The Snow Globe (17 page)

“I was looking at that earlier . . . it's rather beautiful,” he said.

“The birds?”

“No, the globe.”

“I used to think that, too. I used to think it was magical.”

“And now you don't?” he asked, moving toward her.

“No, I don't . . . I don't trust it.”

She picked it up, gently shook it. And as she watched the tiny snowflakes fall upon the tiny Eden Hall, she felt his breath on the side of her face as he asked, “And why do you no longer trust it?”

“Because it's an illusion.”

As she placed the globe back down on the table she felt something graze her cheek and turned. He didn't flinch, didn't speak. He didn't smile and neither did she. Her heart did not pound; the earth did not give way. And when he placed his mouth over hers, she closed her eyes and imagined Stephen.

The landlord rang the bell again: “Last orders,
per-leeze
!”

Stephen raised his head and glanced around the pub. There
were still a few: the couple sitting beneath glinting horse brasses in the snug by the fire, holding hands; and others up at the bar. He smiled at the old bearded chap seated near him, then looked back at the girl, her elbows propped on the wooden counter in front of him: a strawberry blond blur, all eyes and red lips.

“I'll be finishing soon,” she said. “So don't you go rushing off anywhere.”

She stood up, ran her hands over her waist, her hips. “There's plenty of sloe gin and baccy at my house,” she said, moving away, winking at him.

He tried to smile. He'd forgotten her name.

“I'm sorry . . . I didn't intend to do that,” Val said, stepping away from Daisy. “Forgive me.”

They walked through to the hallway and stood in awkward silence at the foot of the stairs. He bowed his head, “Good night, Daisy,” he said, and he waited as she went up first.

But there was no way she was going to be able to sleep. She felt the same as she did after she'd had that revolting tarlike coffee the last time she'd been in London and she and her mother had met Iris: her heart beating quickly, her mind veering off in every direction.

Inside her room, Daisy paced in circles. She'd been kissed. She'd been kissed at last, but not by the one she had wanted to kiss her. The one she wanted to kiss her said he loved her but seemed reluctant to kiss her. The one she didn't want to kiss said he might love her and that he wanted to marry her. And the one she
had
kissed considered it a mistake.

Moving in circles, round and round, Daisy's thoughts returned to one person: his face, his look of despondence when she'd realized the time and jumped up. She had never said,
I love you . . . I love you, too.

She stopped, closed her eyes: She had not given him anything. She'd simply said, “I'm sorry, I have to go.” That was all.

She glanced at the clock by her bed, then picked up her coat.

“It's Tabitha,” she said again.

She had linked her arm through Stephen's, and all he felt was its weight.

“Just look at them stars,” she said, halting abruptly on the snow-covered road and lowering the beam of her torch. “There'll be no more snow tonight.”

Stephen was no longer sure of exactly where they were, or of where they were headed, and at that moment he didn't care.

“I've always quite fancied you, you know,” Tabitha began again as they gingerly moved on. “Yes, I quite like the silent types, me . . . Still waters run deep, my mother says . . . It's a film, you know? . . . Came out in the war, I think . . . Some of those old ones are ever so good . . . I love the pictures, me . . . The Regal get good films now, you know . . . Yes, all the new ones . . . Laurel and Hardy, Charlie Chaplin and that other funny one, the one who falls over all the time,” she said, beginning to giggle at the mere thought of the nameless man. “We could go there, you and me . . . Saturday matinee . . . I love the Saturday matinees, me . . . They have Mrs. Peabody on the piano then; she's ever so good . . .”

On and on and on,
Stephen thought. Tabitha was certainly
not
a silent type, and yet the incessant flow of her words was strangely comforting to him.

“So what do you say? Shall we?”

“Yes . . . why not,” he said.

As she gripped his arm tighter, he briefly wondered what he'd just agreed to, but it didn't matter: He'd be gone from there soon enough. Probably never see the girl again. He felt a vague twinge of guilt. He said, “But I can't make any promises, not at the moment.”

