The Snow Globe

by Judith Kinghorn

  “Her name is Mrs. Larkin,” Aurelia said, her arm still linked through Daisy’s as they approached a cottage standing on its own on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Two roads crossed in front of the small dwelling, where a post box and leaning signpost stood on a grassy triangle beneath an ancient chestnut tree. “We’re a little late, but I’m sure it won’t matter. The woman said in her note to me ‘two o’clock or thereabouts.’”

  A graying picket fence encircled the overgrown shrubbery, which screened the cottage’s dusty windows from the road, and the garden gate hung open on broken hinges.

  “Ready?” Aurelia asked as they stood in front of the door.

  Daisy nodded. Aurelia knocked.

  The woman was tiny, smaller than Daisy, and had a front tooth missing from her smile. She took them into a parlor crammed with furniture, where streamers of dust hung from the beams of the low ceiling and a parrot perched on a stand behind an old wingback chair. At first, Daisy thought the bird was stuffed, until it suddenly called out in a fine baritone English voice, “This is London calling . . . this is London calling . . .”

  “Be quiet, Roger! Come in, girls. Take no notice of him.”

  The woman sat down in the wingback chair, and Daisy noticed now that her jet black hair was in fact a wig, which seemed to have slipped forward a little, and from which tufts of white hair sprung out over her ears. Her lobes were long, stretched by years and the weight of her heavy, dangling earrings. The room smelled of stale food and sour breath, and a tarnished silver vase containing a few dead chrysanthemums stood on the mantelpiece, where a clock ticked loudly.

  Mrs. Larkin asked them about their journey and how long it had taken them, as though they had traveled a great distance. She had never been on a tube train in her life, she said, and would never travel anywhere beneath the earth or in the sky.

  “And you found the place all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, your directions were very good,” said Aurelia. “As soon as we came to the crossroads and I saw the leaning signpost, I knew.”

  The leaning of the signpost was the result of a great storm some years before the war, Mrs. Larkin said, pushing her wig back in place.

  The room was uncomfortably warm, the window next to Daisy sealed tightly shut, with a multitude of dead flies lying among withered tomatoes on its sill. Beyond the glass Daisy could see a thistle-strewn field, perhaps once a lawn, she thought, and beyond that, in the distance, the murky London skyline.

  “Now, who’s to go first?” the woman asked.

  Aurelia insisted that Daisy go first. And so Aurelia and the woman swapped places, and the woman took hold of Daisy’s hand, spreading the palm out with her rough thumbs.

  “Hmm, interesting,” Mrs. Larkin began. “Artistic, intelligent . . . home loving, nature loving and sensitive, too . . . you feel things deeply.”

  Daisy glanced to Aurelia, who smiled back at her.

  “A long lifeline . . . very long . . . ,” Mrs. Larkin continued, “but there’re breaks—conflict—in the heart line, and possibly more than one marriage. There’s great honesty, here . . . but also some recklessness and perhaps too much passion,” she added, glancing up at Daisy and winking. “And I see stubbornness, much conviction. You’ll need to watch that,” she said. She turned Daisy’s hand over, folding the fingers, curling and uncurling them. She saw two children, she said, definitely two, and maybe a third. She folded Daisy’s hand once more. It was difficult to say about that third one.

  “You will learn from your mistakes . . . and you will know great love.”

  The woman smiled up at Daisy. That seemed to be it. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.

  “Mistakes? How can I know?”

  Mrs. Larkin gazed down at the palm in her lap once more. She ran her finger over the soft flesh of Daisy’s hand, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply. And with her eyes shut, the woman said, “An older man, a charlatan . . . you must beware of him; you must beware of the charlatan.” She opened her eyes. “That is all.”

  Now it was Aurelia’s turn, and Daisy and she swapped places.

  Mrs. Larkin sighed as she took hold of Aurelia’s hand, stretching open the palm, tilting her head from side to side, moving Aurelia’s hand this way and that. But there were no breaks or “conflict” in Aurelia’s heart line; it was long and unswerving, Mrs. Larkin said. She would have a long and happy marriage.

