The Snow Globe (28 page)

After that, she had no alternative but to make a hasty exit. She marched off in the direction of the house, then swiftly turned toward the woods.

She paused for a moment, mortified by her outburst, clinging to the silky old wood of the gate; then she pulled it open and walked on. It was cooler, more tranquil there. The sun shone low through the branches, breaking up the shadows with iridescent jets of shimmering light, illuminating desultory cobwebs floating in the warm evening air. The path was soft underfoot, narrowed by the season, by the dust-covered nettles and ferns and the wildflowers, thick and abundant and undisturbed. The remains of fallen trees lay rotting in sinister shapes, their ragged bark peeling off them like ancient wallpaper, and the little wooden bridge was green with moss.

As Daisy stood on the bridge, she pictured other evenings, nights such as this, when she had been there with him, building a dam, searching the water for unusual pebbles and fossils, chattering on openly, uninhibitedly, about anything and everything. How uncomplicated life had once been, she thought, moving toward the ridge from where, months earlier, she had thrown her globe. Then the surrounding valley had been white and thick with snow, the stream gushing in an icy torrent; now purple heather once again covered the slopes and the water trickled slowly across the boulders and rocks. She looked down over the precipice. Was it still there, or had someone found it and carried it off? She heard the sound of a gun reverberate across the valley, and then she heard her name.

“I'm sorry,” he said as he stepped up onto the ridge and stood alongside her.

“My snow globe is somewhere down there.”

“Your snow globe . . . the one your father gave you?”

“I threw it from here. It landed near those trees,” she said, pointing.

He didn't ask why, didn't ask anything more. He said, “Come, I'll walk you back.”

They took a different path and for a while they walked in silence. It was so easy, she thought, to be with him and be silent. Ben would have accused her of being antisocial or sulking, but there was never any such accusation from Stephen. Not that night, not ever.

At the top of the hill where the track met the tarmacadam road was an old broomsquire's cottage. Daisy had visited it once before—years before—with him. At that time it had been inhabited by an old man called Jethro, whom Stephen had reckoned was close to
one hundred years old. The place was still the same dirty pink and still had the same untidy thatched roof. A woman stood in the open doorway, smoking a pipe, holding a large baby on her hip. She smiled and nodded to Stephen as he moved toward her. Daisy remained on the track and waited while they spoke. She heard Stephen laugh, say, “No,” heard him say her name and saw the woman peer over at her with renewed interest. He stroked the child's head as he spoke, then turned away and rejoined Daisy on the track.

“What did she say?”

“She asked if you were my sweetheart,” he said, looking downward. “But I told her who you were and that you were engaged to be married. That was all.”

“I suppose old Jethro's long since passed away.”

“Yes, a good few years ago . . . That's his great-granddaughter, Rosie.”

“You know everyone . . . you've always known everyone, which is surprising considering . . .”

“Considering I'm not from here—wasn't born here? Maybe that's why,” he said, turning to her. “Maybe I've had to make more of an effort . . . or maybe I'm more interested. Anyway, your family don't exactly mix with the locals, do they?”

Daisy stopped. “Yes, we do. Most of my parents' friends live round here.”

He smiled. “But how many of them were born here, work here, have lived here for generations? Rosie's family have been here for hundreds of years, not a couple of decades . . . and I don't suppose your parents or their friends have any idea who she is.”

Daisy said nothing. It was true enough; her parents didn't and
never had mixed with the local working people, those families who had lived off the land and eked out an existence over centuries. And she had been brought up with only a few vetted friends, children whose parents her mother knew and approved of. And yet Mabel had also been the one to have all of those children from London each summer and during the war.

“My parents are not prejudiced that way; they're not snobs, Stephen,” she said.

“No, they're not,” he said quickly, emphatically. “And I didn't mean that. What I meant was, there's . . . there's this divide, and everyone has their group, their place, and they never mix. And I'm stuck in the middle, or that's how I feel. I'm not sure which group I belong to, but I know I don't wish to belong to one—to the exclusion of the other . . . if that makes any sense.”

“Yes. You're a little like Ben in that way. He said something similar to me recently.”

“No, I'm nothing like Benedict Gifford.”

When they reached the yard, he lowered his head and said good night in what seemed to her an overly courteous manner. The air had grown colder and her bare arms were goose pimpled. Bats swooped over the darkened courtyard. Unable yet to face Ben, unable yet to enter that realm and make small talk, she walked on, round the house, and took the path to the Japanese garden.

