After Such Kindness (15 page)

‘To me t-too,’ I murmured, my stammer coming back with a vengeance as the memory of her soft little lips on mine threw me into confusion. I hardly wanted to get up and walk through the crowds at that moment. I just wanted to sit next to Daisy with her hand in mine as if the rest of the world did not exist. But she reminded me that we were due to meet my cousin Ellen, and so I picked up my hat and we made our reluctant way out.

At tea in the Aldwych, Daisy could not stop talking about the play and the theatre and London itself, and how you could become an actress and how old you had to be to appear on the stage. I noticed people at the other tables looking across and smiling in an indulgent way as she prattled on, tucking into cucumber sandwiches, buttered scones and fruit cake. Ellen, who is by far my favourite cousin even when she is not impersonating young men in breeches, kept remarking on Daisy’s looks. ‘How very dainty you are,’ she said, leaning back and surveying her. ‘Quite the perfect ingénue. But you would do better with shorter hair, dear. There is such a lot of it and it hides your face. And it is quite the fashion now to have a fringe. You should ask your mama if you can be shorn more neatly next time she gets out the scissors.’

‘Mama doesn’t do my hair,’ Daisy said, tears starting to her eyes. ‘It used to be Nettie, but I’ve lost her and Hannah can’t be bothered with it.’

‘Well, someone can do it surely? I’d do it myself if I had some scissors. You’ve no idea what an improvement it would be.’ She cocked her head to the side, imagining it, and I tried to imagine it too, thinking Ellen might indeed be right, and Daisy’s perfect heart-shaped face would show more to advantage when not half-hidden. But, having planted this notion in Daisy’s head, Ellen got up. ‘I have to go, dear people, as we have another performance at half past seven. Far too late for the little ones, Uncle, but you know how things are. Needs must, and so forth. Thank you for the delicious tea, and goodbye, Daisy dear, and remember what I said.’ And she gave me her usual kiss on the forehead, which I could not but reflect had nothing like the same effect on me as Daisy’s.

By the time we got to Paddington, Daisy was beginning to get very tired, and once we were in the train, she fell asleep with her head against my arm and her straw hat falling sideways over her face. Her ringlets had almost completely fallen out and her ribbons had come undone. Had it not been for the gloves and neat little stockings and shoes, she might indeed have resembled a gypsy child. How I would have liked to capture her likeness at that moment, but it was beyond my pencil, even if I’d had one to hand: only a photograph would have done her justice. I sat, enjoying for the first time the pleasure of looking at her as long as I liked. For once, she was oblivious to my gaze; and there was no one else in the carriage to stare or misconstrue. I moved closer to her, dozing a little myself, allowing myself to imagine how it would be if we were lying in the same bed, perhaps, her little body nestling trustingly against mine, her arms round my neck, her cheek against my breast
. . .

I do not know how long we lay there together, dozing, but, all at once, a train whistled past from the opposite direction, making the carriage shudder and shake, and it woke both of us with a start. She pulled away from me and took her warmth with her, so it was as if a cold breeze had struck suddenly all down my left side. ‘Oh, I have had such a strange dream,’ she said, sitting upright and setting her hat back on her head. ‘There were kings and queens, and lovely gardens, and cakes and sandwiches all mixed together. And sheep and cows and dogs and cats all sitting in a railway carriage, and Dinah saying, “Tickets, please!
”’
She shivered a little. ‘And I was in the middle of it all, but
very, very
small, and everybody was telling me what to do. Including the animals.’

‘Animals are extremely opinionated,’ I said. ‘Especially cats – Cheshire cats in particular. And dormice, of course – when they are awake, which is only at teatime, in my experience. And oysters. Oysters are in a class of their own. Never have an argument with an oyster. If it disagrees with you, it can put you in bed for weeks – in an oyster bed, of course.’

She laughed and rubbed her eyes. ‘You
are
funny.’

‘Well, life is a comedy to those who think.’

‘Don’t we
all
think?’ she said, trying to retie her ribbons.

‘Not in quite the same way. Your papa, for example, would be inclined to view life as a tragedy.’

‘Why?’

‘That would be telling. Now, would you like to finish the chocolate limes before we get into Oxford?’

‘May I?’

‘By all means. They will fill you out as you are fearful of being so
very, very small.
In fact, if you go on eating them you will soon be twice your size, like a telescope opening up, or the old woman who shot up seventeen times as high as the moon.’

‘One won’t hurt, will it?’

‘I think it is unarmed and of peaceful intent.’

And she took it and popped it in her moist little mouth.

I didn’t want the day to end, but, like all good things, it did. Daniel came to meet the train, and lifted Daisy down from the carriage and gave her a kiss. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’ he asked.

