After Such Kindness (32 page)

Before I can say anything, a woman comes out of one of the houses, shading her eyes against the slanting sun. ‘Come here, Benjy!’ she calls out. ‘Leave the lady alone.’

I stare at her. She’s very plump, now, and her hair is not nearly so neat, but her voice is exactly the same. Yet how can she be here – in a broken-down street on the outskirts of my husband’s parish? I fear I have conjured her up from my imagination, but I see she is as real as the little boy by my side. She continues to look at me, hand raised. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she calls out. ‘I hope he hasn’t muddied you. He means no harm.’

I don’t care if he has muddied me. I don’t care if I muddy myself from head to foot either. I break into a run, splashing through the puddles and bits of broken brick that litter the lane, the heavy basket beating against my leg. ‘Nettie!’ I cry.

She looks startled. She doesn’t recognize me.

I stop in front of her. ‘It’s me, Daisy!’

‘Daisy?’ She seems confused at the idea. Then she puts her hands to her face. ‘Daisy
Baxter
! Oh, my dear Lord!
Oh, my dear Lord!
’

She is just the same.
Just the same.
I rush into her embrace, nearly knocking her over. She still smells of biscuits, and it makes me cry just to breathe in that old familiar scent. We hug each other for a long time. When we pull apart, I can see the tears coursing down her own cheeks. ‘My, my!’ she says. ‘I would never have recognized you! You’ve grown up so fine.’

‘You’re just the same,’ I say. ‘Oh, Nettie, I’ve thought about you so often! But I never thought I’d ever see you again!’

‘Me neither,’ she says, hugging me again. ‘Me neither. And how is my darling Benjy – my
other
Benjy, I should say – is he well? He must be – what – eleven or twelve now?’

‘He’s eleven. But he’s ever so tall, just like Papa. He’s away at school, now, spending all his time on the cricket field.’

‘And your ma and pa? Are they keeping well?’

‘Oh, Nettie, didn’t you know? Papa died six months ago –’

She looks nonplussed. ‘Mr Baxter? But he was always so fit and healthy!’

‘– And Mama has gone back to Herefordshire. But,’ I say, trying to change the subject, ‘are
all
these children yours?’ There are about nine of them, crowding round us, full of curiosity.

‘Oh dear no. Benjy’s mine, as you might have gathered,’ she says, pointing to the bright-eyed boy. ‘He’s a terror. And this is my Daisy – my
other
Daisy, I should say.’ She indicates a younger child, sucking at a piece of cloth. ‘And there’s the baby indoors. These two – Billy and Lizzie – I look after, and the others over there aren’t nothing to do with me. But where’s my manners? You must come in and have a cup of tea.’

‘Oh, I will! But first I have to take these things to a Mrs Bunch at number nine. Do you know which house that is?’

‘Indeed I do,’ she says with a laugh. ‘It’s
this
house. Mrs Bunch is
me
, Daisy!’

I feel awkward to be bringing my one-time mother a basket of leftover scraps to celebrate our first meeting in over ten years. I can’t help thinking of the picnic fare we had that day on the river, the largesse for a mere ten people, all the delicacies set out on the white tablecloth. ‘Mr Constantine sent it,’ I say.

‘Oh, yes. He sends things most regular.’ She takes the basket from me, and the little ones start to lift the napkin to see what’s inside. ‘He knows I have trouble making ends meet – five mouths to feed and Mr Bunch with a weak back. He’s a kind man. I’ve always said that.’

‘So you approve of my husband, then?’

She draws back in a fresh onset of amazement. ‘Don’t say you’re the rector’s new wife!’

‘I do say,’ I reply with a certain pride, but feeling all the same something of an impostor.

‘Oh, Daisy, I had no idea! I knew it had happened – Mr Constantine getting married, I mean, and we all sent our good wishes. But I don’t get to St Aidan’s much these days and I seem to miss out on all the gossip – parish news, I should say. I knew he were marrying an Oxford lady, but my friend Agnes said his fiancée was a Margaret Bassett, although I suppose she must have meant Baxter and I never thought of it being you, as you were always Daisy to me. But come in, come in! You’re even more welcome, if it’s possible.’

And so I go in, and although the house is tiny, with only one room for all to live in, with a scullery beyond, everything is spick and span as I would expect it to be with Nettie in charge. The fire is lit and there are clothes drying in front of it, neatly folded, and there is a tea table laid with a clean cloth, and a bunch of wild flowers in a jar. In a cradle by the fire is a baby.

