When I Was Otherwise

by Stephen Benatar

  “I said how fit you were looking.”

  “Oh, yes. Well. One has to do something to keep one’s pecker up. Somehow…” She brooded over this for several seconds; then rallied, to illustrate her own maxim. “Not that my appearance would ever pity me, even on my deathbed. I always had a good colour.”

  Indeed, Daisy had such a good colour, she resembled a rag doll which had small round patches sewn onto either cheek. It wasn’t quite what Marsha had envisaged when once, long ago, she had given her a few hints on how to apply her makeup.

  And Daisy had a portrait of herself, done in oils, by Augustus John…whereas, if Marsha had ever been painted, watercolours might have seemed more appropriate.

  At present she was wearing a beige woollen dress, only a shade or two lighter than her softly waved brown hair; and although she was sixty and looked neither especially young for sixty nor especially free of worry lines—or those, maybe, occasioned more by regret and disappointment—she was still a very pretty woman, with a mainly gentle expression.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Dan’s taking his time,” she said. “All he had to get was a tin of peas and a jar of marmalade. Oh…and a box of tissues. I left them off my shopping list this morning.”

  “Ah.”

  “I don’t like it when he’s gone too long. I start to grow anxious.”

  “How is Dan?”

  “Marvellous. Considering.”

  “I think it very strange,” said Daisy, “that no one let me know. Not until after the funeral. Very strange, indeed. And I shall make no bones about telling him so.”

  Marsha was embarrassed.

  “He didn’t think you’d want to come, Daisy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, don’t you remember how things stood between you and Erica?”

  “Oh, what nonsense! The merest little tiff, that’s all. We were always quite the best of friends. And he could at least have given me the option.”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Besides, it must have looked so strange. Not that one cares anything about that, of course. But… I suppose everyone came back for drinks and things, after the service?”

  Marsha nodded. There was a brief silence.

  “And what did you have? At this little do of yours?”

  “I’m not too sure one should describe it as a ‘do’.”

  “Well, describe it as anything you like.”

  “It was all very simple, really. We had tea and sandwiches. Three sorts.” Slowly, on her fingers, Marsha ticked off the fillings. “Scrambled egg…grated cheese…sardine. I mixed up a little salad cream with the cheese. We also had chocolate cup cakes and an assortment of biscuits. And I made a sponge. It was nice and light.”

  “But what to drink? Only tea?”

  “Earl Grey. Everybody liked it. I had to make six pots.”

  “Six? That does sound a success.” But Daisy now seemed reconciled to having missed it. “Did you say, dear, that you had put the kettle on?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Marsha got to her feet again and picked up the tray. “I know that, to some, cup cakes might appear a bit unexpected. But they were always a particular favourite of Erica’s.”

  “Why? Did she come, too?”

  “No, of course not. She—” Marsha suddenly realized she’d been caught out. They both laughed.

  “Oh, Daisy, I’m sure that we shouldn’t, but you’re so absurd. I’d almost forgotten what a tonic you are. I shan’t be long with the tea.” But at the door she stopped. Daisy was hopeful.

  “Oh, Daisy. Before Dan comes. You won’t speak of the wallpaper or anything like that?”

  “Don’t worry, dear. I’m not a fool.”

  “Oh, good gracious, no, I wasn’t—”

  “But what about after he comes?”

  Their laughter was renewed. “Oh, you silly so-and-so! But your talk of making no bones worried me a little. And you do realize, don’t you, how very fond he was of Erica? We don’t want to upset him. It was so good of him to offer us his home.”

  Daisy stared at her.

  “What!”

  Then she quickly added: “He may have offered you his home. But I thought I was only here for the weekend.”

  “Oh dear. Didn’t he tell you in his letter? Then I shouldn’t be spoiling his surprise.”

  “Ha! But now that you’ve done so, you might as well carry on. I won’t say anything if you don’t.”

  At first, Marsha was undecided.

