After Such Kindness (4 page)

I sink onto the threadbare rug, careless of my fine new honeymoon frock, and open it.There on the flyleaf, reassuringly bland, is the greeting from my parents:
To our dear Daisy on her eleventh birthday
. It’s in my father’s handwriting, precise and firm, and the roots of my hair ripple a little with remembrance. And underneath, in my own unformed copperplate, I’ve recorded my full name and address with exceptional neatness. I can still remember how I measured each line to make sure that the words fitted in exactly.

I turn the page. And there it is: my very first entry, the same clear, pencilled writing.

Saturday 7th June 1862. My birthday.

All sorts of things have happened today. I had some extremely nice presents and my friends came for a picnic, and Mr Jameson and Papa punted us up the river further than we have ever been. It was all extremely exilarating. But then just when I thought nothing could be more perfect, it was all spoiled.

(Oh, dear God, of course – the fateful birthday party. And the even more fateful trip up the river. It was the day that my friendship with John Jameson started in earnest, the day when I noticed him properly for the first time.)

Mama says we must all be grateful that it wasn’t worse. And I am, of course, although I wish it hadn’t happened on my birthday all the same. Nettie said I was Tempting Fate with my parasol, which made me think the accident was a little bit my fault, although Mr Jameson said it was no such thing, which I hope is true. (I can’t write more as Nettie is looking at me with a pretend glare and saying I must go straight to bed
this minute,
so I have to leave off until tomorrow.)

Signed, Daisy Elizabeth Baxter (aged eleven).

PS This journal was a present from Mama and Papa but I had a
much
superior present from Mr Jameson. I will write more anon.

How it all comes back: my eleventh birthday and the picnic treat I’d been promised for so long. It had taken weeks to plan. Mama had asked me what I wished to include in the luncheon hamper, and I’d thought about it every day for weeks, consulting poor Nettie at tedious length before deciding on poached salmon, potted shrimps, roast chicken, egg-and-cress sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, sugar buns and cream jellies. My mother had smiled when she read the list and said she wouldn’t promise that there would be
absolutely
everything I’d asked for, but that she was sure Cook would do her best to oblige. I’d also been allowed to invite three of my friends – but only three, as my two older sisters and baby brother were to be of the party; and with my parents, Nettie and Mr Jameson, we would more than fill the two hired punts. By chance – or so it seemed – my very best friends happened to number exactly three, and I’d been very excited to hand them stiff white invitation cards with all the details inscribed, and a request for an RSVP to Miss Daisy Baxter at St Cyprian’s Vicarage, Westwood Gardens, Oxford. All three had sent back equally grown-up cards saying they would be delighted to accept, and we’d spent every minute between our lessons with Miss Prentiss talking about the outing – what we would be wearing, and what we would do to entertain ourselves. My father had said he had a secret up his sleeve ‘for our delectation’, and I was dying to know what it was. I was looking forward to the whole thing so much I was practically sick with nerves. I was particularly worried about the weather. If it rained, Papa said, we could not go on the river, as getting drenched was ‘dismal stuff’, and an alternative picnic would be held at home instead, maybe in the summerhouse, with games later in the drawing room with the carpet rolled back. I could hardly bear to contemplate so tame an option, and prayed every night that the weather would be fine.

In fact, the day dawned so bright it seemed as if the air were made of solid sunlight. When I opened my eyes, I could see the slopes of the nursery ceiling almost shimmering in the heat, and the air was already warm. I pushed back the bedclothes and rushed to the window, slipping my head under the muslin and standing on tiptoes to gaze out. Ahead of me was the bright blue sky – not a single cloud – and directly below me, the garden. It seemed a long way down, with the flower borders, and the line of the hedge, and the summerhouse and the croquet lawn all as small and neat as items in a toy village. Matthews was already watering the beds, and the boy was on his knees pulling up weeds and putting them in a barrow next to him on the lawn. ‘Oh, Nettie,’ I cried out excitedly. ‘We’ll be able to go on the river. The weather has stayed fine after all!’

‘That’s because you’ve been a good girl all year, Miss Daisy. The Lord has rewarded you,’ said Nettie, coming up behind me and putting her hands on my shoulders. I could feel her warm, comfy chest against my back as she pulled me towards her, swaying a little. ‘Now, make sure you thank Him properly when you say your prayers tonight.’

