The Snow Globe

by Judith Kinghorn

  “But what does my father say?”

  “Not a lot. He seems to have lost his appetite for business—and, as you know, he rarely comes up to town now. Of course, it was—has been—a very successful business, particularly in your grandfather’s day, and then during the war and afterward, when there were so many ships to replace. But I’m afraid it’s all changed.”

  “And my mother is oblivious to all of this . . . ,” Daisy mused aloud.

  Mabel had yet to return home. She and Dosia had been away for five months and were now, according to Iris, somewhere on the French Riviera—with Reggie Ellison.

  “But more importantly, I want to talk about us,” said Ben. “We agreed you’d give me your answer today, and—”

  “Yes,” she said, quickly. “My answer is yes.”

  He laughed. “That’s very definite. I was prepared for . . . well, some sort of negotiation.”

  Daisy smiled. “A lot’s happened since we last met . . . I think I’ve grown up.”

  He reached over, took hold of her hand. “Thank you. You’ve made me very happy. I shall of course telephone your father later today, to formally ask for your hand and speak to him about dates.”

  “Dates?”

  He laughed again. “For our wedding.”

  “But I thought we were going to have a long engagement, and until it’s been properly announced—which can’t be until my mother’s returned home—we’re not officially engaged, are we?” She saw his expression change and quickly added, “What I mean is, there’s plenty of time for us to think about a wedding date. And I’m quite sure that’s the least of your worries,” she added in a whisper.

  “Well, yes and no. I presumed you’d want a big wedding at Eden Hall—like Lily’s—and that takes some planning, I’d imagine.”

  “To be honest, the last thing I want is a wedding like that. I’d hate it.”

  “Hate it? But why?”

  Daisy shrugged. “Waste of money . . . particularly in view of what you’ve just told me. And anyway, I’d far rather have a quiet wedding—without any fuss or expense—perhaps here in London, at a registry office.”

  “A registry office? I don’t suppose your father will buy that idea.”

  “It’s not his to buy. It’s not about what he wants. And anyway, it’s all a year or two off; we agreed to that, I thought.”

  For a while they sat in silence. He did not look at her and appeared to be sulking, but later, outside the store, he smiled at her tenderly and told her again that she had made him very happy. Then he kissed her hand and turned away toward Sloane Square without a backward glance.

  The air was warm, the sky cloudless, and rather than wait in the heat of the sun at the bus stop, Daisy decided to walk on. Women in floral dresses and white gloves stood chatting beneath sun-bleached awnings, cooks armed with large wicker baskets surveyed lined-up crates of fruit and vegetables, picking up this and that to squeeze and smell. The aroma outside the greengrocer’s was heavenly and reminded Daisy of home, of the greenhouse in summer, heady with the scent of ripe tomatoes, of the kitchen garden, perfumed by raspberries and strawberries and herbs . . .

  Daisy noted her reflection in the shopwindow and adjusted her hat. A fiancée, she thought, walking on, nodding and smiling at the other women she passed. She had to admit, already she felt quite different: one of them. She wondered what her father would say when Ben called him . . . What could he say? He would give his permission, she thought, but no doubt insist on a long engagement. She felt a vague pang, a distant echo of something almost forgotten, whenever she thought of her father. She missed him, missed what they’d once had.

  But her father, Eden Hall and the events of last Christmas seemed a lifetime ago to her now, and though she felt guilty about not having been back to visit Noonie, Iris had: She had gone back at Easter to check on things (someone had to, they’d agreed) and said that Noonie was perfectly well and happy, if a little more forgetful.

  “They have their own routine,” Iris had said, referring to their father and grandmother. “Each Tuesday they have a day out together in the car, an excursion to the coast or whatever. Thursdays, he drives her into Farnham—you know how she loves the department store there—and they have lunch out. And Saturday afternoons, he takes her to the matinee at the Regal. It all seems to work terrifically well . . . makes one wonder if he shouldn’t have married Noonie instead of Mabel,” Iris added, laughing.

  Daisy had wanted to ask about Stephen, if Iris had heard anything, but Iris being Iris, she hadn’t needed to ask. “And no one has heard a squeak from Stephen,” she’d said. “So selfish of him,” she’d added.

  Now Daisy wished she hadn’t told Iris what Mrs. Wintrip had said. And she wished she hadn’t told her about Ben, too. But it had been at the end of that very long night, after she’d kissed some stranger and been adrift, and it had been like throwing down an anchor. She’d needed to tell someone. “Ben wants to marry me,” she’d declared in the back of the taxi. “And I think I’ll say yes.”

  She couldn’t recall now exactly what Iris had said, but she had gone on at some length about Daisy being too young, about her not understanding love. But how could she tell her elder sister that she did understand about love? And how could she ever tell anyone, “I think I might have been in love with my brother?”

  When Daisy heard her name and looked up, she half expected to see him, Stephen, standing there on the pavement in front of her.

  “Oh, hello, Val.”

  He kissed her cheek. “You were miles away,” he said, smiling. “I thought you were ignoring me . . . A lot on your mind?”