  “Well, all right. But, anyway, I’ve more or less told you. You see, Dan knows you’re not very happy where you are…the same as he knew I couldn’t really afford to stay on in that poky little flat of mine. And so he said it might be a good idea—since he was now all alone in this great big rambling house of his…”

  Daisy certainly didn’t think of it as a great big rambling house: a three-bedroomed semi-detached in Hendon, rejoicing under the lovely name of Shangri-La.

  “The three of us together,” she murmured. “Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not too sure, dear. Do you realize I haven’t seen Dan in roughly five years?”

  She said this partly to avoid the necessity of having to commit herself straightaway—although the idea clearly had its advantages—but more especially to stop Marsha believing she was simply going to jump at the opportunity. You should never let people think you were too available.

  “Is that so?” asked Marsha. “My goodness! A whole five years?”

  “It was 1970. Erica was in Germany or some such place. And previously I hadn’t set eyes on him for…well, I don’t know how long…except that I can tell you he was still just skin and bones then, whenever it was, so you can imagine my surprise when I suddenly saw this great fat chap who was opening the door to me…”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say exactly fat.”

  “Well, I did and Dan himself didn’t appear to mind. Bloated, then, if you’d prefer it. But definitely unhealthy.”

  “In any case, fat or not, he’s the most saintly person I’ve ever met. He’s always trying to do what’s right.”

  “Oh, saintly,” said Daisy. “Well, if it comes to that, I suppose most of us are always doing what we can to try to help others.”

  “Anyway, about our all living together. Dan says he’s sure it’s what Henry would have wanted.”

  “And how do you feel about it yourself, dear? I mean, of course, when you’re not under the influence.”

  But at that moment they heard a key in the front door. Or, rather, Marsha did. And in the minute or two before her brother-in-law came into the room, Daisy—having to remind herself not to expect the slim young man she still mainly visualized—briefly remembered something.

  3

  One Saturday morning in the autumn of 1936 she had been on Rosslyn Hill, in Hampstead, when from across the street she had seen someone whom she recognized. She hailed him cheerily. “Dan! Dan!” How nice. She would get him to buy her a cup of coffee in that smart new café she had just passed.

  But he didn’t hear her. All he’d been doing was disposing of a cigarette packet in one of those rubbish bins attached to a lamppost. Yet he seemed oddly preoccupied and as he began to walk on he kept glancing back over his shoulder. He was appearing rather furtive.

  Daisy was intrigued. For the moment she didn’t call again. She simply stood and watched.

  And as she did so she saw Dan suddenly turn and hurry back to the rubbish bin. He still looked ill-at-ease and, this time, little wonder: he actually put in his hand and pulled out…well, presumably that same cigarette packet he had just dropped in! What extremely strange behaviour—even for a Stormont.

  Now he was crossing the street but still he didn’t see her. He made off quickly down the hill. Daisy followed. The same thing happened: the cigarette packet went into a rubbish bin on this side of the road. Then he slowed his pace again, while continually looking back.

  But this wa
s thrilling, thought Daisy. Thrilling! He was in the Secret Service. How swiftly and astronomically he rose in her estimation; how could she ever have called him stodgy? And what a tale there’d now be to tell them at the club! Shades of Bulldog Drummond and Sexton Blake and the Scarlet Pimpernel. Sinister German spy rings. The winging knife between the shoulder blades. The microfilm secreted in the cigarette.

  Who, though, was the opposite number he clearly mustn’t acknowledge? For an enraptured minute Daisy scanned the street. Ah! A grim-faced Norland nanny pushing her pram. Yet was there, in fact, a baby under all those coverings, and didn’t the woman betray a distinctly mannish gait? Then—laden with carrier bags—a grubby old crone wearing two overcoats and holey mittens shuffled past; was she what she appeared? A seemingly nervous young man was either selling things or going from door to door searching for employment…well, anyway, so he would have you believe. But that striped tie—had he really got the right to wear it? And what was he carrying in his black case? And wasn’t his whole look quite suspiciously Mid-European? Daisy stood by a shop window, ostensibly gazing at antiquarian books. Then she skulked in a doorway, collar turned up, woolly hat pulled down. Her childhood wasn’t so far behind her, thank God (nor would it ever be), that she hadn’t retained a true delight in the bizarre…and a magical ability to turn it to account. Imagination and a sense of fun! Curiosity and wonder! A sine qua non, each one of them.

