After Such Kindness (31 page)

‘Daisy, my dear,’ I said, holding out my hands. ‘It is so good to see you. You have been in my thoughts so very much.’

She curtseyed, like any well-brought-up young lady in front of a stranger, her once-bright eyes cast down. Not at all like Daisy with her eager enthusiasm – not at all like my dear Daisy of yore. ‘I’m obliged to you,’ she said.

Obliged!
When had she started to use such an expression? And where had this new stiffness come from? I tried to steady my voice. ‘I am glad you are recovered, my dear. Did you receive my letters from Ilfracombe? I took considerable trouble over them.’

She looked at me, startled out of her composure. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even know you’d been to Ilfracombe. Isn’t that where Annie goes in the summer?’ Then she seemed to notice Mr Warner for the first time, and dropped another curtsey. ‘How do you do, Mr Warner?’

‘Very well, my dear. But you are quite right. We holiday in Ilfracombe every year. But this year we have had the extra pleasure of Mr Jameson’s company. He is out all day with my children – donkey rides and beach-combing and sketching trips and all manner of entertainment. Mrs Warner and I have hardly seen our youngest three since he turned up. I think I shall strive to engage him for all our future holidays, as I have been able to read my newspaper without interruption and Mrs Warner has netted at least double the amount of mittens she normally manages in three weeks.’

Daisy turned accusing eyes at me. ‘You have been at the seaside?’ she said. ‘With
Annie
?’

Of course, when I looked at it through Daisy’s eyes, I could see that she might conceive it as a betrayal – my entertaining Annie and her siblings in riotous assemblage while she herself lay in a fever hundreds of miles away. And yet there would have been no logic to my remaining in Oxford when I had done all I could to speed her recovery. If she were not allowed to have visitors, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had been at Land’s End or John O’Groats, or even on the moon. And, though I was far away, I had persistently enquired after her, and written to her at great length and with many illustrations. But people do not always look at things logically, and it is a fallacy that a lover should show his nobility by pounding the city streets where his beloved lives, even though she has no notion of his presence and is happily playing cards with her best friend in a drawing room five miles away. What a waste of time and energy. But I was still anxious that Daisy should think well of me. ‘I have simply been taking a short holiday from the demands of trigonometry,’ I said. ‘For fear my head will grow to an uncommon size and no hatter would be able to accommodate it. Besides, Benson always likes a week or so off during the summer and I think it would be unfair not to release him, don’t you? He is so very good with the bread-and-butter for the remaining eleven months of the year.’

‘But who looks after Dinah if you are both away?’ she said. For a fleeting moment she was like her old self – quick and curious.

‘Mr Bunch, who is a scout on the next staircase, sees to her. In fact, she is so fat after a fortnight or so in his care that I am convinced that he spoils her with mouse cutlets and buttered bats. There are many bats, you know, in our college – a whole belfry full of them – and we are enjoined to deplete the numbers whenever we can.’

‘
Do
cats eat bats?’ she said, half laughing like she used to. ‘I never heard that!’

‘Did you ever hear they didn’t?’ I replied, getting into my stride.

But Mrs Baxter was not about to allow us to have any fun. ‘Mr Jameson wishes to know if you received his letters,’ she said curtly. ‘As it seems you did not reply.’

‘What letters?’ she asked warily, and not very grammatically.

‘Mr Jameson claims he wrote to you from Ilfracombe.’

I interrupted. ‘It is not a
claim
, Mrs Baxter; it is a fact. That I wrote them is indisputable. That they were received is what is open to doubt.’

‘Perhaps Papa has them,’ suggested Daisy, a little uneasily.

I thought this more than likely. He had probably put them aside for her convalescence and had not had time to give them to her before his own indisposition came upon him. ‘But did you read the story I wrote for you?’

‘A story? For me?’ She put her hands together – but, in her new grown-up way she stopped short of clapping them, and merely held them to her chest.

‘Not only
for
you, but
about
you,’ I said, smiling at her delight. ‘I gave it directly to your papa.’