  “No, just thinking of a few things I have to do.”

  “Time for a quick cuppa?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve just had lunch with Ben and am meant to be back by two.”

  He pushed back his shirtsleeve and glanced at his wrist. “You’ve still got ten minutes, and who’s going to notice if you’re a minute or two late? There’s only you there, and I’m quite sure you haven’t reduced poor old Mr. Laverty to spying on you.”

  They crossed over the road to a small teashop on the other side, and as he pushed open the door for her, he said, “Coming to Iris’s soiree tomorrow?”

  “No, but seeing as she has so many, missing one doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  Val laughed. “True,” he said.

  Recently, the “chemistry” between Iris and Val had made Daisy uncomfortable. And it made her angry with Iris, whose flirtatious behavior was often quite shocking. However, she was pleased that they were all friends now. Sometimes she even forgot that Margot had been her father’s mistress. Iris had told her that there couldn’t possibly be anything in it anymore, that to be a mistress one had to be either “servicing the man or one of his homes.” And as Howard never came up to London, as he and Margot communicated only by the occasional telephone call or letter, Margot was, according to Iris, relegated to a category called former mistress. “She’s been put out to pasture,” Iris had said. And Aurelia had also said as much, the last time the two of them had met for tea, when she’d told Daisy that she was convinced that Howard and Margot’s relationship was platonic and had been for some years.

  “Margot told me the only thing your father ever speaks to her about is Mabel and his marriage. I think Margot loves him, loves him dearly, but I don’t think it’s a requited love. I believe your father loves only one woman . . . your mother.”

  “So, how is Mr. Gifford?” Val asked as they sat down at the marble-topped table by the window.

  “Fine,” said Daisy. “Very well.” She knew Ben would be furious if she said anything about anything to him. And he’d be doubly furious if he knew she was sitting having tea with That Vincent Chap, as Ben called him, minutes after she’d told him that she had to get back to the shop.

  “How is Aurelia?” she asked.


  He sighed. “Oh, all right, I suppose . . .”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. She looked up at him: “She’s not unwell, is she?”

  “Oh no, she’s quite well, I believe. The malady is mine.”

  He looked perfectly fine to her.

  The waitress brought them their tea. He placed his arms on the table and leaned forward, toward her. She lowered her gaze to the steaming cup, blowing on it, wishing she had gone back to the shop and not come for a cup of tea that was too hot to be drunk in the few minutes she had left.

  “So lunching with Mr. Gifford, eh?” he began again. “It’s rather a long way for him to come for lunch . . . he must be frightfully keen.”

  Daisy said nothing.

  “You’re not going to go and get yourself hitched to him, are you?”

  “If I was, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”

  He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, watching her. “Don’t do it. Don’t end up with that buffoon.”

  “He’s not a buffoon, and I happen to like him . . . more than like him,” she added, feeling she should in view of the circumstances. “Anyway, you don’t know him. He’s a very decent sort . . . I could do a lot worse.”

  “A lot worse? Is that your criterion for suitors?”

  “Why are you asking all this, Val? Forgive me, but it’s really none of your business,” she added with a smile.

  “I’m asking because . . . because we’re concerned.”

  “We?” she repeated. “I’m not interested in what you think, and I’d prefer my sister talk to me about her concerns and not go about gossiping with other people.”

  “Am I other people?” he asked, smiling. “Because I happen to know that Iris has only mentioned it to me. You see, dear Daisy, we’re just a tad worried about your Mr. Gifford and his motives.”

  Daisy snatched up her bag. “I’m awfully sorry, but I really do need to get back.”

  “Daisy . . . I only say this because I don’t want you to make a mistake—a mistake which could alter the course of your life.”

  She stared back at him. “Perhaps it’s a question you should be asking yourself. Are you in love with Aurelia? Are you really in love with her, Val? Because you might be about to make a mistake which will alter the course of your life—and you only have a few weeks left to think about it.”

  “I know this,” he said, frowning.

  “I must go . . . Sorry about the tea.”

  “If I don’t see you before, see you at the party,” he said.

  “The party?”

  “Your parents’ wedding anniversary celebration?”

  She had forgotten about that. “Ah yes, see you then.”

  Iris had told Daisy, after her last visit home, that Howard’s big project, sole project, was the silver wedding anniversary party he was planning for shortly after Mabel’s return. All he wanted to speak about, ask Iris about, were menus and guest lists, to seek her advice on the precise wording of the invitation, which he’d drafted numerous times. But the party her father was planning struck Daisy as expensive hypocrisy, nothing more.

  Later that day, when the nearby church clock chimed five and, seconds later, the cuckoo clock on the wall of the shop chimed, too, Daisy pulled down the blinds, picked up her hat and her bag and turned the sign on the door to CLOSED.

  The sky had turned to a paler blue. Golden-edged clouds floated high above the old trees heavy with leaves, and the air was filled with their rich sweetness. But the sweetness of the air did not marry with her thoughts, and turning into Sydney Street, Daisy felt irked once more by Valentine’s words.