  It was the old woman with the carrier bags who stopped at the rubbish bin; she who retrieved the cigarette packet and opened it and stared! Heavens, noted Daisy sternly, nothing understated about her performance—back to training school with you, my girl! At once! Daisy could see her satisfaction, even in profile.

  She saw too that Dan, almost at a standstill, had witnessed it from further down the hill.

  But what now? Was it over? He had quickened his pace again. Daisy had to run to catch up.

  “Dan!” she called. “Dan!”

  This time he spun round, like a truanting schoolboy. Yet his expression of guilt turned to one of welcome. He hurried back.

  “Daisy! What are you doing here?” Yes, an enquiry worthy of Sir Percy Blakeney himself! Had he forgotten she lived only about a mile away?

  “And I could ask that selfsame question! And intend to—immediately! I’ve been watching, you know.”

  When she said that, he blushed: a grown man in his middle thirties who could still blush! “What do you mean, old girl?”

  She described what she had seen.

  “Are you being blackmailed?” she asked. “Have you murdered your wife?” But no such luck, of course.

  “Oh, well, not quite.” He smiled. (It was an imbecilic smile, totally unbefitting the Secret Service.) “You know I’d never do that.”

  “What, then?”

  “Nothing much. Really. Nothing at all.”

  “Oh, yes, I could see that. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Well, the thing is, you can’t just go up to a person and hand them a couple of pounds, can you, as if they didn’t have any pride? And at times like this, those of us who are lucky enough to have a job…” With his eyes, as much as with the gesture of his hands, he pleaded for her understanding.

  “Did you say—a couple of pounds?”

  He tried to turn it into a joke. “I thought she was never going to find it, suddenly crossing the road like that. I thought she’d given up looking in the bins at precisely the wrong moment.”

  “For heaven’s sake, dear! How often do you go berserk?”

  “Oh, hardly ever, hardly ever. It’s just that, as I say, when there are so many thousands out of work and desperately feeling the pinch…”

  This made her think of Andrew and the attitude he displayed towards his own job: his loathing of it and his sense of martyrdom, “with so many rotten scroungers all leading the life of Riley.” But all she said was, “I don’t suppose that old girl was ever in work, or indeed ever wanted to be. She’s probably been a hobo all her life. And jolly good luck to her, too!”

  “She can’t have started out like that.”

  “Oh, well, one does hope she was a bit cleaner.”

  “And she didn’t look exactly carefree.”

  “But if you’re still in the mood for doling out charity then you can treat me to a cup of coffee.”

  “Of course! With great pleasure.”

  “There’s a place up the road that says it does scones with Devonshire cream. So gather ye rosebuds while ye may! That’s my philosophy at the moment. And always has been, you might say?”

  “What were you doing here, anyhow?” he asked her a second time, when they were seated.

  “Oh, just enjoying a constitutional. I’ve been wandering on the Heath.”

  “No wonder you look so well.”

  “I like to have roses in my cheeks.”

  Yet these days he didn’t think they were supplied, not entirely, either by exercise or fresh air. Daisy had glamorized herself. He thought it suited her. Then he remembered having heard something about it from Erica, who had been told of it by Marsha; but this had been well over a year ago—possibly getting on for two. Oh Lord! Hadn’t they seen her, then, for roughly a couple of years? Dan’s feelings of guilt returned.

  “Though what about yourself?” she asked. “Were you on a constitutional?”

  “No. I was on my way to buy a special cake for Erica. We bought one recently and she enjoyed it so much I thought I’d try to get her another as a surprise.”

  “Oh, how sad it is!” she said forlornly. “No one ever buys me a special cake as a surprise!”