‘Well, no doubt, that is the answer,’ Mrs Baxter said with some relief. ‘Mr Baxter has undoubtedly put all your correspondence away safely. I will get Hannah to search for it later. You will appreciate, Mr Jameson, that things are very much out of joint in our household at the moment. I cannot be spending time looking for lost letters, particularly if they contain only humorous trivialities. Now, if you do not mind, I must ask you both to take your leave. My husband needs my full attention.’

‘Of course. But I am ready to help in any way,’ replied Mr Warner, pushing up from the big winged chair. ‘I shall speak to the other churchwardens and see what needs to be done. Please do not hesitate to call on me. I shall remain at home for the next few days and you may send your servant at any time of the night or day.’

‘You are very kind, Mr Warner, but I am sure that will not be necessary.’ And with that she began to usher us out.

I knew that Mrs Baxter, having forbidden me to write to Daisy, would not easily allow me to see her again, and I could not rely on Daniel, in his current state of health, to overrule her. I did not wish the child to think I had abandoned her without a word, or to be told by some ill-intentioned person that I no longer cared about her, so I took the opportunity to fall behind Mr Warner and Mrs Baxter and clasp Daisy’s hand. ‘Goodbye, my dear. I’ll never forget you,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget me, either, will you?’

‘Why? Won’t I see you again?’ she said, with something of a stricken look.

I could hardly answer her. ‘I c-can’t say. I think our time may be over. You are growing up now. Too old for my sort of nonsense.’ I could feel the lump at my throat.

‘I’m not! I’m not too old at all!’ She clutched at my coat sleeve.

‘You are getting older by the minute, Daisy,’ I said, patting her shorn head. ‘Time is rushing on for you. But Time has a wretched habit of staying still for me, lazing around and doing nothing in particular. I rather think we are fated to go our separate ways.’

‘No, Mr Jameson, please don’t say that! I still want to go walking with you and see Dinah and Benson and have my pho–’

I interrupted her quickly. ‘Please, my dear – remember the Eye of Society. Young ladies cannot skip about with old bachelors for ever. They have to learn how to put on long dresses and sit sedately and make polite conversation with young gentlemen. It’s the way of the world, my dear. Even though we may not want it.’

Mrs Baxter heard my words and turned, almost gracious now. ‘Mr Jameson is right, Daisy. You’ll have different matters to occupy you from now on. We all will. Now, say a nice farewell to him as he asks.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why he has to go, why everyone has to go.’ Then, rather desperately, ‘I want to tell him something.’

Mrs Baxter looked me in the eye for the first time. ‘Daisy is anxious about her father, that is all.’ Then, taking Daisy by the shoulders, she said, ‘There is nothing that you need to tell Mr Jameson, my dear. Family matters are to be kept to ourselves.’

I could see Daisy’s lip trembling and I so much wanted to comfort her. But it was all too dreadfully late. I held out my hand. ‘It’s been the greatest honour to know you, Daisy. But your mama says I must go, so go I must.’ I shook her hand. ‘Goodbye, dear child,’ I said.

‘Goodbye, Mr Jameson,’ she said at last, her grey eyes fixed on me. I thought I saw despair in them, and for a moment I hesitated to abandon her to the Scylla and Charybdis of her vicarage life – her clever, cold mama and her wild, distracted father. It could not be a happy situation for a child. But I could not force my way into the house, and I could not force Daisy out of it. I had no power at all. I was just a single man whom nobody listened to; as dead and flat and unimportant as a breakfast bloater.

‘Perhaps we
will
meet again,’ I said, kissing her little hand. And then, unable to stop myself, I put my arms around her, feeling the tightness of her chest as she tried to prevent the tears coming. Then I stumbled out through the grand front door and into the breezy afternoon. Mr Warner made as if to speak to me, but I put on my hat and walked quickly down the hill, unable to look behind me.

Sad to say, Daniel never recovered his wits and, apart from fleeting glimpses around town, I didn’t see Daisy again, although she has lived with me this long time in the pages of my book, and of course in the pages of my heart. I never saw Daniel again either, although in the early days of his affliction I frequently haunted the environs of the vicarage, knowing that Mrs Baxter’s writ did not extend to the pavements of the public streets. But he was kept close inside, guarded it would seem, by the servants, and I saw not so much as a glimpse of him. I retired to my usual day-to-day work, and in the evenings I consoled myself with the delightful occupation of writing
Daisy’s Daydream
, hoping against hope that my old friend would soon be restored to health and a new regime instituted at Westwood Gardens. But news of his insanity began to leak out bit by bit.