“Well,” she said, “I hadn't expected any promises, Stephen Jessop . . . at least, not yet.”

The next thing Stephen knew he was on his back with a giggling Tabitha sprawled half on top of him. And he was laughing too. Laughing up at the night sky and the hopelessness of his situation: because right at that moment it was funny, all of it. That he had asked Daisy Forbes to consider running away with him to New Zealand, that he'd told her he loved her, that he'd thought—imagined—she'd agree: It was so funny that for a while Stephen could barely breathe. When he did finally stop laughing, he heard Tabitha say his name in a new voice. Then she took his hand and pulled it inside her coat, her blouse, and onto her breast.

The flesh was soft and warm, and a million stars shone overhead. “Daisy,” he whispered.

The door was unlocked, the light in the lobby still on, and Daisy moved quickly up the stairs.

“Stephen . . .”

She crossed over the sitting room, knocked and then opened another door. A wrought-iron bed with a knot of blankets, two impoverished pillows and a pair of discarded long johns lying upon it took up most of the room. A small chest of drawers leaned at an angle next to it, butting up against the low window. There was no wardrobe, no space for a wardrobe or for anything else, but pinned on the wall above the bed—slightly torn, frayed along its edges and creased from folds—was a map of the world, a third of it shaded pink.

She moved over to the chest. Scattered on its surface were a few pennies, a packet of cigarette papers and a pamphlet titled
Discover New Zealand
.
She picked up the pamphlet, casting her eyes over the color picture on the front: a man and a woman walking arm in arm toward green mountains. Then she saw the piece of paper and her name, “Dear Daisy . . .”

The writing was slanted, difficult to read and dated two days before, the fateful day she'd learned of her father's infidelity.

Dear Daisy,

I have loved you for so long I can't begin to remember. And I pretty much reckon that I know you better than most and that I love you more than anyone—because I love ALL of you, everything about you. The way you speak and say my name, the way you raise one side of your perfect mouth when you smile and then look downward. I love your dimple, the tiny mole on your cheek beneath your left eye, those tiny fine hairs that curl along your high brow and that one strand you pull at and wind round
your finger. And your fingers, every one of them, and each thumb, and the way you blow your hair away from the side of your mouth before you speak, and the way you walk—with your shoulders sometimes hunched up around your ears, deep in thought. And the way you stare at things, even a dried-up leaf, examining it as though it's one of the Seven Wonders of the World. I love that you come to me and ask me stuff, and then come back and ask me again. I love that you talk to yourself and the mad old clothes you wear, that old fur coat you wander about in, and all those hats, and your bare feet in summer, your bare feet in summer walking on grass . . . And the shape of you, sound of you, color of you

Her hands shook; her eyes burned. She put down the letter, placed the pamphlet over it. Then she turned, ran back through the room and down the narrow staircase.

It was an exquisite morning, Daisy thought as she waited for the others to assemble outside. The temperature had risen overnight and a white mist hung over the hill, splintered by thin yellow shafts from the pale sun. The air was filled with the susurration of melting snow, the drip-drip sound from branches and icicles.

“Miles can
walk
,” announced Lily, scowling as she emerged from the house with her husband trailing after her.

“Well, I'm certainly not walking in these shoes,” said Iris, following them both out, a dead fox hanging from her shoulder, and, for once, wearing a dress.

“I'll walk with Miles,” Daisy offered quickly.

“I'd prefer to walk, too,” said Valentine.

Daisy smiled. She and Valentine had exchanged a polite “Good morning” and “Happy Christmas” with each other at breakfast, but no more than that.

“I'm in the doghouse,” said Miles, as the three of them set off down the driveway. “I'll be treading on eggshells all bloody day . . . and that's just how my damned head feels.”

Valentine laughed. “Forget about the dog's house; it's a hair from the animal that you need.”

Daisy linked her arm through her brother-in-law's. “How was Stephen—when you saw him last night?” she asked.