‘Oh, I will!’ I replied. I’d prayed so often for it to be fine, it would have been churlish to forget my thanks now that my request had been granted. I was sure I would have no trouble at all in remembering, but I whispered a quick intermediate prayer against the windowpane just in case God was under the impression I did not appreciate His goodness.

After I’d washed my hands, Nettie said I might have breakfast in my petticoat as there was no point in putting on my day dress just to take it off again later, and even more foolish to put on my best dress with the chance of getting it dirty, which she wouldn’t thank me for. So I sat at the nursery table feeling strangely free and cool with my bare arms and neck, and helped myself to bread-and-butter and jam. Nettie was busy making up a porridgy mess for my brother, and whenever her attention was elsewhere, I quickly dipped the jammy slices into my glass of milk before putting them in my mouth. I suspected she saw me, but she pretended not to, partly because it was my birthday and also because I was in my petticoat with nothing pretty to spoil. When the porridge was ready, she took Benjy from his cot, sat him on her lap, and began to spoon it into his mouth. He wasn’t at all interested and kept turning his head to look at me, holding out his hand and gurgling, so that the spoon traced a porridgy line across his cheeks from mouth to ear, in a shape rather like Papa’s whiskers.

‘Do you know what day it is?’ I asked him after a while, unable to contain my joy. He didn’t reply, of course, but he smiled at me and gave a little shouty noise, and I put my head close to his and gave him a kiss. ‘It’s my birthday!’ I whispered. ‘And we are going to have the best treat ever! A picnic
miles
up the river with all my favourite things to eat. Only you must be very good and not cry, as that makes Papa cross and then everyone is miserable.’

It was a mistake to go so close to him. He grabbed my curl-papers with his sticky hands and pulled so hard that my eyes watered. The curl-paper came right off and a lock of porridgy hair flopped down into my eye.

‘Serves you right for interfering with the child,’ said Nettie. ‘Don’t blame me now if your front curls won’t sit straight.’ But she put Benjy in his high chair and took a wet comb and wound the curl-paper up again really tight. ‘That’ll soon dry in the heat,’ she said. ‘Not that I knows why we has to dress up in order to go and sit on the grass for hours on end when a body has work to get on with.’

I knew Nettie was not altogether keen on this picnic party. Or at least she thought that she and Benjy would be better to stay at home. ‘The child doesn’t like the heat, Mrs Baxter,’ she’d said to my mother a couple of days before. ‘And he’ll be fussing all day.’

But it was no good. ‘The vicar wishes the entire family to be there,’ said my mother. ‘There can be no argument, Nurse. Take plenty of cooling drinks and a sun bonnet. I’m sure you can manage perfectly well. You always do.’ And Nettie said no more.

After I had washed my face and hands, Nettie had laid out my best frock on the bed together with my new white stockings, and Hannah came up from the boot room with my newly polished shoes. ‘All the servants wishes you the best, Miss Daisy,’ she said, dropping a quick curtsey. ‘You’ve got a lovely day for it.’

After she left, I kept an eye on the door, hoping my parents or sisters would come up to the nursery to offer their good wishes as well. I was even hoping to have a present or two, although my mother always told me not to be greedy and never to expect anything, so I was trying to be grateful for what I already had, which was so much more than the poor children had, especially if they were in Africa or India. And of course the picnic was a great thing in itself. ‘I wonder if Mama and Papa will come up,’ I said idly to Nettie. Then, with a sudden feeling of horror, I added, ‘You don’t think they’ve forgotten, do you?’

‘Course not, miss. It’s just that your ma and pa are very busy with all the arrangements just at the minute. It’s like a madhouse in the kitchen, I can tell you.’ But she must have seen the disappointment in my eyes, as she hesitated and added, ‘But I’ve got a little something for you to be going on with. It’s from me and Master Benjy.’ She went to the big chest of drawers and took out a lumpy parcel wrapped in red and white paper, with a red ribbon around it and a large label tied on with string:
Best Wishes on Your
Birthday from Your Brother Benjy and Loving Nursemaid Nettie.
It was quite light, and the wrapping was awkwardly put on, with blobs of sealing wax holding the edges together. I broke the wax and pulled the paper away. Inside was the most perfect India-rubber ball, all the colours mixing together like the patterns in the marble columns at church. It was much nicer than the plain red one belonging to my sisters, which they wouldn’t let me play with even when they were sitting down doing nothing. ‘We might want to play at any moment,’ they’d say. ‘And you’d be sure to lose it.’

