The Snow Globe (20 page)

She was pleased that he wasn't returning to High Pines yet. She had never told him, never said anything to him about the place, but it felt to her like a mausoleum; was always so cold and empty: too big for one person. She hated to think of him there alone. And, if she were honest, she didn't care for all his Indian furniture and artifacts. They simply didn't fit into a house in Surrey, she thought, becoming distracted. Was that Daisy—crossing over the lawn in that ridiculous old coat? She shook her head, moved away from the window and sat down at her desk.

Jessop would need to bring the car round for midday if the Vincents were to catch the 12:35 . . . if there was a 12:35, for no one seemed sure of the train timetable. And if there was no train, well, Jessop would simply have to drive them back to London.

It had been a surprise, the announcement of their departure a day early, not that she minded. In fact, she would, she thought, be a little relieved to see them go. Margot had said it was because of Val, that he had decided he needed to get back to work, which seemed queer to Mabel, because he didn't
really
work, as such; he wrote, which he could surely easily do there. And as Howard had said earlier, when he'd come to speak with her about their train, it wasn't as though he had any deadline or publisher waiting.

“Perhaps it's not him,” Mabel had suggested. “Perhaps it's Margot who wants to leave . . .”

Howard had laughed and said, “Well, whichever one of them it is, I couldn't give a damn, to be honest.” But honesty, she knew, was
not Howard's strong suit, and she detected some irritation or even anger in his voice. She wondered if her husband and Margot had perhaps had some sort of falling-out, because there had, as Reg had pointed out, been a certain frostiness between her husband and his
dear friend
over the last couple of days.

Howard had never quizzed Mabel, never asked her why she had invited Margot. He knew. Mabel smiled. She had long since stopped hating Margot Vincent. In fact, she'd been surprised to discover that she quite liked the woman who had been in her husband's life, been his confidante, for so many years. Without a confession from Howard, she'd never know for sure when his affair with Margot had begun, but of one thing she was certain: It was over; their relationship was platonic.

One of the reasons she had invited Margot for Christmas was so that she could see the woman again and watch her with Howard. She had seen for herself that there was no frisson, that while Margot was very possibly in love with—or in need of—Howard, he was . . .

Mabel sat up in her chair. Could it be? Was it possible that Howard was in love with
her
? The thought made her laugh out loud, and she shook her head. The timing was indeed curious. And yet it no longer mattered, any of it, because she had made her decision. And though the thought of leaving Eden Hall was still shocking—what would Howard say? how would they cope without her?—she now longed to escape, to escape from it
all
.

She glanced down at the scrawled lists scattered over her desk. Then, one by one, she picked up each piece of paper, tore it in two and dropped the pieces into the wastepaper basket by her side.

The snow-covered lawns were punctured by what seemed to Daisy to be thousands of footprints—birds, foxes, cats, dogs, deer and humans, which crisscrossed and zigzagged and led off in every direction. The thaw continued in the incessant dripping from every shrub and tree and had turned the once powdery snow to a watery slush underfoot. It would all be gone by tomorrow or the next day, she thought, sensing an end and raising her hand to her brow to squint up at the magnificent redwood against the pale winter sky.

She crossed over the driveway, trying to find and follow the pathway to the Japanese garden, treading carefully, feeling for the steps through her rubber boots. Here, there were minimal footprints. The white crystals she had watched falling from the oriel window with her father only four nights before remained almost undisturbed. But the ice on the pond had melted away to a small circle, and the old bench, which had looked for a day or two like a sumptuous white sofa from her bedroom window, offered only a thin icy cushion now. She ran a gloved hand along the slats, pushing off the snow to reveal the silvery lichen-covered wood, and then sat down—pushing her hands deeper into the torn pockets of her ancient coat.

The large bamboo bush had collapsed from the middle under the weight of the snow, and all was pale and silver and green. She watched a robin fly down to the edge of the pond, begin stabbing at the glacial water with its beak, its tiny head glancing up and around in jerky movements.

Tabitha?
It was a cat's name, surely? But that girl wasn't worth
thinking about: a waste of her time and energy. And so was Stephen. He was no different from her father and had just proved himself so. And Valentine Vincent was no better either, she thought, and really rather rude—because he had barely spoken a word to her since they'd kissed. A new wave of indignation rose in her. She smoothed down the fur pile of her coat. “I should have slapped his face,” she whispered. At least
he
would be leaving shortly . . . he and his mother. And good riddance to them both.

Benedict Gifford was the only honest one among them. After all, he had declared his intentions, behaved like a gentleman and never taken advantage of her
or
toyed with her emotions. He had not written words that were quite clearly lies, he did not have a fiancée, nor did he
leave his clothing lying about in women's houses. He was, in a word, decent.

“Very decent,” she said. And the robin flew off.

Stephen Jessop, on the other hand . . . No. She did not want to think about him. Would not let herself think about him. But the fact that he had gone back to that place, the Coach and Horses, and then . . . then somehow ended up at that girl's house where goodness only knows what had happened, but where he'd certainly been comfortable enough, warm enough to dispense with his clothing, and after telling her, telling
her
only hours before—“only hours before!”—that he loved her, had always loved her, and that he wanted to take her off to . . .

“New Zealand!”

A liar. That's what he was, another bloody liar. But why had he said those things—and what did he think she would do, throw
herself at him? Thank God Tabitha Whoever She Was had appeared. And thank God she hadn't said what she was about to say. She gasped and shook her head.