“Same state as me . . . or worse.”

“Did he seem . . . upset, unhappy?”

Miles shook his head. “He was quiet. But he's always quiet, isn't he?” he asked, turning to her.

“And what did he say to you about going to New Zealand?” she asked.

“I can't remember . . . just that that's where he thinks his future lies. Seems to think he'll be better off there than here.”

But as they headed through the gateway, onto the wet road, Miles said, “Ah yes, it's all to do with some girl or other.”

“Isn't it always?” said Valentine.

The three had almost reached the church by the time Reggie's car passed by, with Mabel in the front and Noonie, Dosia and Lily seated in the back. It was closely followed by Howard's, with Stephen at the wheel, Howard up front, and Margot, Iris and Ben in the back.

“Poor Gifford,” said Miles, shaking his head as the car disappeared round the corner. “Must be bloody awful being told what to do the whole time . . . to be owned by Howard.”

“We all are to some extent, Miles,” said Daisy. “Or have you forgotten that he paid for your house?”

Church was filled with more than the usual fur stoles and homburg and trilby hats, and more than the usual pious faces. The Forbes family and their guests filled two pews reserved for them at the front. And though Daisy sang or mouthed the words to some of the carols, and said each
amen
on cue, she was distracted. It had ever been thus. Going to church had always made her think on herself, and some of her best and most vivid dreams had happened under the damp and stained plaster of that lofty ceiling.

She was aware of the person likely as not sitting at the back of the church and had turned, looking over the sea of hats and plumes, to find him. But she had not seen him. Staring ahead, facing the altar, she pictured the slanting hand once more, wishing she could recall all of the words, the exact words. She imagined Stephen, sitting at his table, writing them . . . But had he been drunk then, too? The hand had been
very
slanting . . . Doubt whispered in her ear, replacing the word
love
with
lust
. It was a word she knew went with
drunk
. She closed her eyes: She would have to think all of this through, would need to write everything down and ponder some more.

Through most of the service Daisy studied Valentine Vincent, in the pew immediately in front of her. She noted the way he remained bolt upright when the rest of them knelt in prayer, the fact that he was the only one not to go up to take Holy Communion; the way he tilted his head to one side so that the dark hair resting on the collar of his camel-hair overcoat rose to reveal the pale skin on the back of his neck; the way he followed the service, carefully turning flimsy pages, and, from time to time, the sound of his voice as he joined in with the singing . . . The only man who had kissed her.

But why had Stephen not kissed her? He'd been about to, she thought; when they'd stood together in his tiny lobby and he'd pulled her to him, hadn't he been about to kiss her then? But there had been so many moments when they'd been only a whisper away. And she could remember them all, going right back to the time he'd sucked the wasp sting from her wrist: standing in the greenhouse, his eyes locked with her own tearful ones, his mouth pressed to her skin. When she'd told him a few days later that she had been stung again—and this time on the other wrist, he'd examined her arm closely, running his fingers over and around her flesh, and then looked up at her and smiled. There was no sting, he said.

That was the problem with Stephen, Daisy thought, lifting her eyes back to the stained ceiling: He was simply too honest;
too
good.

Sitting toward the back of the church, Mrs. Jessop looked down and ran a gloved hand over her new navy blue coat. “Pure wool with cashmere,” she'd said to Nancy earlier that morning, twirling about the kitchen. It had been her Christmas present to herself, bought at Elphicks department store in Farnham with some of her savings and all of her Christmas money from Mr. and Mrs. Forbes.

Her husband had smiled and said, “Very nice,” in the usual way. But she knew she'd given herself something better than nice. She had given herself something promised to her years before, when she'd stood outside a shop window on Oxford Street, with Michael.

“I'll treat you to a new coat this winter,” he'd said. “Which one do you fancy?”

She hadn't been sure. They were all so expensive.

“What about that navy blue one?” he'd said, pointing. “Pure wool with cashmere, it says.”

