After Such Kindness (33 page)

‘Too old? At eleven? My, he’s a strange one.’

‘He was always very nice to me. But I don’t think Mama wanted to see him any more.’

‘Even after he’d saved poor Benjy’s life? Dear, dear, I
am
surprised! But what did your pa think? Him and Mr Jameson was the best of friends – at least that’s how it seemed to me.’ She finishes the seam and breaks the thread with her teeth before starting again.

‘But did you never hear what happened?’ I ask, thinking that surely some rumour of it had got to her.

‘Oh, you don’t get Oxford news in Wallingford,’ she says, laughing. ‘And since I married Mr B, I haven’t gone further than St Aidan’s, let alone all the way into Oxford. And I don’t go to St Aidan’s as often as I should. Mr Constantine don’t mind, though. He says I’m doing God’s work with the little children and as long as we all pray every day – which we do – it’s just as good as going to church.’

Suddenly I imagine Robert here in this house with Nettie’s children around him, smiling and handing out apples. I imagine him taking Benjy – or Daisy – on his knee, and reading them a story. I imagine him thinking that one day he’ll have children of his own to love. I see him full of optimism and joy. And now I have spoiled it all.

‘What’s the matter?’ Nettie asks, quick as always to spot my changes of mood.

‘Nothing. I like to hear you say nice things about my husband.’

She laughs. ‘Well, you’ll soon be hearing a lot more about him if you get out and about in the parish. I’m sure you don’t mind me saying, but lots of people thought he was a bit solemn at the start, a bit bookish – but he’s set to and no mistake. He’s never afraid to get his hands dirty. But you were going to tell me about your pa. I don’t hold him no grudge, you know, in spite of what he done.’

‘He was ill, Nettie.’ I take a breath. ‘More than ill. He had to go to an asylum.’

Nettie stops sewing and looks up. ‘An asylum? Oh, Daisy.’ She lowers her voice. ‘You don’t mean – not a
lunatic
asylum?’ I can hear the utter disbelief in her voice. ‘I hope it wasn’t for long.’

‘Ten years, Nettie. He died there, in fact.’

She puts her hand in front of her mouth just as she did on the riverbank all those years ago, her face the same picture of horror. ‘Oh, Daisy, how dreadful! Oh, poor man. And your mother and sisters and all of you – what a time you must have had! And me sitting here all this time and knowing nothing!’ She shakes her head.

‘And now there’ll be a new vicar, and all new servants except for Matthews, and a new nurse in the nursery. Everything will be changed, Nettie. Everything.’ A sob rises in my throat. ‘There’s nothing left of the old times – no curtains or beds or wardrobes or tables
. . .
’

‘Beds and tables! You’re not upsetting yourself about
furniture
, are you?’ She laughs. ‘Not when you’ve got a whole new life to look forward to.’

‘It’s not just the beds and the tables.’ I weep, unable to control myself now. The sight of her neat frock and her kind motherly face is just too much for me. My words come out in a rush. ‘If only you hadn’t left us! Everything went wrong after that! Mrs McQueen came and Mr Jameson took the photographs and I cut my hair and was ill with scarlet fever, and Mama went away and Papa saw the photos and Mama wouldn’t listen and then I forgot everything that happened and when I came to myself, Papa was locked away, and I married Robert thinking I’d be happy because he was so kind – but we’re not at all happy – and now he’s seen the photographs and thinks I did something wrong and doesn’t want to be married to me any more! And now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do at all!’

I’m aware that she is getting up, and the children are disappearing from the room as if by magic. The next thing her warm, plump arm is around me. ‘Tell me again,’ she says. ‘But calmly this time, Daisy. So I can understand.’

So I start to tell her about the summer with Mr Jameson, and how nice he always was, and how he seemed to understand me. ‘Almost as much as you did, Nettie,’ I say. I tell her about cutting my hair and how Mama hated it, but Papa seemed to like it. And then I tell her how Mr Jameson had taken my photograph, dressed in different costumes. ‘And sometimes as a cherub. You know,’ I say, watching her face. ‘With no clothes on.’

She frowns. ‘No clothes at all?’

‘Well, wings and so forth. But it was art, Nettie. As if I was in a painting.’

‘I see.’ She looks dubious. ‘But what did your mother think of this “art”, then?’

I can’t suppress the blush. ‘She didn’t know. Mr Jameson said she might not understand.’

