by Betty Neels
They moved away, and Daisy, not allowing herself to think, went to the entrance, where Desmond was waiting. He drove her home in silence, and only as she was getting out of the car did he speak. He said, unforgivably, ‘You look silly in that dress.’
Funnily enough, that didn’t hurt her half as much as the strange man’s opinion had done.
The house was quiet, with no light showing. She went in through the side door, along the passage to her father’s office and up the stairs to her room—small, but charmingly furnished with pieces she had chosen from the shop, none of it matching but all of it harmonising nicely. There was a patchwork quilt on the narrow bed, and plain white curtains at the small window, and a small bookshelf bulging with books.
She undressed quickly and then parcelled up the red dress to hand over to the charity shop in the high street. She would have liked to have taken a pair of scissors and cut it into shreds, but that would have been a stupid thing to do; somewhere there must be a girl who would look just right in it. Daisy got into bed as the church clock chimed one and lay wide awake, going over the wreck of her evening. She still loved Desmond; she was sure of that. People in love quarrelled, even in her euphoric state she was aware of that, and of course he had been disappointed—she hadn’t come up to his expectations and he had said a great many things she was sure he would regret.
Daisy, such a sensible, matter-of-fact girl, was quite blinded by her infatuation, and ready to make any excuses for Desmond. She closed her eyes, determined to sleep. In the morning everything would be just as it had been again.
Only it wasn’t. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected— a phone call? A quick visit? He seemed to have plenty time on his hands.
She busied herself arranging a small display of Coalport china, reflecting that she knew almost nothing about his work or how he spent his days. When he took her out in the evenings he would answer her queries as to his day with some light-hearted remark which actually told her nothing. But, despite the disappointment and humiliation of the previous evening, she was quite prepared to listen to his apologies—might even laugh about the disastrous evening with him.
Even while she consoled herself with these thoughts, good sense was telling her that she was behaving like a naive teenager, although she was reluctant to admit it. Desmond represented romance in her quiet life.
He didn’t phone, he didn’t come to see her, and it was several days later that she saw him on the other side of the high street. He must have seen her, for the street was almost empty, but he walked on, to all intents and purpose a complete stranger.
Daisy went back to the shop and spent the rest of the day packing up a set of antique wine glasses which an old customer had bought. It was a slow, careful job, and it gave her ample time to think. One thing was clear to her; Desmond didn’t love her—never had, she admitted sadly. True, he had called her darling, and kissed her and told her that she was his dream girl, but he hadn’t meant a word of it. She had been happy to believe him; romance, for her, had been rather lacking, and he had seemed like the answer to her romantic dreams. But the romance had been only on her side.
She wedged the last glass into place in its nest of tissue paper and put the lid on the box. And at the same time she told herself, I’ve put a lid on Desmond too, and I’ll never be romantic again—once bitten…!
All the same, the next weeks were hard going. It had been easy to get into the habit of seeing Desmond several times a week. She tried to fill the gaps by going to films, or having coffee with friends, but that wasn’t entirely successful for they all had boyfriends or were engaged, and it was difficult to maintain a carefree indifference as to her own future in the face of their friendly probings. She got thinner, and spent more time than she needed to in the shop, so that her mother coaxed her to go out more.
‘There’s not much doing in the shop at this time of year,’ she observed. ‘Why not have a good walk in the afternoons, love? It will soon be too cold and dark, and there’ll be all the extra custom with Christmas.’
So Daisy went out walking. Mostly the same walk, down to the sea, to tramp along the sand, well wrapped up against the early November wind and rain. She met a few other hardy souls; people she knew by sight, walking their dogs. They shouted cheerful greetings as they passed and she shouted back, her voice carried away on the wind.
It was during the last week of November that Daisy met once more the man who had likened her to a fish out of water. Jules der Huizma was spending a few days with his friend again, at his house some miles out of the town, enjoying the quiet country life after the hurry and stress of London. He loved the sea; it reminded him of his own country.