  “Just the one?” Aurelia asked.

  “Just the one.”

  There would be four children, and the fourth was not a maybe—like Daisy’s third. And there was no mention of any mistakes, or having to learn from them, and no mention of any charlatan. Aurelia’s life was going to be a settled, happy affair by comparison to her own, Daisy thought as she listened.

  After Daisy and Aurelia had paid the woman and left the cottage, they walked back to the tube, to head into town and to Fortnum & Mason for tea.

  “Conflicts . . . ,” said Daisy again as they entered the station.

  “Four children . . .”

  “Mistakes . . .”

  “Four children.”

  “A charlatan!”

  On board the train, they giggled about their excursion, the woman’s wig and her parrot, and whether it had been worth the shilling.

  “Conflicts,” Daisy said again. “You know, I really don’t like that word.”

  “But she also said passion . . .”

  “And recklessness.”

  “And a great love . . .”

  Daisy shook her head. “And more than one marriage. I don’t want more than one marriage!”

  “Possibly more than one marriage,” Aurelia corrected her. “She said possibly.”

  “It must mean divorce . . .”

  “You might be widowed.”

  “I don’t want to be widowed either.”

  “But is Ben your great love, do you think? Or is it someone else . . . ?”

  Daisy stared back at her. “I don’t think so. No, it can’t be him. Unless . . .”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless my feelings for him change, and grow into something more than they are now.”

  “Or unless the great love is to be your second husband.”

  “Oh God, Aurelia . . . I wish we hadn’t gone to the woman now. My life is going to be all reckless passion and mistakes . . . mistakes I’m going to have to learn from. And yours, yours is going to be bound up with Val in an unswerving love . . .”

  “And I wonder, who is the charlatan?” Aurelia asked.

  “Oh, that’s easy. That’s my father.”

  “Hmm . . . I don’t see you as reckless, not in any way. Iris maybe, but not you. Old Larkin got that wrong. In fact, I rather think she got it all wrong. And it doesn’t really mean anything anyway, dear . . . It was just a bit of fun.”

  “You don’t know that. It might all be true.”

  “I do know it.”

  Daisy turned to her. “How? How can you know?”

  Aurelia took a deep breath. “Because I know I’m not going to marry Val,” she said, and smiled.

  They had reached Fortnum & Mason by the time Aurelia finished telling Daisy the story of her and Valentine, how they had first met—in a central London library; how flattered she had been by his attention, his kindness and manners; and how, caught up in a moment, she had said yes to him. She explained to Daisy that she’d known for some time that she did not love him, not the way she should, or could, and that she now suspected he was in love with Iris.

  “But when are you going to tell him?” Daisy asked as they were led to a table in the tearoom.

  “Soon. Probably when I next see him.”

  “But that’ll be next weekend—at the party at Eden Hall,” Daisy said as she sat down.

  Aurelia shrugged. “Iris will be there to pick up the pieces
. . . though I very much doubt there’ll be any. Other than injured pride, perhaps, I think he’ll feel rather relieved to have me off his hands.”

  Daisy leaned forward, took hold of Aurelia’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, please. Be happy for me. I could have made a huge mistake . . . and then I really would need your sympathy. As it is, I’m content to remain unmarried, quite content to be a spinster”—she feigned a little shudder—“for a while longer.”

  Daisy said nothing. She felt uncomfortable thinking about Iris and Valentine, whom she knew were out together that day.

  And then, as though reading her thoughts, Aurelia said, “It’s not Iris’s fault. It could have been anyone. In fact, I’m rather grateful to your sister—for showing me the extent of Val’s love for me and mine for him. She’s done me a huge favor. Truly, she has.”

  “I need to tell you something,” said Daisy. “And the only reason I haven’t told you before now is because it meant nothing, absolutely nothing, and because I didn’t want to hurt you . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Last Christmas, when Valentine and his mother came to Eden Hall, when I found out about my father and Margot . . .”