‘It sounds a bit peculiar to me. But then, you were only eleven. And he was a clergyman after all. He wouldn’t have done nothing wrong.’

‘I don’t think that being a clergyman makes you always right,’ I say. ‘I think that clergymen are just like the rest of us. And some are worse.’

‘Oh, Daisy, surely not. You only have to look at Mr Constantine,’ she says. ‘Or even your own father.’

‘How can you say that, Nettie? Papa turned you out, and he didn’t care how terribly I’d miss you and how Benjy would cry for you all that time. He seemed to think that as long as I had a maid of some kind it didn’t matter who it was. As if being a child meant I wasn’t quite a human being. As if I didn’t notice things. As if I didn’t feel as deeply about things as he did!’

‘My, my, Daisy!’ She gives a rueful laugh. ‘I can see you’re still angry about it after all this time. It don’t do no good, though, keeping bad feelings alive like that. It poisons your mind. I’ve had to forget it. So should you.’

‘I did forget it for a long time, Nettie. I told you. I forgot everything that had happened during
four whole years
.’

‘Four
years
? But, Daisy, however can you forget four
years
?’

‘I don’t know, Nettie! But it happened. One moment I was ill with scarlet fever and Papa was looking after me – and the next thing I was fifteen years old and Papa was in the asylum, Mr Morton was in charge, and Robert was coming to visit every day. Robert was very kind to me, Nettie. Very kind indeed. And when he asked to marry me, I thought it was the right thing to do.’

‘I can’t imagine a better match.’

‘Everyone said that. And I thought everyone must be right. And I do love him, Nettie. But when he comes near me,
in that way
, and holds me and kisses me – I feel almost sick. Our wedding night – oh, Nettie, it was dreadful! I wouldn’t let him near me. And we still haven’t – you know.’ I start to cry again.

She pats my hand. ‘Now, now, don’t upset yourself. Many a bride’s got herself into a panic on her wedding night. I was a bit taken aback myself. It’s all so very
surprising
, isn’t it? But Mr Bunch was good to me and things worked themselves out in the end. In fact,’ she says with a little smile, ‘I quite enjoy it now.’

I dry my eyes. I imagine Nettie and the unknown Mr Bunch happily embracing in the upstairs bedroom, and I know that it is the most natural thing on earth. But I also know that, when I saw Robert coming towards me that night, it didn’t seem natural at all. It seemed like the worst kind of nightmare, and all I could think of was Papa coming towards me; Papa kissing me and showing himself to me and putting his hands in my secret places, so that I wanted to faint away with the fear and shame of it all. But I can’t tell Nettie. Much as I want to, I can’t find the words. As I look at her kind and honest face, I almost believe it didn’t happen. ‘I can’t tell you the worst,’ I say at last.

‘Come now, Daisy, you’ve got this far. I’m sure you’ll be all the better for getting the whole lot off your chest. It’s about them photographs, isn’t it?’

I almost welcome the diversion. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s the photographs. Robert thinks I was wrong to let John Jameson take them. He thinks I’m tainted.’

‘
Tainted?
My Daisy
tainted
? Wherever did he get that idea? I mean, I can understand a man not liking to think his wife had showed herself to another man, even if she was a child – even if it was “art” – and I’m not at all sure Mr Jameson should have asked you, not without asking your Mama first. But to say you were
tainted
! It’s like you were a piece of bad meat. Shame on him!’ She pauses, bristling with indignation. But then she softens. ‘But on the other hand, I suppose Mr Constantine had that high an opinion of you in the first place that he thought you could do no wrong. It’d come as a shock, then – this “art”.’

‘I didn’t do any wrong, Nettie. At least, not –’

She interrupts. ‘You see, men can be very touchy when it comes to – things like that. They gets put off their stroke. I wouldn’t mind betting that Mr Constantine is regretting his words, now. All you needs to do is show him that you love him. Put your arms around him. Give him a kiss. You’ll find he’ll forgive you. And then things’ll come natural after that.’

She makes it sound so easy. But she doesn’t know the depths of the divide between us. ‘It’s not just the photographs,’ I say. ‘There’s more, Nettie. It’s much, much worse.’

But I struggle once more to find the words. It almost seems as if what happened with Papa took place in a different world. A world where nobody could be trusted and nothing was as it seemed. Whereas now, with Nettie here in front of me, I’m in the ordinary world, the one in which everyone is kind and responsible and where such thoughts seem almost heresy. ‘I’m sorry, Nettie, but it’s too horrible to talk about!’