He saw her some way ahead of him and recognised her at once. She was walking into the teeth of a chilly wind bearing cold drizzle with it, and he lengthened his stride, whistling to his friend’s dog so that it ran on ahead of him. He had no wish to take her by surprise, and Trigger’s cheerful barks would slow her down or cause her to turn round.
They did both. She stopped to pat his elderly head and looked over her shoulder; she greeted him politely in a cool voice, his words at the hotel still very clear in her head. And then forgot to be cool when he said, ‘How delightful to meet someone who likes walking in the rain and the wind.’
He smiled at her as he spoke, and she forgave him then for calling her a fish out of water—a plain fish too. After all, in all fairness she had been both. Indeed, when it came to being plain she would always be that.
They walked on side by side, not talking too much for the wind was too fierce, and presently, by mutual consent, they turned back towards the town, climbed the steps and walked up the main street.At the corner of the lane, Daisy paused. ‘I live down here with my mother and father. Father has an antiques shop and I work there.’
Mr der Huizma saw that he was being dismissed politely. ‘Then I hope that at some time I shall have the opportunity to browse there. I’m interested in old silver…’
‘So is Father. He’s quite well known for being an expert.’
She put out a wet gloved hand. ‘I enjoyed the walk.’ She studied his quiet face. ‘I don’t know your name…’
‘Jules der Huizma.’
‘Not English? I’m Daisy Gillard.’
He took her small damp paw in a firm grip. ‘I too enjoyed the walk,’he told her gently. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again some time.’
‘Yes, well—perhaps.’ She added, ‘Goodbye,’ and walked down the lane, not looking back. A pity, she thought, that I couldn’t think of something clever to say, so that he would want to see me again. She remembered Desmond then, and told herself not to be so stupid; he wasn’t in the least bit like Desmond, but who was it that wrote ‘Men were deceivers ever’? Probably they were all alike.
She took care for the next few days to walk the other way—which was pointless since Mr der Huizma had gone back to London.
A week or so later, with the shops displaying Christmas goods and a lighted Christmas tree at the top of the high street opposite the church, she met him again. Only this time it was at the shop. Daisy was waiting patiently by the vicar, while he tried to decide which of two Edwardian brooches his wife would like. She left him with a murmured suggestion that he might like to take his time and went through the shop to where Mr der Huizma was stooping over a glass-topped display table housing a collection of silver charms.
He greeted her pleasantly. ‘I’m looking for something for a teenage god-daughter. These are delightful—on a silver bracelet, perhaps?’
She opened a drawer in the large bow-fronted tallboy and took out a tray.
‘These are all Victorian. Is she a little girl or an older teenager?’
‘Fifteen or so.’ He smiled down at her. ‘And very fashion-conscious.’
Daisy held up a dainty trifle of silver links. ‘If you should wish to buy it, and the charms, Father will fasten them on for you.’ She picked up another bracelet. ‘Or this? Please just look around. You don�
�t need to buy anything—a lot of people just come to browse.’
She gave him a small smile and went back to the vicar, who was still unable to make up his mind.
Presently her father came into the shop, and when at last the vicar had made his decision, and she’d wrapped the brooch in a pretty box, Mr der Huizma had gone.
‘Did he buy anything?’asked Daisy. ‘Mr der Huizma? Remember I told you I met him one day out walking?’
‘Indeed he did. A very knowledgeable man too. He’s coming back before Christmas—had his eye on those rat-tailed spoons…’
And two days later Desmond came into the shop. He wasn’t alone. The girl Daisy had met at the hotel was with him, wrapped in a scarlet leather coat and wearing a soft angora cap on her expertly disarranged locks. Daisy, eyeing her, felt like a mouse in her colourless dress; a garment approved of by her father, who considered that a brighter one would detract from the treasures in his shop.