She'd laughed, told him he could buy something like that for her after they were married, after they'd saved up enough for a deposit on that cottage and were settled.

He'd pulled her to him, and in broad daylight—on that sun-drenched busy street—he'd kissed her.

“You're having it,” he'd said, smiling back at her. “You're having pure wool with cashmere. I'm not having my wife go about cold and shivering next winter.”

Pure wool with cashmere
, Mrs. Jessop thought, raising her eyes, smiling up at the brown stained ceiling.

Mabel had waited inside the church doorway for Howard, had held on to his arm as they walked down the aisle, each of them smiling and nodding at acquaintances and neighbors. Now Howard sat pressed up against her side. The pew
was
a little crowded, but each time she shuffled to make space for him, he seemed to move along too.

During the vicar's sermon, Mabel remembered her excursion of the previous day. She thought of her son outside in the churchyard, beneath the snow and frozen earth, and she closed her eyes:
Dear angels, keep my boy warm, wrap him in your love and glorious light and keep him safe for me . . . always and forever. Amen.

If he'd lived, Mabel thought, opening her eyes, my life would be different. And she tried for a moment to picture a ten-year-old Theo, dark haired like his father, still in short trousers, all gangly
legs and missing teeth. She would never have let Howard send him away to school; she'd have kept him with her, had him sitting there alongside her now, holding his hand, smiling back at him as he shuffled and whispered through the service. A boy, she thought, still just a boy.

When Howard placed his hand upon Mabel's, resting in her lap, she almost jumped. But she waited a minute before pulling them away. How could he know? How could he ever know or understand?

Mabel stared at the gray velvet cloche hat in the pew in front of her. She heard the vicar say something about the sanctity of marriage and heard Howard sigh. She watched dust motes dancing in a shaft of luminous light and saw the years ahead unfurling like a long carpet; saw herself alone at Eden Hall, silver hair bent over a tapestry, wrinkled hands fiddling shakily with threads, and she and Howard returning to that church, week after week, year after year, as Theo slept on, ignored, forgotten, unspoken.

“No.”

Howard leaned toward her. “Hmm?”

She shook her head, fixed her gaze on the large floral arrangement at the foot of the pulpit. Could she do it? Could she really leave Eden Hall? There was her mother to consider, and Daisy. Though Daisy was less of a concern: She could go and live in London with Iris. An image of Daisy staggering out of some nightclub doorway flashed in Mabel's mind, and she shuddered and closed her eyes for a moment.
But if I don't do it now, I never will,
she thought.
I have to do it. It's not as though I'm asking for a divorce . . .

And as though hearing her thoughts, the vicar's voice boomed the word
divorce
, and Mabel jumped again.

Less than an hour later, when everyone was back at the house, standing in the sunlit drawing room with a glass of sherry, Stephen and the vicar helped Howard through the front door. Margot, in her gray velvet and silver fox stole, followed, carrying Howard's gloves, hat and cane. He had slipped by the war memorial outside the churchyard gate.

“Bloody stupid!” Howard said, limping, grimacing and shaking his head. “Bloody stupid.”

Mabel directed the men to the drawing room, where they helped Howard to the large sofa. “Shall I send for Dr. Milton?” she asked.

Howard shook his head. “No, there's no need. I'll sit with it up for a while . . . I'm quite sure it'll be fine in an hour or so,” he said, looking back at her beseechingly.

As people stood about offering sympathy by way of explanations—“So easily done”; “Could have happened to any one of us”—Nancy appeared with a bucket filled with snow and ice, and Mabel ushered the vicar, now holding a glass of sherry too, and her guests back into the hallway, closing the door and saying, “I think we'll let Howard have some privacy.” She was in many ways still a Victorian and had no desire to see naked feet—particularly Howard's naked feet—in her drawing room before luncheon.

“How did it happen?” she asked Margot.

“I'm not sure . . . but I imagine it was his weak ankle.”

“Oh yes,” said Mabel, “his weak ankle. You'll have to watch that.”