The Snow Globe (26 page)

“Oh, Daisy,” was all Aurelia could say.

The station had been busy, crowded with tourists and day-trippers bound for the coast with excursion tickets, but Daisy's compartment was empty. As the train pulled out of Waterloo Station, snaking its way through the blurred, hot city and into the suburbs, she sat back in her seat, closed her eyes and allowed the cool air from the open window to sweep over her face.

She would have traveled first class had she been with Ben, and now she felt a little guilty. Because hadn't she purposefully dawdled her way to the South Kensington tube station knowing she might miss the train and miss him? But Ben made her feel guilty about so much. All he ever spoke about was money and the business and
his
woes. Only the day before, on the telephone, he had droned on about the price of houses, wondering aloud how they were to find the money for a deposit.

It wasn't that she didn't wish to see him, Daisy thought. It was
simply that it was a beautiful day and she didn't want it to be spoiled. Not yet. And she
had
looked for him, had glanced about the station concourse before going to the ticket office. She had been expectant, had presumed she'd missed the train, but the guard had told her there was still time, so she had dashed to the platform and boarded the first carriage she saw marked
SECOND CLASS
.

She could have motored down to Eden Hall the following day—with Iris, Valentine and Aurelia—but this would
not
have pleased Ben. And he would have felt left out because he had not been invited to travel with them, though even if he had he would have refused, Daisy knew. Ben's likes and dislikes were increasingly confounding, and Valentine's remark to her in the teashop, about making a mistake, and Aurelia's words to her the previous Saturday—over tea at Fortnum & Mason—had only served to fuel her doubts.

“You must call it off,” Aurelia had said to her before they'd parted. “You can't marry him, Daisy . . . You don't love him. And you don't need to be married. This is 1927, and you're an independent modern woman, leading your own life, making your own decisions.”

“Yes,” she had said, euphoric on the words of independence, on orange pekoe tea and cigarettes called Lucky, she would call it off. So they had made a pact: They would both call off their engagements at Daisy's parents' wedding anniversary celebration.

“We will be there for each other,” Aurelia had said, “and if no one wishes to dance with us, well, we shall dance with each other.”

But now Daisy was having second thoughts. For the notion of intentionally hurting someone, of puncturing Ben's hopes and dreams—he who had done nothing wrong—seemed cruel and
heartless, destined to be punished, somewhere, at some stage. Yes, she had to call it off; it was a mistake, she knew. A knee-jerk decision made after learning about Stephen, but now was not the time, she thought, certainly not this particular weekend. She would leave it a week or two, wait until things were better for him at work, at least. This seemed sensible, kinder.

As the man-made shapes and hard angles of the city receded, Daisy smiled at the sight of fields, the undulating soft curves in countless shades of green and gold. It felt good to be going home, and right to be making this journey alone. And though she was excited at the prospect of seeing her mother again, the thought of seeing her father again was queer. Added to this, and making her stomach do strange things, was the notion of seeing Stephen. Would he be there? Had he been invited?

The station had been a nightmare, and Stephen's third-class carriage was hot and noisy. It reeked of stale sweat and urine, and though he'd been lucky enough to find a seat—one next to the window—he did not want to look out on the brightness of that day, to see the blur of summer and be reminded of so many others gone before. He leaned his head against the glass pane and closed his eyes. He had not been back to Eden Hall in six months, and the thought of seeing a newly engaged Daisy filled his heart with trepidation.

His journey away from that place, and her, had begun last Christmas, when he had traveled up to London and secured lodgings—a small room—in a dismal part of south London. There,
he'd quickly realized that he couldn't leave a hemisphere without
her
. Knowing this—and rankled by his weakness—and in his best suit, only suit, starched white shirt and dark tie, and with hope in his heart, he had attended interviews. But the men at each of the employment bureaus had shaken their heads when Stephen mentioned the word
clerical
, and then shaken them again at the mention of
administrative
.

“No,” he had said, he had no leavers certificate—no certificates at all, or any diplomas.

They had all mentioned jobs in service.

“A chauffeur, perhaps?” one had suggested. “After all, Mr. Jessop, that's nearer to where your experience lies . . . and I do think you'd be better—more successful—approaching a domestic service employment agency, don't you?”

It was not the best time, Stephen had been told, and more than once, to be looking for a career change, especially if one was as untrained and as
unskilled
as he.

One afternoon in late January, standing in the wintry sunshine outside Oxford Circus tube station, Stephen had scanned the “Situations Vacant” and job advertisements in the newspaper once again. He'd recognized the name immediately: It was the place Mr. Forbes had bought his last Rolls-Royce, a place Stephen knew and had in fact been to a few times. He'd headed straight there.

The position needed to be filled as soon as possible. That was fine, Stephen had said; he was available, and yes, he could start immediately: “Monday if needs be.”

“Well, young man, you've worked for Howard Forbes, acted as his chauffeur, and that and your letter of reference from Mrs. Forbes is quite enough for me. I'll see you on Monday.”

And that was it.

Stephen's new job was to drive rich American tourists about London, allowing them to see the sights of the English capital from the comfort of a Rolls-Royce motorcar. But there was also the possibility—it had been mentioned—that if he proved himself, in time he might be able to work in the new showroom, helping to sell the cars. “On commission!” the man had announced. And, apparently, that was where the money was.