  “Yes . . . What is it, dear?”

  “Valentine kissed me.”

  Aurelia laughed. “Oh, thank heavens for that. I thought you were about to tell me something awful.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “No, but I imagine it would if I loved him. And to be honest, I don’t blame him,” she added, pressing her hand upon Daisy’s.

  Daisy was relieved. Unburdened, she felt her confession had deepened the friendship. She said, “Now we’re like sisters, you and I. And we will have no secrets.”

  “If we are to have no secrets, then tell me, why are you marrying Ben Gifford?”

  Daisy thought for a moment. She wanted to say love, its possibilities. She said, “We’re not yet”—and then stumbled over the word officially, and having to say it again. “Engaged,” she added.

  “Officially or unofficially”—Aurelia giggled—“you agreed to marry him.” She handed Daisy the menu. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him, because I know you’re not, and you admitted as much earlier. So what is it? I’m intrigued . . . I know Val and Iris think—”

  “Oh, please don’t repeat what they think. Can we leave them out of this?”

  “Yes, all right, but tell me. You can tell me . . . Why did you say yes? Why did you agree to marry him if you don’t love him?”

  Daisy put down the menu. “Because,” she said, and then paused. “He asked me. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know it sounds pathetic . . . but he’s a decent man, and he claims he loves me. And he’d asked me so many times, Aurelia, I had to say yes, eventually . . . But I wish I hadn’t.”

  “It’s not too late . . . It’s never too late.”

  The girls ordered their tea, scones and cake. “A Saturday afternoon treat,” Aurelia said, rubbing her hands together. She giggled again about Mrs. Larkin’s wig, winced at the remembrance of the malodorous reek of the cottage and then, watching Daisy’s face, told her to dismiss everything they had been told. “We shall be mistresses of our own destiny,” she said, raising her china teacup into the air.

  But Daisy didn’t feel mistress of her own destiny, and she felt weighted by all the things she hadn’t told her friend or anyone else.

  “What is it?” Aurelia asked. “There’s something bothering you . . . I can tell.”

  Daisy nodded. “Yes, and I need to tell you . . . need to tell someone.”

  Aurelia stared back at her. “You’re making me nervous.”

  And so once more Daisy revisited last Christmas, this time including Stephen’s note and declaration of love. When Aurelia clapped her hands to her mouth, Daisy said, “But wait, there’s more.” She then told Aurelia what she had heard from Mrs. Wintrip, and what she had overheard in the kitchen the previous Christmas. When she’d finished, the girls sat in silence for a moment or two. Then Daisy said, “So there you have it. Stephen is in all likelihood my brother . . . and I think I might have been in love with him.”

  “Oh, Daisy,” was all Aurelia could say.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The station had been busy, crowded with tourists and day-trippers bound for the coast with excursion tickets, but Daisy’s compartment was empty. As the train pulled out of Waterloo Station, snaking its way through the blurred, hot city and into the suburbs, she sat back in her seat, closed her eyes and allowed the cool air from the open window to sweep over her face.

  She would have traveled first class had she been with Ben, and now she felt a little guilty. Because hadn’t she purposefully dawdled her way to the South Kensington tube station knowing she might miss the train and miss him? But Ben made her feel guilty about so much. All he ever spoke about was money and the business and his woes. Only the day before, on the telephone, he had droned on about the price of houses, wondering aloud how they were to find the money for a deposit.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to see him, Daisy thought. It was simply that it was a beautiful day and she didn’t want it to be spoiled. Not yet. And she had looked for him, had glanced about the station concourse before going to the ticket office. She had been expectant, had presumed she’d missed the train, but the guard had told her there was still time, so she had dashed to the platform and boarded the first carriage she saw marked SECOND CLASS.

  She could have motored down to Eden Hall the following day—with Iris, Valentine and Aurelia—but this would not have pleased Ben. And he would have felt left out because he had not been invited to travel with them, though even if he had he would have refused, Daisy knew. Ben’s likes and dislikes were increasingly confounding, and Valentine’s remark to her in the teashop, about making a mistake, and Aurelia’s words to her the previous Saturday—over tea at Fortnum & Mason—had only served to fuel her doubts.