She would have liked to have turned away, gone out of the shop, but that would have been cowardly. She answered Desmond’s careless, ‘Hullo, Daisy,’ with composure, even if her colour was heightened, and listened politely while he explained at some length that they were just having a look round. ‘We might pick up some trifle which will do for Christmas…’
‘Silver? Gold?’ asked Daisy. ‘Or there are some pretty little china ornaments if you don’t want to spend too much.’
Which wasn’t a polite thing to say, but her tongue had said it before she could curb it. It gave her some satisfaction to see Desmond’s annoyance, even though at the same time she had to admit to a sudden wish that he would look at her—really look—and realise that he was in love with her and not with the girl in the red coat. It was a satisfying thought, but nonsense, of course, and, when she thought about it, it struck her that perhaps she hadn’t loved him after all. All the same, he had left a hole in her quiet life. And her pride had been hurt…
They stayed for some time and left without buying anything, Desmond pointing out in a rather too loud voice that they were more likely to find something worth buying if they went to Plymouth.A remark which finally did away with Daisy’s last vestige of feeling towards him…
During her solitary afternoon walks, shorter now that the Christmas rush had started, she decided that she would never allow herself to get fond of a man again. Not that there was much chance of that, she reflected. She was aware that she was lacking in good looks, that she would never be slender like the models in the glossy magazines, that she lacked the conversation likely to charm a man.
She had friends whom she had known for most of her life; most of them were married now, or working in some high-powered job. But for Daisy, once she had managed to get a couple of A levels, the future had been an obvious one. She had grown up amongst antiques, she loved them, and she had her father’s talent for finding them. Once she’d realised that she’d studied books about them, had gone to auctions and poked around dingy little back-street second hand shops, occasionally finding a genuine piece. And her father and mother, while making no effort to coerce her, had been well content that she should stay home, working in the shop and from time to time visiting some grand country house whose owners were compelled to sell its contents.
They had discussed the idea of her going to a university and getting a degree, but that would have meant her father getting an assistant, and although they lived comfortably enough his income depended very much on circumstances.
So Daisy had arranged her future in what she considered to be a sensible manner.
She thought no more about Desmond. But she did think about Mr der Huizma—thoughts about him creeping into her head at odd moments. He was someone she would have liked to know better; his calm, friendly manner had been very soothing to her hurt feelings, and he seemed to accept her for what she was—a very ordinary girl. His matter-of-fact manner towards her was somehow reassuring.
But there wasn’t much time to daydream now; the shop was well known, Mr Gillard was known to be an honest man, and very knowledgeable, and old customers came back year after year, seeking some trifle to give as a present. Some returned to buy an antique piece they had had their eye on for months, having decided that they might indulge their taste now, since it was Christmas.
Daisy, arranging a small display of antique toys on a cold, dark December morning, wished that she was a child again so that she might play with the Victorian dolls’ house she was furnishing with all the miniature pieces which went with it. It had been a lucky find in a down-at-heel shop in Plymouth—dirty and in need of careful repair. Something she had lovingly undertaken. Now it stood in a place of honour on a small side-table, completely furnished and flanked by a cased model of a nineteenth century butcher’s shop and a toy grocery shop from pre-war Germany.
All very expensive, but someone might buy them. She would have liked the dolls’ house for herself; whoever bought that would need to have a very deep pocket…
Apparently Mr der Huizma had just that, for he came that very day and, after spending a considerable time examining spoons with her father, wandered over to where she was putting the finishing touches to a tinplate carousel.
He bent to look at the dolls’ house. She wished him good morning, then said in her quiet voice, ‘Charming, isn’t it? A little girl’s dream…’
‘Yes? You consider that to be so?’
‘Oh, yes. Only she would have to be a careful little girl, who liked dolls.’
‘Then I’ll buy it, for I know exactly the little girl you think should own it.’
‘You do? It’s a lot of money…’
‘But she is a dear child who deserves only the best.’