I heard from Smith-Jephcott that he was seen in the Gardens dressed only in his nightshirt – and, on one celebrated occasion, stark naked. Smith-Jephcott could not disguise his delight at being the bearer of such news. He has always had an irrational dislike of Muscular Christianity in general and Daniel in particular, so he kept me fully aware of his distressing decline, even though it was painful for me to hear it. He told me of Baxter’s attempts to sequester the communion wine, and his habit of sending petitions to the Archbishop of Canterbury by floating them on the breeze from an upstairs room. At the last it was he who gloatingly informed me that Dr Lawrence, after years of administering pills and lotions, hot poultices and cold compresses, soft words and harsh remedies – had been forced to resort to the straitjacket. ‘The women of the household can’t manage him – even with the curate and the churchwardens attending the house day and night. So he’s off to the asylum where he’ll have no option. The congregation is all at sixes and sevens; half of ’em believing their prayers will come true and holding out for Baxter’s return to the pulpit; the rest clamouring for a new vicar in his place. Some say that Baxter overreached himself; that he let his pride come before his duty – and this is his punishment. Morton can hardly hold the vestry committee together.’

I was appalled and saddened to think it had come to this. I had always thought of myself as somewhat eccentric, and there were many Oxford dons who were, in my view, completely deranged – but we all managed to live in the world and not be too unkindly remarked upon. Daniel had unfortunately contrived to assault every social constraint by his naked ravings; and he could not be forgiven. I was grieved to think of him caged up in an institution, and once he had left the watchful eye of his wife, I several times wrote to him at the asylum, thinking maybe that a correspondence with an old friend would be good for him. But my letters were returned, unopened. Except for one, which came back with a scrawl over my name and written alongside, in an almost unrecognizable version of Daniel’s hand, the words ‘Corrupter of Innocence!’. I cannot say what a shock that gave me. It came to me that he must have seen the photographs and drawn the inevitable wrong conclusion. I wanted to see him, then, to explain that no corruption had taken place, that his darling Daisy was still as fresh as a flower. But, of course, he was mad, and there is no persuading a madman. I began to be angry, then. I could not think what the superintendent of the asylum had been thinking of – letting such a libel slip past, to be seen by the workers in the Post Office and by the porters at my college as they handled it and assigned it to my pigeonhole. I was minded to write a letter of complaint. Indeed, I composed one, so shaken was I by such public incompetence. But in the end I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and that it was best not to stir up matters that were long dead.

As time has gone on, I am relieved that I distanced myself from him. It might have prevented other children being allowed to see me if it were known that the naked, ranting Daniel Baxter had once been my friend. The shame has fallen most heavily on his family, of course, but Mrs Baxter remained in the vicarage to the end, proving a good deal more resilient than she looked. And Daisy, bless her, has prospered. Smith-Jephcott, who is a mine of unsolicited information on all hatchings, matchings and dispatchings, informs me that young Robert Constantine fell in love with her the moment he saw her, and, casting aside all fears of hereditary taint, determined to make her his wife. He is now the fortunate incumbent of a well-established parish just beyond Oxford, and she his fortunate wife. I couldn’t have written a happier ending myself. Indeed, I find endings difficult; the need to point up a moral for everything goes against the grain; yet it is required and I have to twist my narratives to accommodate it.

Robert and I have been like strangers this last week. I don’t think I can continue in this way, and I doubt Robert can either. It’s far worse than before, when at least there was a glimmer of hope that we would find a resolution. Now, it seems, I’ve utterly broken his heart. I hear him in his dressing-room at night, tossing and turning for hours on end. I myself cannot sleep, and rise early every day. But whenever I go down to breakfast, he has always finished and already gone out on ‘urgent parish business’, not returning until late. And then he stays in his study until long after I’ve gone to bed.