She nodded sleepily into his chest.

‘I hope you thanked Mr Jameson?’ he prompted her.

‘She has already been more than thankful,’ I said. ‘And she is the perfect child to be with. I have never had a better companion.’

‘Is that so?’ Daniel looked surprised. ‘Well, I am glad. But it seems our family has increased its debt to you, John. Is there anything we can do in return?’

‘Let me take Daisy out again. That is sufficient reward for an old bachelor such as myself.’

‘There you go again, John! Anyone would think you were seventy, not thirty-five! Now, if you were to marry, you’d have children of your own to take out and about. Think how delightful that would be. And, my dear sir, marriage is to be recommended not only on account of the children. It is the –’

‘I think you know my mind, Daniel,’ I said, not wishing to hear another paean to the married state.

‘You know me too, John, and I am not a man who gives up lightly. But now is not the time for discussions of matrimony. Daisy is almost asleep. I’ve a cab outside. May we give you a lift?’

‘I’ll walk,’ I said. The afternoon’s rain had gone and it was a fine night. And I had no mind to witness Daisy curled up contentedly in her father’s arms for the mile and a half to my college. I felt almost angry at Daniel for taking the delights of paternity as so much his due – as if feeling Daisy’s sweet head against his chest was so much a matter of course as to be of no account or value. Besides, I wanted solitude in order to think about the whole day. When I got back, I’d maybe write down an account of it. Maybe make it into a story I could tell her later. I thought I might sleep a little first, though. I find that strange state between sleeping and waking can give me such vivid ideas. Sometimes I have to get up and strike a light and note it down straight away with half-frozen fingers. Sometimes, I don’t even strike a light. I’ve invented a little machine that allows me to write in the dark if I wish. I don’t want too much bright light on my imaginings. The darkness keeps the magic close.

I don’t know why, but I’m distinctly perturbed at the thought of Jameson’s involvement in this hair-cutting business
.
Daisy insists that she did the lion’s share of the massacre herself and begged me with tears in her eyes not to hold him to account; but I wonder if she’s telling me the whole story. I don’t know why I find it so unsettling – the picture of Daisy sitting on his lap while he snips away. But this episode has set me wondering why he has taken such an interest in her: first the parasol, then the tea parties, and finally the visit to London. Daisy’s a sweet enough child, but she is very young to be the companion of choice for such a clever man. And, as far as the photography is concerned, it’s not as though she is particularly pretty – or at least I hadn’t thought so up to now. But the new fringe is a decided improvement; one can see her face much more clearly.

I’ve said nothing of this to my wife, of course, as she is in such a state over the whole business, accusing herself of being too trusting and lenient with the child. Both of us are surprised to find Daisy so underhand and, what is more, so very unrepentant. Evelina blames the actress – Miss Garfield – for putting the idea into Daisy’s mind, but I reminded her that many ideas may come into our minds, but we are not automatically obliged to act on them. ‘That is where the exercise of Will is required, is it not?’ I said. ‘To combat the Devil’s whispers. As I have to do myself
every day of my life
.’

Evelina ignored my clumsy attempt to confide in her, if indeed she even heard the words. ‘It’s high time Daisy was prepared for Confirmation,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very lax about it, Daniel, and I have allowed myself to become utterly distracted – first by Nettie’s departure, then Mrs McQueen’s arrival – and now all this business with Leonard Gardiner.’

She was right, of course; there’d been a great deal of upheaval in the family of late, and Evelina’s delicate nerves had been put to the test in no uncertain manner. As far as Mr Gardiner was concerned, I regretted that I had not acted immediately it became apparent that Christiana admired him. But Evelina had insisted on dealing with the matter herself, fearful that my intervention (‘your intimidating presence’ was how she put it) would turn a small problem into a great one. However, in spite of her personal attendance at the archery lessons and her close observations of the young man, she had been unable to come to a decision on the matter. ‘He is very good-looking, so it is hardly surprising that there is a certain amount of simpering when he stands close and adjusts the young ladies’ arms and fingers,’ she said, in a way that made me think that Evelina herself had not been immune to his charms. ‘And he is particularly complimentary to Christiana. Yesterday he asked all the others to watch her draw the bow so they could copy her movements – and applauded in appreciation – which delighted her no end. All the same, I think that the attachment is more on Christiana’s side. It will peter out, I’m sure, but you know how headstrong she is. I must continue to chaperone her. I cannot rely on Hannah; she is too young to judge what is seemly. And if I am with Christiana and Sarah, I cannot also be with Daisy.
You
must be the one to take her in hand, Daniel.’

