After Such Kindness

by Gaynor Arnold

  I have always loved the theatre. I have never believed, like many men of the cloth, that it is a place of impropriety. To me, a theatrical performance, when done properly – without oaths or coarseness, I mean – represents the best and truest spirit of fancy, and is the means of touching what is closest to our hearts. When I was a child, and even as a youth, there was nothing I enjoyed so much as joining with my sisters in performing anything from charades to melodramas – to the great amusement of our parents and all concerned – and it has remained my habit as an adult man to frequent the stage as often as I can. I will always make it my business to see a Shakespeare play, particularly if it is a comedy, and I am drawn by anything of a light, fanciful nature. I especially like dancing when it is done by young ladies or children. It is so natural and free.

  I have to confess that one of my particular enjoyments is watching the faces of the children seated in the audience; and indeed at times I am guilty of watching them in preference to what unfolds on stage. How I love their round-eyed sense of wonder as the curtain rises and a magical scene is displayed: a wood, a fairy castle, a baronial hall or a rose-covered cottage – the colours so intense in the limelight. And here comes a princess in a floating white dress with spangles! And there is a monster with a head like a bear! And, ah, there is the young girl in a short tunic and pink tights, who pretends to be a boy and shows her shapely legs in all their beauty! How the little audience is transfixed! How it opens its mouth in astonishment at the moving scenery! How it hides its head in horror as the villain comes up from the depths, or fairies fly down from the sky! How it laughs at the antics of the clownish servants and their acrobatic tricks! I think I would not enjoy myself half so much if the little people were not there with their unreserved and spontaneous response.

  So the prospect of taking my own little member of the audience with me has been exciting me for days. Daisy, bless her, wrote an extremely formal reply to my invitation, so I replied with equal formality: My dear Miss Baxter, Thank you for your excellent reply. But you will be getting tired of my long letter, so I will bring it to an end and sign myself, Yours affct, John Jameson. She said the letter had made her laugh. She also said her sisters were envious of her trip to London and when they had complained, her father had chastised them for not paying me more attention. Thank heavens they did not, or I would have been obliged to arrange an outing for the three of them, which would not have been half so delectable.

  As it was, Daniel brought Daisy to meet me at Carfax. As he had business in St Ebbe’s, he took his leave of us there, and the two of us walked on to the station. It was raining lightly and I had to draw Daisy under my umbrella to protect her from the splashes. Her waist was so tiny, I could hardly believe it. She seemed like gossamer under my fingers, and to have her so close – bobbing along with her head just above my elbow, and the faint smell of her damp hair wafting up towards me – was supremely delightful. I imagined how it might have been were I her father; how proud I would have been of her, seeing old ladies and nursemaids giving us approving glances as we walked and chatted.

  ‘Is it a long way to London?’ she asked, clinging to me as she daintily avoided a puddle. ‘I have looked in my atlas, but it doesn’t say.’

  ‘It can be long or short. It depends where you start from,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, here of course,’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘Well, there’s no “of course” about it. If we were in Birmingham or Chester, we would have to start our journey there, and it would be a lot longer.’

  ‘But we’re not in Birmingham or Chester!’

  ‘How very to the point you are! Let me see, I reckon it will take us an hour and three-quarters provided it is not a very slow train. Some trains are dreadfully slow, you know. Some are so slow I think they might even go backwards, and you’ll end up in Newcastle the day before yesterday.’

  She looked a little alarmed. ‘Can trains really go backwards?’

  ‘Well, some are pulled and some are pushed. The locomotives may go backwards, but, rest assured, the carriages will always go forwards – relatively speaking, that is.’

  She wrinkled her forehead. ‘I think you are just making all this up! I shall take no notice of you.’

  ‘Quite right. I am a foolish old thing.’

  She gave me a sharp look. ‘Are you old, Mr Jameson?’

  ‘Depends on what you mean by “old”, Miss Baxter. I’m younger than your pa. But age is as age does. I’m only eleven at heart.’

  ‘That’s my age.’

  ‘Yes. That’s why we are such good friends.’

  ‘And what will happen when I am twelve?’ She laughed. ‘Will you be twelve too?’