I don’t knock on his door; there is no point in trying to speak to him: John Jameson’s photographs are my dumb accusers, and won’t be denied. I’ve looked at them over and over again, but I fail to see what Robert sees.

Today, though, just as I arrive in the breakfast room, he comes to speak to me. I stand by the table with its white tablecloth and blue crockery; he stands just inside the room with a letter in his hand. Acres of red Turkey carpet seem to spread between us. ‘Dr Lawrence has written,’ he says, shortly. ‘There is someone he recommends – an eminent specialist who is coming up to speak at the university this evening. He has kindly arranged an appointment for us at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, when Dr’ – he glances at the letter – ‘Dr Franklin will be free. Naturally, I shall write to decline the offer. His intervention is not required now.’

It is not required, I think, because Robert no longer desires to touch me. That I may wish to touch
him
, and be grieved at my inability to do so, does not seem to occur to him. ‘Then everything between us is at an end?’ I say, holding on to the back of my chair for support.

He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t contradict me either. He looks through the window and seems to be considering something a long way off, out in the churchyard, or beyond the hedge. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, eventually. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. I truly believe I would have given my life for the old Margaret – the Margaret I thought you were. But now it seems you are somebody else, and I don’t think I can love that person.’

‘But we are the same person, Robert. I mean,
I
am the same person.’

‘Are you?’ His voice sounds hollow. ‘Are you really the sweet girl I courted? Is your mind as unpolluted as I always imagined it to be?’ He turns and fixes me with his eye. ‘Can you swear to God that is the case?’

I look down. The pattern in the carpet seems to swirl up to meet me. I cannot swear an untruth; I would be struck down in an instant.

‘You see, Margaret? It is, admittedly, to your credit that you tried to confess to me – and to my considerable shame that I would not listen. But the fact remains – you are a different woman. And neither you nor I can change that.’

He turns to go, and I notice that the back of his coat is creased in deep horizontal lines, as if he has been sitting in it for a long time. Perhaps he has even been up all night, deciding what he is to do with this stranger-wife of his. I stare at his back, the way his shoulders stoop. Surely matters cannot end like this – here on a bright clear autumn morning in this comfortable little room, with its fire burning cosily and the table nicely laid with butter and jam and marmalade? I must make some sort of effort to preserve my marriage.

‘Robert –’ I say. And he turns back hopefully. Perhaps he thinks I’m going to take the solemn oath after all. I wish I could do it; I long to make him happy again. But I cannot lie; and I cannot defend myself except by adding to my shame.

He looks at me, but still keeps his hand on the doorknob to indicate his wish to depart and have done with all this unpleasantness. I step towards him, conscious of a long band of sunlight which suddenly falls across the carpet between us and seems to emphasize how separate we are. Maybe if affection for
me
doesn’t move him, I can appeal to his love for Christ. ‘Have you forgotten about forgiveness?’ I say. ‘That is Our Lord’s commandment – even for the worst sinner, and for the worst sins. And I don’t think I’m quite the worst sinner, am I, Robert? Even though I have made us both unhappy.’ I consider sinking to the floor in front of him to show him how penitent I am, but I fear he may find me ludicrous; more like a slave girl of the Roman Empire than a respectable communicant of the Church of England.

‘I
have
forgiven you, Margaret,’ he says, his hand still on the doorknob. ‘I bear you no ill will, no ill will at all. But forgiveness is one thing, and loving and cherishing you as a wife is quite another.’ I see he has steeled himself against all appeals. He won’t even look at me as he goes on, doggedly. ‘As you pointed out, we have grounds for annulment. But I’ve seen what it’s done to other men and women, even the highest in the land. We must find another way less painful to us both, a way in which we may keep our dignity at least.’

‘Thank you, Robert.’ I clutch at this small shred of comfort. An annulment would be dreadful. I’d have to move to Mama’s house, and spend my life in shadowy corners; a woman with a doubtful past and no future. And Robert would have his manliness and judgement held up to ridicule, his position as a clergyman open to question, his ability to remarry damaged perhaps for ever. And then there would be the medical examination, the opening up of my most secret self for all to gossip about. I’ve wondered over and over what gruesome procedures that would entail. If I’ve shrunk from my husband, how much more would I shrink from the physician’s touch? And, worst of all, I don’t know what would be revealed; I don’t know what a doctor is able to tell from mere inspection. But one thing is certain; it would involve shame for me. No woman can escape such investigation with her reputation intact.