I agreed, and indeed I’ll do my best with Daisy’s spiritual and moral education, which is by no means as neglected as my wife seems to think. But I can’t help wondering what constitutes the greater impropriety – allowing a middle-aged clergyman, who is not your relative, to cut your hair in the privacy of his rooms, or permitting a young man to touch your fingers and pay you a compliment in the safe gaze of a dozen onlookers while he does what he is paid to do? I suppose Christiana’s situation should be of more concern, as she is of an age to make a fool of herself, with all the consequences that might accrue. But I have to confess that I am more upset about Daisy. There is, I think, an intimacy between her and John that is somewhat unusual, and which I do not altogether understand.

And yet it now falls on me to set a punishment for the child. In spite of my misgivings, I think her transgression is very slight, and I truthfully do not mind whether her hair is short or long. But I must bow to Evelina’s unexpected firmness in the matter. She is of the opinion that it would not do to let Daisy’s act of defiance pass, for fear she might become more disobedient in future. ‘And I suggest you stop all her outings with John Jameson immediately,’ she said.

‘Do you mean that as a penance for
her
or a punishment for
him
?’ I asked. ‘Such a course of action might lead him to assume that we are blaming him in some way, or don’t trust him to care for her.’

‘
Do
we trust him, though?’ Evelina gave me such an odd look that I wasn’t sure what to answer. But I attempted to make light of it, and laughed.

‘You mean, do we trust him to keep his scissors safe from her prying hands?’

‘No, Daniel. I mean do we trust him to keep her innocent? It was he who introduced her to – well, new ideas. And new people, too.’

‘And should she not have the opportunity to experience new ideas and meet new people?’ I said. ‘I thought you approved of her extending her education. You have been saying for some time – even before Nettie left – that she needs to be more grown-up in her demeanour. You have brought her down from the nursery, given her her own room, and let her join us at supper – and you positively encouraged her to go to London with John. You seemed to trust him well enough then.’

‘I thought it was a safe thing to allow her to meet Miss Garfield, as she was a relative of his and would therefore be a respectable young woman, but I feel he has deceived me.’

‘Have you discovered that she is
not
respectable, then, Evelina?’ That would indeed have put the whole outing in a different light.

She shrugged. ‘I can’t say exactly. But the way Daisy talked about her was – well, it sounded as though some of her language was not refined. And she certainly gave Daisy the notion that she could do what she liked without reference to her parents. Do you realize, Daniel, that she would have cut Daisy’s hair herself if she’d had the scissors to hand?’ She looked at me as if she had delivered the
coup de grace.

But I wouldn’t have it. ‘I hardly think Miss Garfield meant to encourage disobedience. It’s just that theatre people say what they think rather more frankly than we do. She thought Daisy would look better with short hair, and she made a joke about cutting it. I don’t think she was attempting to undermine our authority.’

‘All the same, I’m surprised at Mr Jameson taking her behind the scenes, eating in public with an actress, letting her be exposed to questionable remarks. She’s always been such an innocent child, so sheltered from the ways of the world; I should never have exposed her to the fleshpots of London.’

I looked at Evelina in amazement. The Leonard Gardiner business must have shaken her more than I imagined. Never since our first meeting had she been obsessed with such narrow proprieties. ‘Fleshpots? Surely, my love, you’re not talking of the Theatre Royal and the jolly afternoon entertainments it puts on for children?’ I asked. ‘Even the best families patronize the performances, and Daisy adored it in the whole-hearted, childish way she was meant to. And just because of a few teacakes in the Strand and a passing remark from an actress, you are now convinced that she will never obey us again.’

‘You have not seen the way she talks, Daniel. She is completely unrepentant about her hair. I have never seen her like this.’

For my part, I am rather heartened at Daisy’s show of spirit. ‘Well, what’s done is done,’ I say. ‘The hair cannot be put back. And truly there is no harm in her having it short. In fact, I think it suits her.’

‘You take her part against me, Daniel? You add to my distress?’ Evelina put her hand on her heart in the way that has become more common with her lately. As if my behaviour pains her. As if she suspects the emptiness in my soul.

‘I simply try to be practical, my love. You have to admit Daisy’s hair has always been exceedingly untidy, and it’s been far worse since Nettie went. And she was never told
directly
that she couldn’t cut it, so we mustn’t be unduly harsh.’ I was determined to be fair with my daughter – not like God with His Eternal Damnation.

She sighed. ‘So, what do you suggest?’

‘I’ll find a suitable text for her to write out. I suggest Ephesians 6:1–3. And I’ll preach a sermon on the topic next Sunday. No one else in the congregation will know what I am referring to. But Daisy will; and if I am any judge of her character, she will come to beg forgiveness.’

‘And John Jameson? Do we receive him as before?’