Daisy would have liked to have known more, but something in his voice stopped her from asking. She said merely, ‘Shall I pack it up for you? I’ll do it very carefully. It will take some time if you want it sent. If you do, I’ll get it properly boxed.’
‘No, no. I’ll take it with me in the car. Can you have it ready in a few days if I call back for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I shall be taking it out of the country.’
Going home for Christmas, thought Daisy, and said, ‘I’ll be extra careful, and I’ll give you an invoice just in case Customs should want to know about it.’
He smiled at her. ‘How very efficient you are, and how glad I am that I have found the house; presents for small children are always a problem.’
‘Do you have several children?’
His smile widened. ‘We are a large family,’ he told her, and with that she had to be satisfied.
CHAPTER TWO
PACKING up the dolls’house, wrapping each tiny piece of furniture carefully in tissue paper, writing an inventory of its contents, took Daisy an entire day, and gave her ample time to reflect upon Mr der Huizma. Who exactly was he? she wondered. A man of some wealth to buy such a costly gift for a child, and a man of leisure, presumably, for he had never mentioned work of any kind. And did he live in England, or merely visit England from time to time?And if so where did he live?
Mr der Huizma, unaware of Daisy’s interest in him and, truth to tell, uncaring of it, was strolling down the centre of the children’s ward of a London teaching hospital. He had a toddler tucked under one arm—a small, damp grizzling boy, who had been sobbing so loudly that the only thing to do was to pick him up and comfort him as Mr der Huizma did his round. Sister was beside him, middle-aged, prematurely grey-haired and as thin as a rail. None of these things were noticed, though, for she had the disposition of an angel and very beautiful dark blue eyes.
She said now, ‘He’ll ruin that suit of yours, sir,’ and then, when he smiled down at her, asked, ‘What do you intend to do about him? He’s made no progress at all.’
Mr der Huizma paused in his stride and was instantly surrounded by a posse of lesser medical lights and an earnest-faced nurse holding the case-sheets.
He hoisted the little boy higher onto his shoulder. ‘Only one thing
for it,’ He glanced at his registrar. ‘Tomorrow morning? Will you see Theatre Sister as early as possible? And let his parents know, will you? I’ll talk to them this evening if they’d like to visit…’
He continued his round, unhurried, sitting on cot-sides to talk to the occupants, examining children in a leisurely fashion, giving instructions in a quiet voice. Presently he went to Sister’s office and drank his coffee with her and his registrar and the two housemen. The talk was of Christmas, and plans for the ward. A tree, of course, and stockings hung on the bed and filled with suitable toys, paper chains, and mothers and fathers coming to a splendid tea.
Mr der Huizma listened to the small talk, saying little himself. He would be here on the ward on Christmas morning, after flying over from Holland in his plane very early, and would return home during the afternoon. He had done that ever since he’d taken up his appointment as senior paediatrician at the hospital, doing it without fuss, and presenting himself at the hospital in Amsterdam on the following day to join in the festivities on the children’s ward there—and somehow he managed to spend time with his family too…
A few days before Christmas he called at the shop to collect the dolls’ house. Daisy, absorbed in cleaning a very dirty emerald necklace—a find in someone’s attic and sold to her father by its delighted owner—glanced round as he came into the shop, put down the necklace and waved a hand at the dolls’ house shrouded in its wrappings.
‘It’s all ready. Do take care not to jog it about too much. Everything is packed tightly, but it would be awful if anything broke.’
He wished her good evening gravely, and added, ‘I’ll be careful. And we will unpack it and check everything before Mies sees it.’
‘Mies—what a pretty name. I’m sure she will love it. How old is she?’
He didn’t answer at once, and she wished she hadn’t asked. ‘She is five years old,’ he said presently.
She wanted to ask if he had any more children, but sensed that he wasn’t a man who would welcome such questions. Instead she said, ‘I’ll get Father to give you a hand—have you a car outside?’