  My heart sank. ‘Sadly, no. I am destined to be eleven for ever. You will grow away from me, my dear. Soon you won’t want to know me – just like Christiana and Sarah.’

  ‘I will! I’ll always want to know you!’ She grasped my arm again.

  ‘Bless you. You are a dear child.’ But my heart was heavy at the knowledge that she was so dreadfully wrong.

  The journey passed quickly. Daisy was so interested in everything. She said she had been on a train many times to visit her grandfather in Herefordshire, and sometimes to go to the seaside at Aberystwyth. As a result, she knew not to lean out of the window for fear of getting a cinder in her eye. ‘I shall look at the cows and sheep instead,’ she said, pressing her face to the glass. But the cows and sheep lost their charm after about fifteen minutes, and she jumped up and kneeled on the brown plush of the seat opposite and began to examine the pictures below the luggage net. ‘Taunton sounds rather a cross place, doesn’t it? But Dawlish sounds nice – a bit like dawdling. And it looks nice, too.’

  At Didcot we were joined by a lady with a Scotch terrier and a small boy who made appalling faces at us when his mother wasn’t looking. Daisy ignored him with an air of infinite superiority, choosing to talk only to the lady and the dog, but I assumed the most grotesque of faces behind cover of my newspaper and fixed my stare on the wretched child for as long as I could. The mother, looking up suddenly, caught her son with his tongue out, and slapped his hand sharply: ‘That’s rude, Tommy! Apologize to the gentleman at once!’ In vain did he burble that ‘The gentleman did it first!’ His mother gave him another slap and said lying would only make matters worse, and she was so sorry and hoped I wouldn’t be offended. ‘Why can’t you just behave?’ she told the boy. ‘Why can’t you be like this nice young girl and sit still and talk nicely?’

  Daisy looked very smug, and spread her dress out around her and sat plumb in the middle of it with her back straight and her little hat tipped forward and her neat little feet crossed at the ankles, all as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The boy looked daggers at her, and Daisy in way of response turned round and said pointedly, in a grown-up way, ‘Which theatre is it that we are going to, Mr Jameson?’

  ‘Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,’ I said. ‘That is the best one for spectacle and transformation scenes, I think. And always the best for fairies.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said the mother. ‘How lucky you are to be going there, young lady. But then I expect you have deserved such a lovely outing. And your uncle –’

  ‘Sadly, I am but a family friend,’ I put in, anxious not to have the woman make any mistake in the matter, even though we were unlikely to meet again.

  ‘– Well, your nice friend, then. I’m sure he has arranged this treat knowing you would sit still and listen to what is being said – unlike some people I know.’ And she glowered so much that even I was compelled to feel sorry for the boy.

  They got out at Reading, the dog yapping at their heels, and Daisy and I were alone again. ‘When we get to London, will we see the sights?’ she asked. ‘Or will we go straight to the theatre?’

  I said that we would go to the theatre, as the performance began at half past three o’clock. ‘We’ll just have enough time to get across town from Paddington.’

  ‘What’s Paddington
?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s the railway station in London where we get out.’

  ‘But why isn’t it called London Station?’

  I smiled. ‘Ah, because London is so big that there is more than one station. We are coming in from the west, on the GWR. Some people say this stands for God’s Wonderful Railway – although if the Almighty had really designed it I don’t think the trains would be late, which, I have to say, they often are.’

  ‘Do you often come to Paddington, Mr Jameson?’

  ‘As often as I can and provided, of course, that I may. A college man is not a free agent. But generally I make it to London once or twice a term.’

  ‘Mama says London is very fine, but there is too much poverty in the streets. She says it breaks her heart.’ Daisy looked thoughtful. ‘Will we see much poverty in the streets today, Mr Jameson?’

  What a question from the child! And how to answer? Frankly, I’m not well-acquainted with the city. My general plan is: arrive at the station; proceed to the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall; visit the appropriate theatre on the Strand; then go back to the station. A round – or rather a triangular – trip of approximately sixteen and one-third miles that on most occasions I do not vary. Everything outside that acreage is unknown territory and there could be Red Indians engaged in open warfare in Hackney for all I know. I certainly had no intention of plumbing the depths of the East End with a small child in hand. ‘You will see nothing worse than you see in Oxford,’ I said finally.