  “You must call it off,” Aurelia had said to her before they’d parted. “You can’t marry him, Daisy . . . You don’t love him. And you don’t need to be married. This is 1927, and you’re an independent modern woman, leading your own life, making your own decisions.”

  “Yes,” she had said, euphoric on the words of independence, on orange pekoe tea and cigarettes called Lucky, she would call it off. So they had made a pact: They would both call off their engagements at Daisy’s parents’ wedding anniversary celebration.

  “We will be there for each other,” Aurelia had said, “and if no one wishes to dance with us, well, we shall dance with each other.”

  But now Daisy was having second thoughts. For the notion of intentionally hurting someone, of puncturing Ben’s hopes and dreams—he who had done nothing wrong—seemed cruel and heartless, destined to be punished, somewhere, at some stage. Yes, she had to call it off; it was a mistake, she knew. A knee-jerk decision made after learning about Stephen, but now was not the time, she thought, certainly not this particular weekend. She would leave it a week or two, wait until things were better for him at work, at least. This seemed sensible, kinder.

  As the man-made shapes and hard angles of the city receded, Daisy smiled at the sight of fields, the undulating soft curves in countless shades of green and gold. It felt good to be going home, and right to be making this journey alone. And though she was excited at the prospect of seeing her mother again, the thought of seeing her father again was queer. Added to this, and making her stomach do strange things, was the notion of seeing Stephen. Would he be there? Had he been invited?

  The station had been a nightmare, and Stephen’s third-class carriage was hot and noisy. It reeked of stale sweat and urine, and though he’d been lucky enough to find a seat—one next to the window—he did not want to look out on the brightness of that day, to see the blur of summer and be reminded of so many others gone before. He leaned his head
against the glass pane and closed his eyes. He had not been back to Eden Hall in six months, and the thought of seeing a newly engaged Daisy filled his heart with trepidation.

  His journey away from that place, and her, had begun last Christmas, when he had traveled up to London and secured lodgings—a small room—in a dismal part of south London. There, he’d quickly realized that he couldn’t leave a hemisphere without her. Knowing this—and rankled by his weakness—and in his best suit, only suit, starched white shirt and dark tie, and with hope in his heart, he had attended interviews. But the men at each of the employment bureaus had shaken their heads when Stephen mentioned the word clerical, and then shaken them again at the mention of administrative.

  “No,” he had said, he had no leavers certificate—no certificates at all, or any diplomas.

  They had all mentioned jobs in service.

  “A chauffeur, perhaps?” one had suggested. “After all, Mr. Jessop, that’s nearer to where your experience lies . . . and I do think you’d be better—more successful—approaching a domestic service employment agency, don’t you?”

  It was not the best time, Stephen had been told, and more than once, to be looking for a career change, especially if one was as untrained and as unskilled as he.

  One afternoon in late January, standing in the wintry sunshine outside Oxford Circus tube station, Stephen had scanned the “Situations Vacant” and job advertisements in the newspaper once again. He’d recognized the name immediately: It was the place Mr. Forbes had bought his last Rolls-Royce, a place Stephen knew and had in fact been to a few times. He’d headed straight there.

  The position needed to be filled as soon as possible. That was fine, Stephen had said; he was available, and yes, he could start immediately: “Monday if needs be.”

  “Well, young man, you’ve worked for Howard Forbes, acted as his chauffeur, and that and your letter of reference from Mrs. Forbes is quite enough for me. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  And that was it.

  Stephen’s new job was to drive rich American tourists about London, allowing them to see the sights of the English capital from the comfort of a Rolls-Royce motorcar. But there was also the possibility—it had been mentioned—that if he proved himself, in time he might be able to work in the new showroom, helping to sell the cars. “On commission!” the man had announced. And, apparently, that was where the money was.