It wasn't an office job, but it was a job, and it had prospects. And though it didn't pay much, not at first, the American tourists were renowned for their generous tips. But more important than any of this was the fact that the job came with accommodation: a small flat above the showroom next to the office. “Because we need someone to keep an eye on our beautiful new showroom at night,” the man had said.

It was just a start, Stephen thought. Better things would come. And so they had.

It had been when he was called upon to chauffeur an American expatriate writer—known to all as Mr. H—about the capital that things had taken off. Mr. H liked the girls and nightclubs and liquor—as he called it. One evening, he invited Stephen to have a nightcap with him at his hotel and gave him a copy of his new novel, telling Stephen in no uncertain terms to read it and to tell him what he thought. And so Stephen had, and did.

It was through Mr. H that Stephen met a publisher who said they were looking for someone to help write a new series of motoring guides to the British Isles, and Stephen told them that he believed it was something he could do. That had been in early March. By late May Stephen had penned most of his guide to Surrey. He had been allowed use of one of the older cars and had driven down each Sunday, touring some familiar and some not-so-familiar country lanes; and he went to the British Library, studied ordinance survey maps, local history books and other guidebooks.

This had been Stephen's life for the last few months, but the previous Saturday he had taken the afternoon off to pay a long-overdue visit to his auntie Nellie. She had been delighted to see him standing on her doorstep, and there'd been the predictable
oh my, how you've grown
, as though he were still twelve years old and not twenty-two, and the usual teasing and stuff about girls: Was he courting? Was there anyone special?

He'd been half tempted to say,
Well, actually, yes, Nellie, there is, and you look after her.
But he didn't. He smiled—almost a little too bashfully—and said not. And then, with studied nonchalance, he'd asked how the Forbes girls were keeping. And just as though she'd been waiting years to tell him, it all came tumbling forth. The older one was a
card
, Nellie said; glamorous, to be sure—and generous, too, because hadn't she given her the very frock she was wearing
and
“these stockings!” she added, reaching to her knees. But
the little one
was her favorite.

Without thinking, he nodded and said her name: “Daisy.”

“Yes, Daisy . . . little Daisy,” Nellie repeated, “but far too young to be here in the city alone . . . To be frank, I'm surprised her mother
allowed it. I can't for one minute think Mr. Forbes was happy about the arrangement.”

“No, I don't think he was. But she's quite a determined sort. I don't think she gave them much choice.”

“Much choice! She's nineteen years old, not twenty-one, Stephen.”

“Well, I suppose they reckoned on her being taken care of by her elder sister—and you, of course. And she's engaged. I hear tell she's engaged to be married . . . ,” he added, needing more.

Nellie rolled her eyes and shuffled. “Engaged . . . that slip of a thing? And what does
engaged
mean anyways? One thing I do know,” she said with emphasis, shaking her head, “is whoever's engaged to her doesn't love her enough. I'll be very interested to take a look at this feller she's got herself engaged to when I go down to Eden Hall next week,” she added.

The invitation, a thick white card with black scrolled lettering, stood on the mantelpiece next to a small framed photograph of Nellie and her husband on their wedding day. Nellie had been quick to show Stephen the invitation. “See that . . . ‘Mr. and Mrs. Howard Forbes request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. George Wintrip,'” she said, pointing to the inked name. “Of course, I shan't be bringing
him
,” she went on. “He'll only show me up. But I'm going to have a few days down there with your mother. No point in traveling all that distance for just the one night . . . And perhaps you'll be able to show me about the place, the lovely gardens and countryside, eh?”

“I'm afraid I shan't,” he said. “I'm going down for the party because my mother insists, but I'll be returning here to London the following day.”

Nellie listened intently as Stephen told her about his guidebooks. She clapped her hands together. “Well, I never! I've no doubt you're going to end up a millionaire!” she declared.

Stephen smiled. Nellie's idea of success, of wealth, was borne of too many days on her hands and knees in someone else's house, returning to an idle, penniless husband each night. He sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. The place hadn't changed since his last visit, some eight years before, after the war, when he and his mother had visited. “Strange to be back here,” he said. “To think I spent some of my first few years here . . . with you.”

“Do you remember any of it?”

“Of course,” he said, only half lying, because he could remember some though not all of that time.

“Happy days,” said Nellie, glancing away, smiling.

Stephen sat forward. “Nellie,” he said, tentatively, “when you first took me in, were you told anything about my parents?”

Nellie pushed her crossed fingers beneath her and shook her head. “No, dear . . . just that they had gone.”

Later, Stephen walked the hot pavement from Nellie's house in Fulham to the King's Road. His aunt had told him the location and the name. A dark green awning just as his aunt had described hung over the shopwindow, and from the outside it was hard to see who—if anyone—was inside. He had pressed up his hands, peering in through the glass, and could see the dark wooden shelves and tables of books. When he'd entered, the bell above the door had chimed and his heart had chimed too, but the only person to appear was an elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned frock coat, who had asked, “Looking for anything in particular, sir?”