  ‘Papa says I have to give away all my pocket money if I see a beggar,’ she went on. ‘Especially if it’s a child with no shoes on its feet.’

  ‘On the contrary, I suggest you go into a fruit shop,’ I said.

  ‘A fruit shop?’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘What for?’

  ‘To buy the poor creature a pear.’

  ‘A pear? What good would that do?’

  ‘A great deal of good, if it were a pair of shoes.’

  She laughed. I was glad to see her face clear, but I could see the prospect of ragged children holding out pitiful hands was still very much on her mind. This would not do; this was a joyful outing, after all. ‘But you may keep your pennies safe,’ I said, patting her hand through her cotton gloves. ‘I doubt there will be any shoeless beggars on the London Omnibus, and that is where we are bound. We’ll go from Paddington to the Strand for sixpence, with a half-fare for the little lady with the straw hat and nice smile, and no one will bother us.’

  And once we’d arrived and were aboard the omnibus, there were indeed no beggars, but only soldiers and sailors and carpenters and clerks, and ladies with baskets, and nursemaids with children in their arms, all pushed up together willy-nilly on the wooden seats as if they were an illustration of the Day of Judgement when all souls will rise up in unison. I noticed that Daisy was paying special attention to the young nursemaid who was jigging a baby on her lap and talking to it in baby-talk. I could tell what she was thinking, and I was not wrong. ‘Do you think we might meet Nettie while we are in London?’ she whispered.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘For one thing, London, as you see, is very big. And for another, we have no idea of her address. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, and the odds against that are almost infinite. Now, come, my dear, this is meant to be a treat. You must put a brave face on and put your best foot forward and your shoulder to the wheel and, in spite of the contortions involved, simply force yourself to be happy this afternoon.’

  And the dear thing laughed and said she was very sorry and would set about enjoying herself immediately. ‘I am really so very excited. What is Sylvie’s Wish about? And do you really know one of the actresses in it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a young cousin of mine on my mother’s side. It was she who kindly arranged for Nathan’s to send me the fairy costumes. I will take you backstage to meet her after the play and we can all go to tea together.’

  The Theatre Royal was full of children and mamas and nursemaids and not a few fathers and uncles. I had reserved a box, which almost seemed to hang out over the stage and commanded an equally good view of the auditorium. Daisy was quite overcome with all the cream and red, all the velvet and plush, all the gilt and the marble and the myriad sconces with gaslights flaring away in the half-dark. She loved our box, too, with its own set of velvet curtains tied back with swags, and its own two gilt chairs facing the proscenium. To complete her delight, I brought from my pocket a bag of chocolate limes which she viewed with relish: ‘Oh, my favourites. How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I replied. ‘But they are my favourites as well. That’s why we are the best of friends.’

  And with that, the curtain went up with a great swish, which sent a cold draught over our balcony as the bright stage was revealed in a wash of pink light. At the same time, the orchestra struck up a rousing tune and a dozen or so little girls in charming gypsy costumes began a scampering kind of dance in front of a canvas facsimile of a country glade. Daisy sat open-mouthed, clutching her gloves in her lap, and she never moved from that position for the rest of the first act, not even to partake of a chocolate lime. When the curtain went down, she turned to me, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, Mr Jameson. How wonderful this is! Thank you so much for bringing me!’

  ‘Not at all!’ I replied. ‘But will Sylvie run away to join the gypsies, do you think? They do seem to be such happy, carefree people – and her wicked Uncle Archibald is so very despicable!’

  ‘I would run away if it were me,’ she said.

  ‘But then you are a very exceptional child,’ I said, laughing, as I ushered her out for lemonade refreshment in the saloon.

