they were all in now or the one in the hallway minutes earlier—but Daisy suddenly felt a tremendous heat and felt her face flush.

  “My God, you look like a veteran from the war, darling,” Iris called over.

  “I fell,” Daisy said again, as matter-of-factly as she could muster, reaching up to the lopsided bandage once more.

  As Mabel and Margot sat down, Howard came over to where Daisy and Valentine stood, closely followed by Ben, who tutted and grimaced and then said, “Poor old you”—more to the fireplace, it seemed, than to Daisy.

  Iris was playing more of her new dance music on the gramophone, and when it suddenly became quite loud Howard called out, “Do turn that racket down. I can’t hear myself think!” He was tense, Daisy could tell. And she wondered how it felt for him right at that moment, with his wife and mistress in the same room, all his lies and deceit safely under one roof, at Christmas.

  He moved closer to her. “I thought you wanted to talk to me? Something about Stephen, you said . . .”

  Daisy shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You said it was important.”

  “It’s not . . . Not now.”

  She moved away from him, toward Valentine Vincent. “So, Mr. Vincent . . . What do you do with your life?” she asked.

  “Val, please,” he quickly replied, then, more hesitant, repeated, “What do I do with my life . . . ?” He smiled, glanced downward. “Well, I’d like to say I’m a writer.”

  “A writer? Then say it. Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed. I must learn to. But until I find a publisher for my novel . . . well, I’m never sure of laying claim to that title.”

  “Quite right, too,” said Howard, moving nearer. “After all, a doctor can’t treat patients and call himself a doctor until he has qualified . . . Stands to reason a writer shouldn’t call himself a writer until he’s been properly published.”

  “Properly?” Valentine repeated.

  “Yes, a proper publisher and not one of those shabby outfits that takes money to print up any Tom, Dick or Harry’s nine-hundred-page memoirs about . . . about pig farming in Yorkshire—or whatever!”

  Daisy saw Ben nod emphatically. “I disagree,” she said without looking at her father. “If Valentine”—Val still seemed a little overfamiliar to her mind—“wishes to call himself a writer, which is precisely what he does and how he employs his time, then he should say it and be able to say it without anyone asking for . . . qualifications. We wouldn’t ask a painter how many pictures he had sold in order to establish how worthy he was to call himself that, would we? A writer you are, Mr. Vincent, and, I’m sure, a very good one at that. Don’t listen to my father . . . he’s a philistine,” she added in a whisper loud enough for Howard to hear.

  Valentine smiled at her. Howard feigned a laugh. And then Ben laughed too. But for some reason, and Daisy could not fathom why, Ben Gifford seemed different. He stood clutching his cup and saucer, smiling downward at the rug. He appeared gauche and awkward and indifferent to her, and all of it—all of him—was beginning to irritate her. Looking at the two men standing next to each other, Daisy noticed only Ben’s age and Valentine’s youth, the mediocrity of one and the charisma of the other. He must be at least thirty, she thought, glancing again at Ben. And suddenly it seemed as though there might yet be some noble purpose to Mrs. Vincent’s emergence in her life.

  Like her, the woman had aged, Mabel thought, staring back at Margot and smiling. Her hair, softly tinted, still golden, was graying at her temples, and she was more lined than Mabel remembered, particularly around the mouth, which Mabel now studied as Margot spoke. She was happy for Margot to talk. Happy to sit back and watch and listen. And Margot liked to talk and clearly enjoyed the sound of her voice.

  The actress sat bolt upright on the sofa next to Mabel, holding her cup and saucer on her lap. She was corseted, Mabel could tell, and the mauve ensemble with buttoned breast—her stiffness and lines—brought to mind an upholstered button-back chair. Rather like the one standing directly opposite them, thought Mabel, glancing to it.
/>   “Do you think Howard’s pleased I’m here?” Margot whispered, leaning closer to Mabel.

  “I’m sure he’s delighted.”

  “I do hope so. When you wrote to me saying you wanted it to be a surprise for him, well, I did wonder . . . You see, I’m not sure he likes surprises.”