‘She’s called Maud,’ says Benjy, pushing his way past us. ‘Hello, Maudie!’ he cries, waving a piece of bread at her. The baby chuckles.

‘She’s a fine baby,’ I say, looking down at the infant. ‘A really beautiful baby.’ I feel a sob catch in my throat, and Nettie looks at me sharply.

‘Don’t worry. I expect you’ll have one of your own soon,’ she says. ‘Now, Benjy, get out of my way so I can put more water in the kettle.’

‘There’s cakes,’ says little Daisy. ‘Ma, there’s cakes!’

‘Mr Constantine is always generous,’ says Nettie. ‘Now don’t you dare touch nothing until I’ve cleaned your hands. That’s right, isn’t it, Daisy? – I beg your pardon, Mrs Constantine, I should say.’

‘You should say nothing of the sort, Nettie – unless I call you Mrs Bunch in return. Anyway, it’s lovely to be called Daisy again. Nobody calls me that now.’

‘I used to look after this lady before I got married,’ she says to the children, wiping their hands with a damp cloth while keeping her eyes on me. ‘And look how fine she’s got – although I wish she wasn’t quite so thin!’ Her eyes take in my gaunt face, my bony fingers. ‘Tell Mr Constantine he’ll have to feed you up.’

I think of the unfinished meals, the waste on the breakfast table. ‘I’ll do my best.’ I watch her settle the children around the table. ‘But why didn’t you ever come to see me again? Why didn’t you ever write? I thought about you all the time.’ As I speak, I realize how the injustice of it still burns in me.

‘I thought about you too – and my little Benjy (not you, my love, another Benjy). But when you loses your place there’s a lot of things to do to get another one, and every time I thought about you I started to get weepy, so I put my mind elsewhere and just hoped and prayed you was being well looked after by the new nursemaid.’

‘Oh, she was utterly dreadful.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me that, Daisy!’ she cries, her face a picture of horror. ‘That was my one consolation!’

‘Well,’ I say, modifying my words. ‘The fact is that she didn’t like me.’

‘How could anyone not like
you
?’

I laugh. ‘Easily enough, I think. Mama said I was secretive, and you know how horrid my sisters could be. You were the only one who was always on my side.’

We smile at each other, and the years drop away.

After Nettie has made the tea and cut each small cake into two and given each child a portion, she and I take the wooden armchairs next to the fire, the drying clothes having been deftly whisked away.

‘So when did you come back to Oxfordshire?’ I ask, as I sip my tea. ‘I thought you were in London.’

‘London? Why ever did you think that, Daisy? I’ve never been to London in my life.’

‘But you said if you were looking after children in London, you wouldn’t have time to come and see me.’

‘Oh, I expect when I said it I just wanted to get as far away as possible – after all that terrible business on the river, I mean. No, I went home to Wallingford. I hadn’t seen much of my ma and I wanted time to find a new position. I went to work for another minister, after that – a Baptist in Bicester.’

‘A Baptist! Papa would have been annoyed.’

‘Well, if your pa had kept me on, there’d have been no need for me to go there. I even offered to work for nothing, but he wouldn’t have it. I don’t blame him, really, but I did miss you so much! Mr Protheroe was quite different, very quiet, with a cripple for a wife and just one little girl of seven, very moody. It was a bit tedious to tell you the truth, but beggars can’t be choosers. I was only there a couple of years, and then I met Mr Bunch at St Giles’s Fair. We got courting, and then we married and I moved here with him. He used to be a servant in one of the colleges, what they call a scout. But it’s not a job for married men. And anyway Mr Bunch weren’t fit enough after he fell down the stairs. They’re stone stairs in the colleges you know, Daisy, ever so worn and slippery –’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen them. I used to go to tea every week with Mr Jameson.’

‘Well then, you can imagine what it would do to your back to fall down a whole flight of them. Mr Bunch was off for weeks, and when he did go back he couldn’t carry the coal scuttles or make the beds or carry the wine up from the cellars – and that’s the main part of the job. He’d been at the college since he was a boy, but they still give him notice.’

‘Oh, Nettie, how unfair!’