‘Why ever not?’ I gave her a sharp look. Even though she had given voice to something of my own uneasiness regarding John, her uncompromising attitude made me rush to his defence. I told myself that my discomfort about John’s friendship with Daisy probably stemmed from the fact that she seemed to enjoy his company so much more than mine. And that seemed but a weak premise on which to deprive myself of his company, let alone deprive Daisy of it. So I told Evelina that I saw no reason to stop him coming to the house. ‘To be honest, it seems his only crime was to make good what Daisy had already ruined. If she had cut her hair in her own bedroom, would you have banished Hannah, or Mrs McQueen – or even myself – because we were under the same roof? I think John cannot – and should not – be blamed for Daisy’s action.’

‘You are very logical. But I think your fondness for him affects your judgement. John Jameson is a clever man – but you must acknowledge that there are other things besides cleverness when it comes to bringing up children. You should not put your friendship above your child’s good.’

I felt a little angry that she should seek to put me in the wrong in this way, and felt obliged to praise John more than I intended. ‘My friendship with John and Daisy’s interests as my daughter are not mutually exclusive, Evelina. In fact, they very much go together. John teaches her all sorts of things. I am astonished at the encyclopaedic information she has acquired since spending time with him – natural science, philosophy, poetry, all sorts. He is as good as a private tutor. And I needn’t remind you how much we are in his debt. Think about Benjy – our only son, as near to death on that day as he (with God’s grace) will ever come! I can hardly contemplate what would have happened without John’s quick action. Just think of that, Evelina, when you seek to blame the man for negligence!’

She put her hands to her ears as if to stop out my words. ‘I know! Oh, how I know it! That deed of his debars him from any criticism. I am grateful to him, I own it, and he is in my prayers every night as I thank God for his action – but he has become a sacred idol where you are concerned, Daniel! I sometimes think he is more important to you than I am!’

I saw then in her anger, the traces of her old passion, and – was it possible? – jealousy. I took her in my arms and kissed her fervently. ‘No one comes before you in my heart, Evelina. Certainly not John. He is my friend and I admire him, but I will cast him off entirely if it will make you happy.’

She lay against my breast and seemed mollified. ‘He is harmless enough, I suppose. And we do owe him so much – so very, very much. I am an ungrateful wretch to have forgotten it – ungrateful, and unkind. God forgive me! Will you forgive me too, Daniel?’ And she lifted up her face and returned my kisses in the way that she used to do.

And now, bright and early on this Monday morning, Daisy is standing on the proverbial carpet, awaiting my judgement. God knows how many people have stood there in front of my desk and trembled – children, servants, even my wife at times. I think of poor Nettie and how desperately she pleaded for me not to send her away: ‘I know I did wrong, though I never meant to, just my back turned for two seconds, but the little ones is innocent and shouldn’t suffer for it! Lower my wages, Mr Baxter – stop them, if you like, I’ll manage – but as God is good, let me stay!’ But I was hard-hearted. The thought of my only son slipping down into the murky depths – frightened and alone, and breathing gulps of weedy water – was too strong with me. I couldn’t forgive her, couldn’t trust her. I was angry with myself, too, although I didn’t admit it and, in my double-dealing way, I blamed Nettie for my own failings. I regret my harshness now. I cannot think Benjy is better served by Mrs McQueen and her unflinching system than he was by Nettie’s loving hands. And, since Nettie has gone, Daisy has been a child adrift. No wonder she has taken so well to John, with his jokes and stories. He has been more of a father to her than I have.

She stands there, hands clasped and resting against her apron, feet neatly together in her little pumps, her shorn head rising from her neck like the delicate flower she was named for. She looks up and I can see how grey her eyes are, how clear and fine her skin. Her expression is so like Evelina’s when she was young – so innocent, pure and limpid – that it shocks me with its force. And in this moment, I realize that I’ve never loved Daisy as I ought. I’ve always shown preference for my tall and graceful girls and, more lately, my son. Daisy has always been the least of my concerns. She’s hidden herself modestly from my view, under her cloud of hair: an unremarkable presence, an easy, biddable, self-effacing soul. But now, as I gaze at her, it comes to me that she – honest, sincere, steadfast Daisy – might be the salvation I have been longing for. She will be my second angel, my new Evelina, the one to lead me up the mountain, out of my confusion and darkness, into the bright light of God’s presence. I cannot wait to embrace her in the Lord, to know that Perfect Love once again.

But I cannot embrace her, not today. Today I am the stern voice of retribution. ‘You know why you are here?’ I say.

‘Yes, Papa.’ Her head is down.

‘And that is because
. . .
?’ I try to encourage her gently.

‘I cut off my hair although I knew Mama wouldn’t like it.’ Her voice is just a murmur.