  “Doesn’t he?” asked Mabel, widening her eyes.

  Margot laughed. “Well, of course, I wouldn’t really know, but I somehow imagine he doesn’t.” Her smile fell away. She lifted a hand to her hair, barely touching it, gently smoothing it, and looked over to where Howard stood with Daisy and the others. “I only ask because he’s barely spoken to me . . . and I’m not altogether sure he was quite so pleased to see me when I first arrived,” she added, her voice trailing off.

  “Oh, I think he was. It was just . . . as you say, a surprise. ”

  The actress reached over and gripped Mabel’s hand. “You’re too sweet . . . And really, it’s just heavenly to see you again, dear, dear Mabel. How long do you suppose it’s been?”

  “Six years,” Mabel replied, perhaps a little too quickly, she thought.

  Margot gasped. “Six years . . . Heavens, it feels like six months to me. And you know you haven’t changed? No, not one bit. You must tell me your secret, Mabel.”

  A number of things came to Mabel’s mind. She could have said, Fresh air and life in the country, she could have said, Elizabeth Arden, or she could have said, Not being touched by a man in six years.

  Mabel said, “We’ve all aged, Margot. It’s inevitable, I’m afraid.”

  Margot’s eyes fluttered. “Isn’t it too depressing? And so different for men.”

  Mabel shook her head. “They age, too.”

  “But not in the same way, dear. It’s all so much easier for them.”

  Mabel was aware of Howard watching them, and as Margot went on, talking Mabel through her own exhausting beauty routine and offering to show her a cream she’d recently bought at vast expense at Harrods, Mabel kept her smile firmly in place and made sure she appeared as though she were hanging on to Margot’s every syllable.

  Throughout dinner, Daisy surreptitiously studied Margot and her father. Mabel had seated the woman on Howard’s right, Daisy on his left. Thus, Daisy was forced to speak to him, to them, to make conversation or reply, at least, to their inane questions: How was her head? (Howard.) “Fine.” Was she excited about Christmas? (Margot, as though she were a child.) “Not particularly.”

  She didn’t mean to be rude, but she felt angry and uncomfortable. And she felt embarrassed and awkward each time Nancy or one of the servants appeared. What must they make of it all? And yet her mother, sitting at the other end of the table with Reggie by her side, seemed fine, quite happy.

  “I must say, I absolutely adore your snow globe, Daisy,” said Margot. “Where did it come from?”

  Daisy wanted to say From your lover, the man sitting between us, and you can have it, for all I care. Instead, she said, “Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? It was a present from my father.”

  Howard smiled, and Daisy realized it was the first time she’d seen him smile in a while.

  “Daisy used to think it had magical powers,” said Howard, looking at Daisy and not Margot. “She used to think that if you made wishes over it at Christmas they were bound to come true.”

  “How charming . . . And did they? Did any of them come true?” Margot asked, picking up her wineglass and blinking eagerly at Daisy.

  “No. None of them came true,” Daisy replied, watching her father’s smile fall away. “But I’ve only recently realized this.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Margot, her voice filled with disappointment. “But one must never give up . . . Perhaps you should make another wish this Christmas . . . In fact, we all should. We should all make a wish over your snow globe, a wish for 1927, and then write them down and seal them in a box,” she added excitedly. “Then, this time next year, we can see whose wish came true . . . Now, wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Daisy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe in any of that anymore,” she said. And then she pushed back her chair and excused herself.

  It was like being trapped in a nightmare, a badly written play where every line spoken was irksome and false, Daisy thought, wandering about the drawing room alone. But every single thing felt irksome to her now, from the cluttered surfaces within that room to the feel of her clothes against her skin. And as the other women filed into the room for their coffee and petits fours, she wasn’t sure if she could stand much more. So when Ben Gifford appeared in the doorway and asked Mabel if he might be permitted to have a word with Daisy, Daisy smiled with relief.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” she whispered, closing the door behind her.

  “Rescuing you?”

  “I’m finding it all rather difficult—with Margot and everything.”