She sat down on the bench by the lily pond, listening to the evensong chorus of birds until the lingering twilight dissolved and black dusk descended like the final curtain on the day, and only a solitary owl called out, and her thoughts blurred, deeper and more elusive than ever.

The moon was not quite whole and had a slice missing from its top, like the moon on the night of the Victory party so many years before. That night, when she had pointed it out to Stephen, he had said it was like the men who had been in the war and returned home with parts of their heads missing.

“But the moon will be whole again . . . and so perhaps those men will be too. The doctors will be able to help them,” she'd said, reassuring herself.

But Stephen had told her that the doctors could only help with the physical wounds and, even then, only the appearance of those wounds. “You can't make someone forget everything they've seen or done,” he'd added.

“I don't believe in war,” she'd said. “I'm a conchie.”

She wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but she knew it was the term for someone opposed to the war, and what Iris claimed to be. But when he'd turned on her, told her that it was unpatriotic to be an objector, that only cowards took that stance, and that she should be ashamed of herself for saying such a thing—particularly then, that night—she'd cried. And not for herself or for his harsh words, but for the moon—with its missing top, and all those men with their missing tops who could never be mended.

For Daisy, the war—initially—had simply meant the departure of servants, and they had all waved them off with small flags and glad hearts. It had meant a relaxation in the timetable of lessons, a new bedroom and more unlikely playmates from London. Meals had been different, fires restricted. But from time to time she had caught a glimpse of the newspaper, the long numbers, the photographs and images of that place, the war. She had been to church
and prayed hard, as hard as she could, for those
over there
, and she'd relied on and listened to Stephen for analysis and commentary, just as she did on everything else.

When Daisy emerged from her trance—because that was what it had seemed like to her, as though she had been lost in some state of disconnectedness—she was clearer. She remembered the last time she had sat in that place, shivering, cold, hot with jealousy and still trembling from the ripples of an anxious rapture, still trembling from a single meaningless kiss, still trembling from those furtive words of love; yearning for some distant freedom that would make sense of life. But freedom, she had discovered, was a lonely place. A rattling window out of which one viewed more windows and other people, strangers. Freedom was invisibility, she thought now.

She had lost track of the time and wasn't sure how long she had been sitting there when she heard the footsteps behind her.

“Waiting for someone in particular?” Ben asked, sitting down on the bench by her side.

“Just taking some air.”

“Oh yes, air. You like taking air. I forgot.”

She heard him sigh, but she could think of nothing to say.

“If you're still sulking about the station,” he said, “about me not waiting for you, I'm sorry. I've said I'm sorry.”

“I'm not sulking, Ben. And it was probably better that we traveled down separately.”

He laughed, a strange, hollow laugh, one that lent the night a newly foreboding feel. “It's getting cold out here and you're going to get chilled. Let's go inside,” he said.

“I don't want to, not yet.”

“Well, I'm not leaving you out here on your own.”

“Why?” she asked, turning to him. “What do you suppose might happen? That I'll be eaten by a badger?”

“Don't be facetious, my dear. It's not becoming in a woman. It's late and we should go and be sociable . . . It's only polite.”

The
don't be facetious
annoyed her; the
my dear
even more. She closed her eyes and then rose to her feet. As they walked up the driveway, neared the bright light of the front door, he reached for her hand and cleared his throat. “Daisy, dearest, I wondered if later you might allow me to come to your room to . . . to say good night to you?”

It was a request she had been dreading.

“You do look well,” said Daisy. “You really do look years younger.”

“Well, I suppose that's the result of five months on the continent—and a new hairdo. But you have a new look, too,” Mabel replied, smiling back at her daughter's reflection in the dressing table mirror.

Daisy lifted her hand to her hair. “Yes, what do you think?”

“I told you earlier, I like it . . . but I can tell that you don't.”

“No, it's not that; it's just that I sort of miss my old hair.”

Mabel laughed. “Too late now.”

Mabel's room had its own distinct atmosphere and style and was filled with huge and reputedly valuable pieces of furniture. Ever fragrant, soft and warm, it was to Daisy an oasis of calm, imbued with Mabel's soothing manner, her femininity reflected in its tones and textures. The large pink roses on the voluminous chintz curtains, the dressing table delicately shrouded in muslin, with its
antique perfume bottles and silver-topped jars, its hairbrush, mirror and comb; the sumptuous bed, with its neatly piled pillows and lace-edged cushions. It was, had seemed always, the most sweet scented of havens.