  And she hung her head winsomely. “Who do I remind you of? Sweet little Mary Pickford in a snowstorm?”

  Dan laughed. “Do you like chocolate cake?”

  “Chocolate? How could you guess? It’s always been my very favourite!”

  “Then come with me to the cake shop and I’ll get you one as well. We can’t have poor old Daisy wandering around London feeling pathetic.”

  “No, we can’t,” she agreed cheerfully. “You’re absolutely right, dear. Though a bit less of the old, if you please!”

  But at that moment their coffee and scones arrived.

  Afterwards, she asked, a shade belatedly:

  “Oh, by the way. How is Erica?”

  “She’s very well.”

  “And her mother?”

  “Oh, judging from her letters, she’s fine. We stayed with her in June. She’ll come back to us next June.”

  “Alternating years? Regular as clockwork? Mind you, it was March when I met her. Something wrong there… And your own mother—how is she?”

  “Well, not quite herself, as a matter of fact. She’s had the ’flu. It’s pulled her down a bit.”

  “Oh? Fading, I suppose?”

  “Hardly. She’s only in her fifties.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  Daisy finished her scone. She dabbed up the crumbs and remaining smears of cream. “I hope my finger’s clean! I don’t much care if it isn’t!”

  “Have another.”

  “Oh, I really don’t think I should, do you?”

  “Sure?”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No. I’ll be having lunch in an hour.”

  “What! Don’t tell me you’ll be bothering with lunch after this?” She accepted the second scone.

  Later she rummaged for her cigarettes, but couldn’t find them. “It doesn’t matter. I’m better off without.”

  “I’ll go and get some.” He was already pushing back his chair.

  “You’re such a dear. But you must certainly let me pay. No—no—wait!” She’d found her own packet after all, right there at the bottom of her handbag. “How lucky. You might have had to traipse for miles. Here—take one—they’re Turkish.”

  “But you’ve only got two.”

  “Oh, never mind. I have a gallant young admirer who buys them for me. No chocolate cakes. Yet at least I do get cigarettes.”

  S
he leaned back and blew a trio of smoke rings.

  “But I wonder if I’d let you buy me some whether I’d have found two pound notes discreetly tucked inside? Perhaps I’ve missed my opportunity.”

  “I do wish you’d forget that.”

  “Peddling hairnets and costume jewellery must be more lucrative than I imagined. I must confess I always thought it a peculiar thing for your parents to put you into, but it appears now that I ought to beg their pardon. You should take this pretty pink packet when we go. It’ll show up rather nicely in a rubbish bin.”

  He was silent. He waited for her to finish her second cup of coffee. Looked pointedly at his watch.

  “I hope you realize she’ll only spend it all on drink?”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know? Because I’ve been through my own do-gooding phase—naturally. We all have. Not that I don’t still try to do my bit,” she added, hurriedly.

  She blew some more smoke rings. A toddler at the next table, fastened into his high chair, pointed ecstatically.

  “You seem to have acquired a new admirer.” Dan had felt resentful but this spectacle of awestruck delight made him laugh.

  “Yes. Shall we go?” She stubbed out the remainder of her cigarette. “I suppose you both mean to have children?” She made this (almost accusatory) observation some minutes after they had left the café.

  “Well, we’d definitely like one. Or maybe a couple. But up to now, unfortunately, up to now we’ve…”

  Sudden sympathy blended with ferocity. He was surprised at her intensity. “Yes! It’s always the way! Those who really want them and would probably make quite good parents…” She shrugged. “Marsha’s baby was certainly quick off the assembly line.”

  He nodded. “Yes, incredible to think he’s already eighteen months! Little Andy.”

  “You saw that child in there just now?”

  “Of course.”

  “Such innocence and trust! Such spontaneity! Where will all of that be in another year or two? The mother looked plebeian.”

  She had worked herself into something of a frenzy.

  “People have no right!” she cried.

  Dan was glad to have reached their destination.

  But there was only a single chocolate cake remaining.