  He stared back at her blankly. But when he said, “Can we go somewhere private to talk?” Daisy wondered if he knew, knew everything and more, and was about to divulge some new horror to her.

  Benedict Gifford had only recently been promoted to general manager of Forbes and Sons. He had served in the war. Unlike his two elder brothers, uncle and cousin, he had survived two years in the trenches, only to return to lose his widowed mother to the Spanish flu epidemic. Shortly after this he had begun working for Howard.

  It had been during the nightmare of the general strike earlier that year that Howard, encouraged by Ben, had gone down to the wharf with Daisy, donned an overall and operated a crane. That was when Ben had proved himself to Howard, Daisy thought, for her father had relied on him to negotiate with the unions.

  Ben had visited Eden Hall a number of times and had ended up staying for more than a week in the summer when he’d taken ill with food poisoning—though Mabel had claimed it couldn’t possibly be, had insisted it was something he’d brought down with him from London. As he recovered, Daisy and he had gone for walks about the grounds, and she had taken to reading the newspaper to him. The day she’d read about the actor Rudolph Valentino’s sudden death, she had wept openly in front of him. They had been sitting together on the bench by the pond in the Japanese garden and he had put his arm around her and said, “I’ll be your Valentino.” And Daisy had been sad to see him go, her Valentino.

  She had received a lengthy letter from him after his return to London, in which he had complimented her on her “uncommon kindness in a world increasingly short of it.” He had mentioned “the sometime loneliness of bachelorhood,” saying that to be welcomed into a family such as hers, even for a few short days, was a privilege. It was all very formal, and he signed himself off using his full name. She hadn’t replied, but she had thought of him. There was something old-fashioned and very decent about him; he was not dissimilar to her father, she had thought.

  “What is it?” Daisy asked, closing the door of Mabel’s boudoir.

  “Please don’t look quite so worried . . . I simply want to talk to you, that’s all.”

  Daisy sat down in the chair by Mabel’s desk. Ben stood alongside her, in front of the fire, staring down at the assortment of cards and framed photographs on the mantelshelf.

  “But you wanted to talk to me in private . . .”

  “Yes,” he said, turning to her. “Yes, I did. I do. But first of all, I need to ask you something. I need to know if there’s . . . anyone special in your life . . . A young man?”

  Daisy shook her head.

  “Good. I was a little worried about our Mr. Vincent.”

  “Valentine? . . . Why?”

  “He’s been staring at you rather a lot . . . But that’s not the point. The point is I don’t trust him, and I don’t particularly like him. I wanted to warn you not to be too . . . charmed. You see, I’ve met plenty like him.” He paused and smiled. “The sorts who claim to be artists and go about in secondhand
clothes and ladies’ silk scarves . . . contriving to look poor and cultured. I’m afraid our Mr. Vincent’s just another bone-idle Chelsea dilettante.”

  “You sound a bit sour.”

  Ben shook his head. “Not sour, just honest.”

  “Well, I don’t really know him; I’ve barely exchanged a word with him. And I very much doubt I’ll ever see him again after this Christmas.”

  Ben turned away from her and glanced along the line of framed photographs once more. “And what about that chap who lives here—the one who sometimes drives your father?” he asked.

  “Stephen. What about him?”

  “You told me, told me last time I was here that you and he were close.”

  “We are—or rather, we were. But it’s changed . . . it’s different now.”

  She saw him nod. “I’m sorry. You must wonder why I’m asking you such questions . . . You see, your father had words with me last summer, and then again recently, before I came down here. He told me—warned me—that you were too young for any serious attachments.”

  “I’m nearly nineteen,” she said.

  “I know, I know . . . And, you see, well, I have to come clean, have to tell you that I have become rather attached, and I dared to hope you might feel the same way,” he added, glancing to her.

  Daisy smiled.

  “That’s a relief,” he said. “I know this might seem a little sudden—unexpected—but I’ve thought about you a great deal since I was last here. I’m very much aware that you’re still quite young—that I’m a good few years older than you, and that I must be patient, and may have to wait for you to . . . to better understand your feelings, and the nature of love and all that.”