‘Well, I have to admit they do what they can for him, casual work and such, and we’re grateful for it. There’s not much work round here except for the colleges – and he has to do all sorts to make ends meet – sharpening tools door-to-door and suchlike. But there’s a big dinner tonight and so the Bursar has called him in to help wait at the High Table. That’ll be a few extra shillings.’

‘Oh, Nettie, how do you manage?’ I say, thinking how easily I can spend a few shillings. ‘But what about Billy and Lizzie? Don’t you get paid for looking after them?’

‘Not really. Their mother used to live in half a house around the corner, but she was put out on the street for not paying the rent. She come and asked me to mind the children while she looked for work, and I couldn’t say no, not with those two poor things looking up at me. She promised to pay me regular as soon as she got herself some employment. That was eighteen months ago, and I’ve never heard from her since. She was a bit flighty, to tell you the truth, and I think the children are better off without her. The things they’ve told me – you wouldn’t credit it! Some children are dragged up any old how. We should thank our lucky stars that we were both brought up right.’

I am sorely tempted to tell her. I take a breath, but I can’t find the words, and the room is full of children. I glance at Billy and Lizzie, fighting surreptitiously over the last piece of cake. ‘So, you’re keeping those two for nothing, Nettie?’

‘No, Daisy, I’m keeping them for love.’ She looks across at them with the old fond look I remember so well. And I wish again that I could have kept her close through all my growing up. I’m sure she would have protected me from harm. I long to nuzzle into her shoulder, climb on her lap, have her tell me that everything will be all right.

But now she wants me to talk about Mr Jameson. She’s saying she’d heard he was quite famous now, and that he’d written books for children, which everyone had read, including Queen Victoria, although he still went on living in those same old college rooms day after day.

‘You seem to know quite a lot about him, Nettie.’

‘I gets the news from Charley – Mr Bunch I mean.’

‘And how does
he
know?’

‘Oh, didn’t I say? He used to work in Mr Jameson’s college. He even used to help out Mr Jameson’s scout –’

‘Benson, you mean?’

‘That rings a bell. Anyway, that’s where he is today – helping get ready for the dinner.’

‘So,’ I say teasingly, ‘all these years you’ve known about
Daisy’s Daydream
, but never once come to see the real Daisy?’

‘I
did
come once. A long time ago.’ She looks down at her hands.

‘To our house?’

She nods. ‘You and Benjy was so much in my mind at first that I couldn’t settle to anything. I’d just started with Mr Protheroe and as soon as I had half a day off, I took the train back to Oxford and walked up to Westwood Gardens.’

‘Did Mama let you in?’

‘I didn’t go to the front door, silly goose. I went round the back and saw Cook and Hannah. They said Benjy was in the drawing room with your mama and that you had gone out with Mr Jameson. They said you were always out with Mr Jameson and that you talked of nothing else but what you had done and what you would do next. “Is she happy, then?” I said. And Hannah said, “Like a dog with two tails.” So I was satisfied, and went home. I thought it better not to write, to bring up old memories.’

‘Oh, Nettie, how I wish I’d known! I thought you didn’t care about me!’

‘Well, now you know I did. It’s all water under the bridge now. You’ve grown up and got married and are as happy as you deserve.’

I flush. ‘I’m not sure I am – deserving, I mean.
You
are more deserving, Nettie, and yet you have no money and your husband isn’t well. Where’s the fairness in that?’

‘Oh my, you haven’t changed. Always wanting to know why things are the way they are and not how they should be!’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘We’re happy, that’s the main thing.’ And I see that she is indeed happy, and that her children are happy, and I am sure her husband, in spite of his infirmity, is happy too. And I, with my nice clothes and nice house and healthy husband, am completely miserable.

‘I haven’t spoken to Mr Jameson since I was eleven,’ I say, putting down my cup and watching as Nettie picks a piece of linen from the big pile beside her and starts to hem it. Her needle flies in and out like quicksilver, just as I remember. ‘We went everywhere together that summer, and had such jolly times.’

‘Oh, I read about them. Everybody in the world has read about what Daisy did on her summer afternoons.’

‘Well,’ I say, laughing. ‘I didn’t quite do all the things he wrote about – at least I never remember going to sea with the Fatted Calf. But I did enjoy Mr Jameson’s company. I was so upset when he stopped coming to see me. Not quite as upset as when
you
left, Nettie, but at least I knew why you went. I couldn’t understand why John Jameson gave me up.’

‘Gave you up?’

‘He simply came to the house one day and announced that I was getting too old for him.’