Daisy sat down on the chair by Mabel's dressing table. She watched her mother as she brushed her hair. The new hairdo came from Rome. The dress she had worn that evening, purchased in Paris; the shawl, from Koblenz. Her nightdress, from a “divine little place” in the South of France; the small beaded handbag, lying on the table next to the bed, handmade in Venice. There would be a shipment of “trinkets,” Mabel said, arriving sometime soon. “Some souvenirs, a few little things for the house and some presents for you and everyone else.”

Mabel, usually somewhat frugal and never overly indulgent with herself, seemed to have been on a spending spree across Europe. She obviously had no idea about the state of Howard's finances.

“Did it cost much . . . your trip?” Daisy asked tentatively. Discussing money had always been frowned upon at Eden Hall, particularly where Mabel was concerned.

“I funded the entire expedition myself,” said Mabel proudly. “With the money my father left to me. Well, it wasn't a lot, but it's paid for my little adventure. And it was something I wanted to do for myself, without any financial help from your father.”

Just as well,
Daisy thought.

“So tell me,” Mabel said, putting down her hairbrush, picking up a pot of face cream and turning to Daisy, “how are
things
between you and Benedict?”

“I'm not sure.”

Mabel's eyes widened. “Not sure? Not sure about what?”

Daisy picked up a comb and ran her fingernail along its teeth. “Not sure about any of it, I suppose . . . not sure about him.”

Mabel put down her jar of cream and swiveled round. “I thought as much. I think you need to bring me up to date . . . Your father told me you were happy, very happy, he said.”

“Yes, I think I was, at first, perhaps . . .”

Mabel sighed. “I did tell you; I told you when I wrote to you in March that I'd prefer you not to get yourself embroiled in any liaison until I returned. To be perfectly honest, Daisy, had I known what would happen, I would never have consented to your going to London. Never. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that I was instrumental in persuading your father.”

“You said he put up no fight?”

“Please, don't interrupt me. It's not just the fact that you're too young to be married; it's that Benedict Gifford's so much older than you . . . and so very different. I really can't for the life of me think what the pair of you have in common.”

“You were younger than me when you married Daddy—
and
he's thirteen years older than you.” Daisy had no desire to defend Ben or her mistake, but she could not allow the hypocrisy to go uncommented.

Her mother stared at her. “We're not talking about Daddy and I here; what we're talking about is the rather frightful mess you've got yourself into during my absence. And anyway, things were very different then . . . I'm sorry, dear, but I simply don't understand what
you were thinking, or why your father gave his consent, and really, I do wish you had at least waited until I was home, until you could talk to me about it.”

“He's invested some money in the business—which, by the way, is in a bit of a mess, in case you didn't know.” Daisy wasn't sure why she said this, but she thought Mabel ought to know.

Mabel affected a laugh. “My darling, you don't agree to marry a man simply because he's invested in your father's business,” she said, shaking her head. She turned back to the rosewood mirror, rubbing cream into her face with renewed vigor. “I knew, knew when your father cabled me, knew the moment I read the words, that it was a mistake . . . and I blame
him
.”

“No, don't! Don't blame Daddy, please . . . it's nothing to do with him. It's not his fault.”

Mabel's head turned again. “Nothing to do with him? You've just said he took money from that man and then gave his permission. And now you're embroiled in an unsatisfactory engagement—one which will undoubtedly have to be called off. And that has ramifications on you, my dear. No girl wants to have had more than one
engagement; otherwise, it looks sloppy and ill considered.” She slammed down the jar. “I knew I couldn't go away, knew it would all go horribly wrong.
That man
is incapable of managing anything.”

She had gone back to her old self and appeared to Daisy to be having a battle with her face now, wrestling with her cheeks and forehead and breathing much too rapidly.

“I thought . . . I thought he appeared better—changed—at dinner,” said Daisy.

“Oh, he's probably still feeling sorry for himself, that I dared to go away and leave him here for six months. That's all.”

This, Mabel knew, was untrue, but she was cross with her husband about what they both now referred to as the Gifford Situation. In truth, she had been shocked by Howard's appearance and manner when she returned. She had been expecting someone decidedly older than the rather handsome, lean man who'd met her at Southampton docks, the one who'd taken her so eagerly in his arms and kissed her—and not on the cheek, but on the mouth. Even now, if she allowed herself to think about that welcome home, it made her feel strangely giddy.

Howard had told Mabel after Christmas and then again before she left that he intended to win her back. “Back from where?” she had asked.

“Wherever you have been these past six years,” he'd replied.