‘I am glad you agree about that.’ He nods to himself in a distracted way, and I see that it is costing him a great deal to be fair and reasonable and not to break down under it all. His world is upside-down; but he is doing his best.

‘Yes. Let us be friends, at least.’ I cross the band of sunlight and put my hand on his arm. I can see now that his coat sleeve is flecked with crumbs of bread and pieces of thread, and that there is ink on his shirt cuff. His hair – usually so sleek – is unbrushed, and his shirt doesn’t look very fresh. He has the air of a neglected bachelor and I feel a surge of new love for him.

He shakes me off lightly. ‘No, Margaret. That only makes things more difficult.’

I recoil, feeling the chill of his distaste and thinking how our roles have been reversed in such a short space of time: I now the beseecher; he, the hard of heart. If only I hadn’t rebuffed him quite so many times; if only I’d tried harder to overcome my repugnance. Perhaps if he came to me now, in this reduced state, I could bear his caresses; I could close my eyes and forget all about Papa’s hot skin on mine, and live only in the moment. ‘Maybe the London doctor can still help,’ I suggest feebly, grasping at any straw now, any chance, any hope. ‘Perhaps we should keep the appointment after all.’

He closes the door and places his back against it. He looks at me as though I am, actually, mad. ‘
Keep the appointment?
But, Margaret, what would be the purpose? You have admitted the cause of your shame. Do you really want to share it with others?’

Do I? I don’t know. I can hardly find the right words when I try to describe to myself what happened. How could I find them in front of a stranger? And would not a stranger feel – as Robert feels – that I must have been in some way to blame; that there was something in my smile, or in my kisses, that urged my father on against all natural feelings? It goes against the grain to sit down mutely and say nothing, but would be even worse to speak and be branded as a young Salome. ‘I suppose not,’ I say.

‘Quite so. The awkward thing is withdrawing ourselves after Dr Lawrence has gone to such trouble. I shall have to find a suitable form of excuse. I shall plead a change of heart on your part.’

‘But that is not true.’

He turns beetroot red. ‘Nevertheless, that is what I shall say. I simply wished you to know of my intention.’ Then he pulls open the door, and departs.

I sit down heavily at the breakfast table and put my head in my hands. My elbows crash into the crockery, upset the milk; but I don’t care.

Then I see it, level with my eye, half under my plate: a letter. The small neat writing is shockingly familiar. I can hardly believe it, and I half think he has got to know of my despair by some supernatural means; I cannot think how otherwise he would choose to write to me just at this moment in my life. I pick it up, thanking God that Robert does not know John Jameson’s distinctive hand.

My dear Mrs Constantine (or may I still call you Daisy?),

Permit me to congratulate you on your recent marriage and to hope your life with your new husband will be a long and happy one.

It’s some time since we last met over a cup of tea; in fact we did not strictly meet over anything in those days – except Mr Smith-Jephcott’s rooms. However, I would take it as no uncommon courtesy if you would grace me with your company at four o’clock tomorrow. Dinah is no longer with us, and neither is Benson (O tempora! O mores!), but I am on the same staircase as ever, with a splendid new scout who keeps me in order and seems to produce jam tarts at the drop of a hat. Take care to bring your hat, therefore, or you may end up hungry.

Please reply to the undersigned, and not, under any circumstances, to that puffed up impostor, James St-John Clark,

Your dear friend, as always,

John Jameson.

I laugh. And then I re-read the letter and laugh again. I’d forgotten how happy John Jameson always made me with his incapacity to take anything very seriously. Just to read his words makes me feel young and carefree and full of vitality, as if I have escaped into another world and all the wretchedness of my life has vanished in an instant. He says nothing of my troubles – of course; he doesn’t know them – but just the mention of tea and jam tarts and I am back in his rooms and remembering all the fun I had there. Robert is right in a way: he’s never made me as happy as John did – and that happiness was untainted with any sense of sin or failure. And now that my spirits are soaring again, I realize that for much of my adult life I have not been fully myself. I’ve never been the Margaret that Robert thought I was; I was always Daisy inside.