‘Not too horrible for Nettie, surely? And you know a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’ I can’t help smiling at Nettie’s affection for the proverbial: all the things that will come out in the wash and the inadvisability of crying over spilled milk. She sits beside me and draws me close, composing herself to hear my tale of woe.

‘I’m afraid you’ll blame me, and take Papa’s side.’

‘Now, when did I ever take your pa’s side?’ She hugs me again.

I know that if I’m ever to tell anyone, it will be Nettie. And if there is any time to tell her, it must be now. And so I explain how Papa began to act strangely; how he seemed to notice me for the first time after I cut my hair; how I had to go to him every day in his study to do my catechism and he’d show me all his sermons and the photographs of himself when he was young. ‘He wasn’t the least bit frightening – and he made me feel special. We were special to each other, he said. Our love was a special kind. And after I was ill, he told me I’d saved him and that he’d saved me in return. He said that we were bound together for ever. Nothing should come between us, he said – not Mama or Mr Jameson, and –’ I whisper ‘–
certainly not clothes
.’

I sense Nettie’s body stiffen. But I carry on, my heart thumping, my mouth so dry it is difficult to speak. ‘I’d always sit on his lap when he read to me, and after a while he’d ask me to take my stockings off and sometimes my drawers, so we could be really close. As close as it was possible to be. I didn’t like it, but he always made me. And he’d take some of his own clothes off – his waistcoat and his –’

Nettie stops me, her fingers pressed hard on my lips. Her eyes are fierce with horror. ‘What are you saying?’ she gasps. ‘Oh, Daisy, think, girl,
what are you saying
?’

Indeed, what am I saying? Is this simply part of the nightmare in my head, without an ounce of truth in it? But hot tears roll down my cheeks as I feel myself back with Papa, back in the study with the door locked and the pocket watch ticking never-endingly.

Nettie pulls me to her breast, and I feel how wonderful it is to be touched and held by someone I trust. ‘There, there, my dearest,’ she murmurs. ‘But are you, you know –
really sure
?’

The comfort of her arms drains away. ‘Oh, Nettie, do you think I am making it up!’

She rocks me, now, and I can sense that she doesn’t know what to say. ‘Well, Daisy,’ she says at last. ‘I know you were the truthfullest child ever. But are you sure you’re not remembering things wrong? You always had such an imagination. And to think Mr Baxter should do such wicked things – a Man of God like him – well, I can’t credit it.’

My heart sinks. ‘So you
do
think I’m making it all up?’

‘I’m not saying that,’ she says, although, clearly, she is. ‘I knows such things goes on. Men can be very wicked, Daisy. Very wicked indeed. Even in respectable families. I’ve known servant girls disgraced by their masters, and babies born out of wedlock and all sorts. It’s just that your papa was a clergyman – and not at all
like that
, and I was in the house for nearly twelve years. I know he had his faults – but he was always most respectful of us women servants and never tried to do anything he shouldn’t. And you’d have known straight off if he’d been that way inclined, with a girl like Hannah flaunting her wares. And why would he have done such things to a child? To his own daughter, too? He had a lovely wife and he always spoke so wonderful about the little children on a Sunday:
For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven
. And you knew he meant it.’

I start to cry again, mangling my handkerchief. And Nettie carries on rocking me, as if she might rock away all my evil thoughts. ‘Maybe you mistook his meaning. After all, fathers can hold their children and love them, can’t they? Mr Bunch has my Daisy on his lap most nights, playing and giving her kisses.’

‘But that close, Nettie? Touching me
that close
?’

She’s flustered now, out of her depth. ‘Perhaps your papa was just a bit too, well, overpowering in the way he went about it. You were always very fussy about kissing people, as I recall. You wouldn’t kiss your Uncle Bertie for love nor money.’

‘He had a wet mouth and smelled of rum. And that was just kissing; don’t you understand? This was
more than kissing
, Nettie.’

Nettie desperately tries a new tack. ‘Well, maybe when you lost your memory that time, things came back all jumbled up. Perhaps it was Mr Jameson who did something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps
that’s
what you remember – Mr Jameson, not your father at all. I mean, he was the one taking pictures of you without your clothes on. Are you sure it wasn’t
him
as touched you?’