And that note, she thought, raising her eyes to the sky once more.
I need to forget it.
Because Tabitha had, in that two-second look, with her arm linked through his and staring back at Daisy, told Daisy all she needed to know: Stephen and Tabitha were lovers.

“Oh, Daisy, what a silly little fool you are . . .”

The tear, which escaped from beneath her sunglasses and rolled down her cheek, surprised her, until she decided that she had in fact chosen to cry, because it was part of a great catharsis that would only make her stronger and make it easier to start afresh. And that's what she needed to think of and look to: new horizons and new people, so many new people to meet, she thought, wiping away more tears and trying to smile.

She could hear the familiar rumbling of a car engine in the distance and knew it must be Stephen warming it up, ready to transport the Vincents to the station. “He'll probably marry her, go to New Zealand with her, and I will never see or speak to him again,” she whispered.

Iris was right: She needed to get away from there. She was, she realized, bored by the stalemate of her life, the relentless disappointment and unending expectation of something more than nothing. She was uninspired by everything and everyone around her, because she had watched and waited for too long. Was this all there was? she thought, glancing around her. Was
this
to be her life? At that moment she longed for every single thing to be different; a
yearning so great, so powerful, so all consuming, that it no longer mattered whose feelings might be hurt.

She rose to her feet, resolute, and returned to the house by way of the ragged rhododendrons and hidden pathways of the northern shrubbery, and then via the yard. The car had gone, the garage doors were closed, the place deserted. She glanced up to the dust-covered windows of Stephen's flat and wondered if Tabitha was there, inside, waiting for him to return from the station, and if his “Dear Daisy” letter to her was still by his bed. As she opened the back door and threw off her gumboots, another thought occurred: Perhaps Stephen had written to Tabitha also. Perhaps he was in the habit of writing to women; perhaps that was his seduction technique. She walked down the narrow passageway pulling off her heavy coat and hat, shaking out her hair, the sting of jealousy slowly giving way to the reignited prickle of indignation. She paused by a round window, staring out momentarily at the yard. Yes, with or without her father's permission, she would go and live in London with Iris.

And she saw herself in wide-legged trousers on a velvet carpet beneath a glass porch; she saw herself with vermilion-painted lips and matching fingernails clutching a long cigarette holder and talking animatedly to people eager for her opinion. She'd reinvent herself. Have her hair cut, undoubtedly. Take up cocktails and dancing, definitely. People would be astounded by her energy, describe her as a whirlwind, an inspiration . . . She'd call everyone
darling
, blow kisses indiscriminately and laugh at things that weren't funny. She'd have lovers, probably be married more than once . . .
and
cited in divorce actions. And one day, eventually, she'd pen a shocking
memoir, in which she'd talk about her life and the men she had known and
not
loved.

But first there were a few things she had to do.

Nancy and Hilda were having their elevenses, huddled over a magazine on the table—which they quickly closed and turned over when Daisy walked into the kitchen.

“Is Mrs. Jessop about?” Daisy asked, glancing upward and rolling her eyes sideways—in the way Iris sometimes did—already adopting her new demeanor.

“She's gone to the kitchen garden with Mr. Jessop, but I'm sure she'll be back soon,” said Nancy. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, not really,” she replied. “I just met Tabitha . . .”

“Tabitha Farley?” Nancy asked.

Daisy looked back at her. “I'm not sure—not sure
which
Tabitha.”

“You'd know if it was her,” said Hilda, wiping shortbread crumbs from her lips.

“She's a friend of Stephen's,” Daisy said, after a moment.

“She's that, all right, and plenty more be—”

“She works at the Coach and Horses,” interrupted Nancy, rising to her feet. “That's how he knows her,” she added, gathering up plates and cups.

Daisy nodded. “Oh, so are they . . . courting?”

Hilda sniggered and Nancy shot her a look.

“I'm not sure . . . Perhaps,” said Nancy, “but I don't think it's anything serious . . . just a dalliance.”

Daisy smiled and then nodded again. “Ah yes, a dalliance, of course,” she said, and laughed. It was another one of those things
she'd normally have asked Iris about: what the parameters of a
dalliance
were, what was involved. But what did it matter? If Stephen wanted to dally with a Tabitha, that was fine by her. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. There was no time to waste: She needed to find her mother.

Mabel, as usual, was in her boudoir. But this morning she appeared to be having some sort of clear-out: tearing up paper, ripping pages from notebooks and dropping them into the overflowing basket by her side. Daisy stood for a minute, watching, listening to her mother's humming; then she took a deep breath and stepped forward, into the room. “I've decided to go to London to live with Iris,” she said.

Mabel didn't say anything. She glanced up, smiled and nodded.

“I'm leaving. I'm going to find a job, be independent . . .”

Still Mabel said nothing and continued to tear up sheets of paper.

“I'm
leaving
here,” Daisy declared, with slightly more fervor. “I'm leaving Eden Hall.”

“Yes, I hear you,” said Mabel, calmly, quietly, not at all as Daisy had been expecting.

“And you have nothing to say?”

Mabel stopped. She rose from her desk and moved toward the French doors. “I don't think there's very much
to
say. It sounds to me as though you've made up your mind.”

“Yes, I have . . . I'm suffocating in this place. I can't breathe. There's nothing and no one for me here—apart from you,” she quickly added. “And all I seem to do is wait . . . wait for something to happen, to change,” she went on, moving nearer to her mother.
“But I need you to support me in this . . . and I need you to tell Howard.”

The two women stood side by side, staring out over the frozen gardens.

“In that case, we need to support each other,” said Mabel. “Because I'm leaving, too.”