  How dare Val allude to other motives . . . Was he implying that Ben was marrying her for money? Hardworking and honest: Ben had always been described as such by Howard. And in view of Howard’s finances—which neither Iris nor Val had any idea about—it was quite clearly not the case: risible, Daisy thought.

  And she had said yes to Ben because . . . because she cared for him. Not in a passionate, all-consuming way; it wasn’t like that. She cared for him in a considered and respectful way. The way one should love the person one intends to spend one’s life with. She wasn’t like Iris: She did want to get married, have a family, a home. And becoming engaged—belonging to someone outside that coterie of hedonism—felt like grabbing hold of a life raft. It meant she would survive; it meant she had a future. No, Ben Gifford could never be described as wild or passionate, but he was a good man, as good a man as she was ever likely to meet, Daisy thought, marching on.

  Mabel, in an uncharacteristically candid moment, had once told Daisy that passion was all well and good, but to build a life with someone, there had to be something more sustainable than passion—because it gets spent very quickly. And in a way, Iris had backed this up when she’d said that she wouldn’t marry because all marriages ended up utterly passionless. And look what had happened with Howard and his scattered passions. A man such as her father was not the sort of man one should marry; far better to marry a man who was honest and trustworthy. And as for money, the only things it had bought her mother were a philandering husband and a large house with a Japanese garden in which to sit on her own. Daisy would not make the same mistake as her mother, she thought, climbing the steps to the front door and pulling out her key.

  Iris was sitting in her red silk kimono. She was on the telephone and already holding what looked like a pink gin in her hand. She blew Daisy a kiss and then ended the call and told Daisy that she’d let Mrs. Wintrip go early. “The woman does go on so . . . I’m utterly fagged!”

  “But it’s not like you to be here at this time of day. Are you not well?” Daisy asked.

  “I think my age is catching up with me.”

  “You’re twenty-four, Iris,” said Daisy, sitting down opposite her sister.

  “Oh, darling, please . . . don’t remind me.”

  “Who was on the telephone?”

  “Your father,” Iris replied, as though he wasn’t hers.

  “And? . . . Is Mummy back yet?”

  “No, but Stephen is . . . Well, not back, as such, because he never actually went away, not to New Zealand . . . Apparently, he’s here in London and has been since”—she raised her hands—“whenever. He has a publishing contract for a book,” she added, throwing a bare leg over the arm of her chair and reaching in the other direction for her cigarettes.

  “Stephen? He’s writing a book?”

  “I know. Exactly what I said. Apparently, he’s been writing about natural history for years. Charting falling leaves and seasons and birdsong, penning poetry and that sort of thing . . . Oh, but he also has a job,” she went on, “ferrying rich tourists about the city in a Rolls, and a flat above some swanky garage showroom.”

  Daisy smiled. “Yes, that makes sense,” she said. “He’s always been clever with words, always had an eye, seen everything.”

  “Clever with words and everything else, I rather think.”

  “I wonder what his first book’s about.”

  Iris flicked her lighter. “A guide to the highways and byways of the Surrey Hills!” she said dramatically and then laughed. “Apparently, he’s been contracted to do quite a few. Not just motoring guides, but also walking guides . . . You know how some people like to walk? According to your father, he has the opportunity to write more, and not just in England . . . No doubt the battlefields of France”—she paused and feigned a yawn—“as if they haven’t been done enough already.”

  “And Howard told you all of this?”

  Iris nodded.

  “But how does he know?”

  Iris shrugged. “Mrs. J, I suppose.”

  “Did you say anything?” Daisy asked. “Did you mention anything to Howard about . . . about Stephen’s birth?”

  “No!” yelled Iris.

  “I’m pleased for him,” said Daisy after a momen
t or two. “I’m pleased he’s here and doing something different.”

  “Different? Darling, everyone knows writing pays peanuts.”

  “Oh, and have you told Val this?”

  Iris snorted and shook her head. “To be honest, I think Stephen would have been far better off going to New Zealand.”

  Iris was being disingenuous. And she was perhaps irked that someone called Stephen Jessop had beaten another called Valentine Vincent. Like the unexpected outsider, Stephen had come from nowhere and would have his name in print long before Val, who was still working on his novel, Spotlight.

  “We must tell Val,” said Daisy, trying not to smile and picking up a magazine lying on the shawl-covered sofa next to her. “After all, Stephen might be able to give him some advice.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Aurelia was waiting outside the tube station, as arranged.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Daisy. “Mr. Laverty always seems to forget I have Saturday afternoons off. What time are we meant to be there?”

  “Soon!” said Aurelia, grabbing her arm. “But I think I know the way.”

  Aurelia had heard of the palm reader through a friend and had persuaded Daisy to come along, too, saying, “After all, we’re both at the same place in our lives, and it’ll be interesting . . . or, at the very least, a bit of fun.”

  A few years older than Daisy, Aurelia worked as a teacher at an infant school in Pimlico, and her and Daisy’s mutual love of literature—their admiration for and interest in a number of new, emerging women writers—had drawn them to each other and cemented their friendship. It was a friendship in which Daisy, with few friends in London, had taken comfort.