‘Oh, thank you so much,’ I said, putting my arms around Nettie. ‘I shall treasure it for ever and ever.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. Just don’t go losing it,’ she said, looking cross and pleased at the same time.

At a quarter past nine, Nettie, Benjy and I went downstairs. I had on my best white dress with blue piping and a blue silk sash, and was already feeling very hot. Nettie had put more ribbons than usual in my hair so as to fix the ringlets in position, but I knew the curls would be out before the end of the day, especially once I’d put on my straw hat. It was the absolute sinful desire of my life to have natural curls like my sisters. Each strand of their hair was always very well-behaved and fell in exactly the same way at the end of the day as at the beginning. I watched them now, sitting demurely side by side on the piano stool, wearing grown-up dresses with extremely puffed sleeves and with silver bangles around their wrists. They always seemed so much older than me, although Christiana was only fifteen and a half and Sarah a year younger. They were both tall, like Papa, whereas I was small for my age and, to my continued mortification, always being mistaken for someone much younger. Mama looked ravishing as usual. I remember Papa said: ‘My dear, you look ravishing,’ when she came into the room with her dainty print frock and straw hat, and carrying a furled parasol. She smiled and said he looked handsome too. He’d taken off his clerical collar and was wearing a light-coloured coat – suitable, he said, for the exertions of the river.

Mr Jameson, by contrast, was wearing his usual dark suit and a shirt with a very high collar. He looked ill at ease and I couldn’t help wondering if he was really capable of steering the punt all those extra miles upriver that Papa had promised. My father was strong, and I knew from previous excursions that he was able to negotiate a punt under every kind of bridge and overhanging tree. But Mr Jameson was rather a weedy fellow, and I felt he might make a hash of it. I didn’t really like him; he rarely spoke when I was in the room, although he always seemed to be looking at me, taking notice of everything I said and did, as if he were committing it to memory. I was always afraid he was going to ask me a difficult question about geography or arithmetic, but so far he hadn’t. He came to our house two or three times a week to talk about important things with Papa, and was, as Mama said, ‘quite a fixture’ in the drawing room. When the expedition was first being planned, he’d offered his services immediately, and no one had liked to ask him if he were capable of managing a boatful of people for a whole afternoon. As a result we were rather stuck with him.

My father was standing in the centre of the drawing room and when we were all assembled, he addressed us as if he were in his pulpit, although smiling a good deal more. ‘Our dear little Daisy is eleven years old today, and we are celebrating her birthday in a way in which I hope she – and all of us – will remember for many years to come. And now, a small gift to commemorate the occasion.’ And he took a rectangular parcel down from the top of the piano and presented it to me. ‘From your loving parents. We hope you will make good use of it.’

‘Thank you, Papa. And Mama.’ I kissed them both, then pulled the pretty wrapping open very carefully. I knew it was a book, a very heavy one, and was excited to think which of my favourite stories it would be – or indeed if it would be a new one I’d never read. It was a handsome red and gold volume, but it had no title and, when I opened the cover, I discovered all the pages were blank, except for the faint, ruled lines clearly waiting to be filled. I wanted to weep with disappointment, but held my chin firm.

‘It’s a journal, Daisy,’ said my father, in explanation. ‘And, as its name suggests, it is for daily use. It is never too early to learn habits of reflection and contemplation and, as such, it is an invaluable aid for recording the successes and failures of one’s battle towards self-improvement in this life.’

My sisters smiled brightly at me, as if echoing these sentiments. I couldn’t recall whether they themselves had been given journals for their eleventh birthdays and, if so, whether they had taken the trouble to write in them daily. Since they had moved out of the nursery years before I knew little of what went on in their lives. They had their meals downstairs, and no longer shared the services of Nettie; Hannah now seeing to their clothes and hair. However, Mama could see I was dismayed, and touched my hand, adding, ‘You’re so very good at reading, Daisy, and although your spelling can be a little uncertain, Miss Prentiss says all your essays show great imagination and have such excellent punctuation! We thought it would be nice for you to have somewhere to write down whatever you pleased. You could record all about the picnic, for example.’