  As each act unfolded, Daisy was further entranced. She gasped at the changes of scenery: the trompe l’oeil painted backdrops, the bushes moving to reveal even deeper woodland scenes beyond, the translucent drapes hung with stars, and finally the working fountains at the Castle of Dreams. She cried aloud at the changes of light from bright day to sunset, and from red sunset to blue-green moonlight. And she was delighted even more with the character of Sylvie, escaping from the tedium of life with her uncle (which was all drudgery and punishment) to freedom with the dancing gypsies and the disguised Prince Florizel. Daisy even began to look a little like Sylvie, I thought, as her hair escaped its ribbons and fell in a higgledy-piggledy fashion all round her flushed and rosy face, and it was as much as I could do not to kiss her upon the spot. But, at the end, after we had clapped as hard as we knew how, she turned in her chair and gave me a kiss on the lips, entirely of her own accord. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘All my friends will be so envious. It is much better than the seaside. Better than my picnic too. In fact, it is the best thing that ever happened to me.’

  ‘To me t-too,’ I murmured, my stammer coming back with a vengeance as the memory of her soft little lips on mine threw me into confusion. I hardly wanted to get up and walk through the crowds at that moment. I just wanted to sit next to Daisy with her hand in mine as if the rest of the world did not exist. But she reminded me that we were due to meet my cousin Ellen, and so I picked up my hat and we made our reluctant way out.

  At tea in the Aldwych, Daisy could not stop talking about the play and the theatre and London itself, and how you could become an actress and how old you had to be to appear on the stage. I noticed people at the other tables looking across and smiling in an indulgent way as she prattled on, tucking into cucumber sandwiches, buttered scones and fruit cake. Ellen, who is by far my favourite cousin even when she is not impersonating young men in breeches, kept remarking on Daisy’s looks. ‘How very dainty you are,’ she said, leaning back and surveying her. ‘Quite the perfect ingénue. But you would do better with shorter hair, dear. There is such a lot of it and it hides your face. And it is quite the fashion now to have a fringe. You should ask your mama if you can be shorn more neatly next time she gets out the scissors.’

  ‘Mama doesn’t do my hair,’ Daisy said, tears starting to her eyes. ‘It used to be Nettie, but I’v
e lost her and Hannah can’t be bothered with it.’

  ‘Well, someone can do it surely? I’d do it myself if I had some scissors. You’ve no idea what an improvement it would be.’ She cocked her head to the side, imagining it, and I tried to imagine it too, thinking Ellen might indeed be right, and Daisy’s perfect heart-shaped face would show more to advantage when not half-hidden. But, having planted this notion in Daisy’s head, Ellen got up. ‘I have to go, dear people, as we have another performance at half past seven. Far too late for the little ones, Uncle, but you know how things are. Needs must, and so forth. Thank you for the delicious tea, and goodbye, Daisy dear, and remember what I said.’ And she gave me her usual kiss on the forehead, which I could not but reflect had nothing like the same effect on me as Daisy’s.

  By the time we got to Paddington, Daisy was beginning to get very tired, and once we were in the train, she fell asleep with her head against my arm and her straw hat falling sideways over her face. Her ringlets had almost completely fallen out and her ribbons had come undone. Had it not been for the gloves and neat little stockings and shoes, she might indeed have resembled a gypsy child. How I would have liked to capture her likeness at that moment, but it was beyond my pencil, even if I’d had one to hand: only a photograph would have done her justice. I sat, enjoying for the first time the pleasure of looking at her as long as I liked. For once, she was oblivious to my gaze; and there was no one else in the carriage to stare or misconstrue. I moved closer to her, dozing a little myself, allowing myself to imagine how it would be if we were lying in the same bed, perhaps, her little body nestling trustingly against mine, her arms round my neck, her cheek against my breast . . .

  I do not know how long we lay there together, dozing, but, all at once, a train whistled past from the opposite direction, making the carriage shudder and shake, and it woke both of us with a start. She pulled away from me and took her warmth with her, so it was as if a cold breeze had struck suddenly all down my left side. ‘Oh, I have had such a strange dream,’ she said, sitting upright and setting her hat back on her head. ‘There were kings and queens, and lovely gardens, and cakes and sandwiches all mixed together. And sheep and cows and dogs and cats all sitting in a railway carriage, and Dinah saying, “Tickets, please!”’ She shivered a little. ‘And I was in the middle of it all, but very, very small, and everybody was telling me what to do. Including the animals.’