And I suddenly want to be Daisy again, to go back to those wonderful afternoons; to have as much tea and jam and bread-and-butter as I like; to ask questions; make up rhymes, answer riddles, eat chocolate limes, and altogether worry not a jot about the Eye of Society. I want to laugh and be silly, and forget adult life and its disappointments completely. And I can do it. I get up hurriedly to pen an answer, to express my joy at the prospect of seeing John again.

But I stop dead. Far from seeing him, I cannot even risk a reply. If Robert were to find out, he’d assume we’d been engaged in some underhand connection all along and even the faintest hope of reconciliation would be gone. My sudden burst of happiness dies within me, and the clerical gloom of the past week returns like a wet fog. I slump back in my chair. It seems I’m now in the worst of all possible worlds. There’s no comfort to be found in my husband, and certainly none from my family; and the only friend who might cheer me up is forbidden to me. I start to weep, overcome with the hopelessness of my position. Women who have lost the love of their husbands generally console themselves with their children. But I have none, nor am I ever likely to have.

Minnie comes in to clear the dishes, and sees me in tears. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘Are you ill again? Shall I call the master?’

‘No, no,’ I say, indicating the letter. ‘It’s just the loss of an old friend.’

Minnie puts her hand in her pocket. ‘Would you like a sniff?’ she says. ‘It always helps me if I’m feeling a bit down in the dumps.’

So that explains the bottle’s permanent presence in her apron. ‘Why not?’ I say, and she brings the smelling salts out with alacrity. The pungent aroma knocks me back, but, as she says, I feel strangely the better for it. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll remember your advice.’

She smiles. She has a jaunty smile, in spite of her pinched appearance. Then she looks at the table and puts her hands on her hips. ‘Oh, you’ve hardly eaten anything. It’s been like that all week. And Mr Constantine the same, although he’s usually a good trencherman. Mind, he says put anything that’s not eaten into a basket and he’ll take it to the poor, but Cook says she’s not cooking for the poor and anyways scrambled eggs don’t keep.’

‘Have you already made up a basket?’ I ask. Parish visiting is, after all, my duty. And it’s something I’m used to. Mrs Carmichael used to let us accompany her around Headington, carrying her baskets while she held her Bible. And after Christiana married Charles, she and I would often go together to Jericho and St Ebbe’s. People always said I was good at listening, and didn’t make them feel ‘preached at’. And there were always the children to pick up and nurse. I’d tell them stories sometimes – even take along
Daisy’s Daydream
and tell them it was all about me. And Robert was only last week encouraging me to start my rounds.

‘Yes, it’s on the slab in the pantry, waiting for Mr Constantine to pick it up. There’s some apples from the garden, and bread from the day-before-yesterday that’s still quite nice, and a couple of oranges, and half a steak and kidney pie (because Cook and I won’t eat kidney), and a ham bone with quite a lot of meat on it and some hard-boiled eggs.’

‘I shall take it,’ I say. ‘Do you know who it’s intended for?’

‘Some family in Parsloe’s Lane, I think. I’ll ask Cook. If she knows you’re going, she’ll put in a few extras.’

Cook has indeed put in a few extras and the basket is quite heavy. I enjoy the pull of it, though; the physical nature of it, as I walk along. I haven’t had a good walk for a long time, and I relish the exercise and the freshness of the autumn breeze. Parsloe’s Lane is at the very edge of the parish, on the Oxford road, and it takes me quite a while to get there. It’s a little, narrow, run-down row of houses giving straight on to the unmade street, and there are children playing in the mud outside, teasing a dog with a bone. They rush up to me as I approach, the dog wagging its tail. A little boy with bright eyes catches on to my skirt. ‘Have you got any cake, miss? Have you got a napple?’ He gives me the most brilliant of smiles, and there is something in his face that I take to straight away.