While away, she had sent him only the occasional postcard. She wanted him to experience her absence fully, the emptiness of that place without her there; to rattle about rooms, to sit alone each evening with only the sounds of the owls in the trees outside for company. She wanted him to know how all of this felt. She wanted him to have time to reflect on the past twenty-five years.

“He hasn't been to London much at all,” Daisy said now, “or not that I'm aware of.”

“No, so I hear.”

Daisy moved over to her mother. “Mummy,” she said, wrapping her arms round Mabel, “we've all missed you . . . and you know, we all fall apart a little when you're not here.”

Daisy had gone to her mother's room that night hoping to avoid
Ben. She wanted to tell her mother; wanted to say that the man had asked if he could come to her; that the hour was approaching and she didn't know what to do. Sitting in Mabel's bedroom, she knew the minutes were ticking by and imagined Ben already stalking the silent passageway beyond the closed door, reeking of brilliantine and cheap cologne. But Daisy said nothing, and when Mabel said she thought Daisy looked “a little overtired,” she had done as she was told—and gone to her room.

It was shortly after midnight when the knock came.

“Yoo-hoo,” Ben said, poking his head round the door and smiling, “it's only me.” He looked completely out of place and looked as though he felt that way, too.

“Golly,” he said. “Not exactly the room I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” she asked.

“Something a little bigger, grander.”

“Look here, Ben,” she began, not altogether sure what she was about to say, but standing up from the chair at her desk, where she had been waiting.

“I am,” he said. “I am here, I am looking, and I see a rather well-dressed Daisy . . . Isn't it time good little girls were in their nightgowns and in bed?”

He had dispensed with his jacket and tie, removed the collar from his shirt, which was unbuttoned, revealing the pale, mottled skin and wiry red hairs on his chest. He moved over to her, placed his arms round her waist. Predictably, his hair was wet and shiny; predictably, he reeked of cheap cologne—almost but not quite
masking the smell of alcohol on his breath. His lips were stained blue-red from the claret and port he had been drinking that evening, and his speech was slightly slurred.

“A little nervous, are we? It's only to be expected . . . with a man in your room. Am I the first? Am I the very first man to come here?” he asked.

Daisy nodded; he was, apart from Howard.

“Well, here I am, your Valentino.” He ran the back of his hand over her cheek and pushed back her hair. “Sweet little Daisy,” he whispered as he lowered his mouth to her neck. “So innocent . . . ,” he murmured.

“Ben . . . please, I don't want—”

Then, all at once, his mouth was over hers, his tongue forcing open her lips, a hand on her bottom, another on her breast.

“Stop!” she yelled, turning her head, pushing at his chest with her hands. “Please . . . please stop,” she said, stepping away from him, stumbling over her chair.

“What? I thought you said I could come here tonight.”

“Yes, but not to maul me . . . not to maul me like some pervert.”

“Pervert? Oh, for God's sake! You're wearing more clothes than your grandmother does on the coldest winter's day. What the hell do you think I was coming here for? To read you a bedtime story and then kiss you good night?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know you're a virgin, and I wouldn't be marrying you if you weren't, but to carry on like this with the man you are going to marry . . . well, it's a bit much if you ask me.”

“I didn't.”

“Eh?”

“I didn't ask you.”

“Ha, very clever,” he replied. He walked over to the bed and sat down on it. “Look, I know this is all new to you, all a bit queer and strange to have a man in your room . . . but it's me, Ben, and we're engaged . . . and have I ever tried anything on with you? Have I ever been disrespectful or compromised you in any way?”

He hadn't.

“Come over here,” he said, patting the bed. “Come along . . . don't be silly. You're not a child.”

She wasn't.

She moved over to him, stood in front of him. “I need to tell you something, Ben,” she said quietly.

He lifted her dress, ran his hands up her legs, over the tops of her stockings and onto her thighs. “That's it,” he said, breathing deeply as he squeezed her flesh.

“I need to tell you something,” she said again.

He looked up at her. “Now, take off your dress, darling . . . and let me look at you. That's all I want, you know, just to look at you . . . to look at my Daisy.”

She stepped away from him again. “I'm very sorry, but I don't want to do this . . . and I don't want to marry you.”

He stared up at her, smiling, and then he laughed. “You don't want to marry me? Oh dear, you really
are
frightened. I hadn't realized—hadn't thought . . .” He paused. “You don't like to be touched?”

“No, it's not that.”

“Yes, it is. I can tell. And I'm sorry I shouted, and I'm sorry I
didn't wait for you at the station today, but you should know I've had a very difficult time lately. You more than anyone should understand . . .”