The Snow Globe (30 page)

“Well, if you're absolutely certain, Mabel . . . if there's nothing at all I can do for you . . .”

“Quite certain, Reg, thank you.”

It was quite ridiculous how hard it had become to get rid of the man. He had the sensitivity of an ox.

“Of course, you can always telephone me if you think of something. I'm only minutes away and entirely at your disposal.”

Minutes later, standing behind the curtains, inside the French doors, Mabel watched Reg's car amble down the driveway, then immediately returned to the marquee with her seating plan and name cards. She certainly did not need or want his interference in this particular task. He'd insist that he should sit next to her, and Howard would be livid. And as for that comment about her being “tense,” had it never struck him that it might be
him
, his presence—fussing on and around her, about the seating arrangements, timings, the number of waiters—that made her so?

It had been in Monte Carlo, she thought, that she'd got Reg's measure
and
had her fill of him. After so many months of it just being she and Dosia—their relaxed days spent wandering aimlessly through shaded streets, venturing into a church or museum or gallery, or sitting under a café parasol with their books as the world passed by—not only had Reg proved that three really was a crowd; he had proved himself an almighty bore. Obsessed with itineraries and schedules, unable to relax for a single moment, he had asked each morning at breakfast what was to “happen” that day, when all she and Dosia wanted—what they had become accustomed to doing—was to take the day as it came, without too much forethought or planning; idling, Dosia called it.

But there was no
idling
about Reg. The army had knocked that out of him, if he'd ever had it. Instead, there was a nervous energy, which made him fret and fidget and shuffle, and constantly drum his fingers or tap his feet through what he called
idle time
: that time
Mabel and Dosia liked best of all. This, Mabel could have tolerated, perhaps, but what she couldn't tolerate, she had discovered, was his knowledge: a knowledge of
everything
, which had almost rendered her and Dosia's views and wishes redundant, had Dosia not stood up to him.

The falling-out, a rather unseemly squabble between him and Dosia on the steps of the Hôtel de Paris early one evening, had begun as a mild dispute about some restaurant or other but had resulted in Dosia calling him “a controlling bully.” Reg had called her “a loony feminist with no grasp on reality.” Dosia then told him that she would rather be a loony feminist with no grasp on reality than a stifling bore. The sting, Mabel thought, had been when Dosia added, “You really don't have a clue about women, do you, Major?” Reg, unusually red faced, had swiftly turned and gone back inside the hotel, and Mabel and Dosia had dined à deux.

After that, they had seen very little of Reg. He returned home days later, leaving the women to enjoy their last two weeks major free.

Thank God for Dosia,
Mabel thought now, placing the card “Major Reginald Ellison” next to “Mrs. Margot Vincent.”

Daisy was avoiding Ben. She had seen him earlier from her bedroom window, stalking about the grounds, presumably looking for her. Sitting at the top of the stairs in a warm shaft of sunlight, she wondered how she could manage an entire day with him in her midst, and how she would cope with the party that evening. When she heard the door from the outer lobby to the hallway swing open,
she jolted and sat forward. Then she heard Dosia's voice: “Hell-oh-oh!” followed quickly by her father: “Aha, you're early!”

Daisy sat back, peering through the banister spindles, watching and listening, and loving.

“You weren't supposed to be arriving for another half hour.”

“No, Howard, I was always arriving on the 12:26. I telegrammed Mabel to tell her so.”

Howard banged at his head with the palm of his hand. “Damn and blast it, and you know—she told me,” he said, opening his arms wide and then kissing his sister on both cheeks.

“Don't worry; I shan't split on you, not unless you become very irksome or upset me. We shall pretend you were there to meet me and that I didn't have to pay for a taxi driven by an incoherent lunatic with a death wish.”

“Oh, darling, I am sorry. Here, let me take your bag. I'm afraid I've no idea where anyone is . . . story of my life.”

“I must say, Howard, you're looking rather streamlined . . . and your wife, I know, is looking quite delicious after our sojourn on the continent.”

Howard placed the bag at the foot of the stairs, pressed his finger to the bell on the wall. “Yes, quite delicious,” he said.

“Did she tell you about the American oil tycoon in Paris who wanted to marry her? Or about Giancarlo—her young count in Rome? He sent twelve dozen red roses to the hotel!
Twelve dozen
, Howard. I counted them myself—oh, my word, what a wonderfully unexpected pun.” She laughed. “Count, counted?”

Howard smiled and nodded.

“They didn't have enough vases . . . I had to cut them down and
put them in teacups and glasses about her room. It was like a florist's shop, but oh, it smelled heavenly. We really did have the most marvelous time, you know. I've brought all of my photographs . . .” She began rummaging in her large ancient leather handbag. Mabel might have changed but Aunt Dosia certainly hadn't, Daisy thought. “Oh,” Dosia said, glancing up at her brother, “they must be in my other bag. Shall I get them out now?”

“Let's leave them for later, shall we? You look rather hot, dear, and I'm sure you're ready for some refreshment,” he said. “I think Nancy's put out some lemonade under the parasol on the terrace.”

“Sounds divine! Let me just find my sunglasses,” said Dosia, rummaging again. “I got them in Rome . . . Just wait till you see them . . . I've never had a pair before, you know . . .”

Today, like any other day—no matter the country, no matter the season—Dosia wore her usual uniform of tweed skirt, fine woolen sweater, string of pearls, and laced leather brogues. But when she finally produced the sunglasses and put them on for her brother to see, Daisy had to put her hand over her mouth.

“What do you think?”

“You look the double of Mary Pickford,” he said, deadly serious.

“Really?”

“Absolutely . . . a million dollars.” He said this in an attempt at an American accent.

Dosia giggled. “Oh, Howard . . . I'm quite sure I don't really look like
her
.”

“And I'm telling you, you do,” he said, continuing with his American persona and a quick shuffle, which, Daisy presumed, was his interpretation of some sort of modern jazz dance.

Dosia giggled again. And looking down, watching the two of them, Daisy was struck by her father's tenderness and that sense of fun she'd so missed. There was something sweet and simple and bound up in love, she thought, in Howard still playing elder brother to his middle-aged younger sister and trying to make her laugh. And for a moment she saw them as children: Dosia, a little girl in her mother's oversize clothes and those ridiculous sunglasses, and Howard, no more than a boy, swiveling about in his stockinged feet and doing silly voices.

“Dosey!” cried Mabel, emerging into the hallway. She kissed Dosia and then turned to Howard: “I've just seen one of the station taxis on the driveway, but I can't think who it can be . . .”

“No one, it was a mistake. Wrong house.”

“Yes, wrong house,” echoed Dosia, removing her sunglasses and blinking.

“Oh well, at least you're safely here, my dear,” Mabel said. “Your brother's been rather dazed and distracted of late, and to be honest I was rather worried he'd forget to collect you.”

Howard and Dosia both laughed.

“Reg, of course, did offer . . . but I know how you feel about
him
,” Mabel added.

“Lord, I'd forgotten about the major. Is the wretched man here?” asked Dosia.

“No, not at the moment,” said Mabel. Then, with a heavy sigh, she added, “But he'll be here tonight.”

“Well, please make sure that I'm sitting nowhere near him,” said Dosia. She turned to Howard: “I simply can't stand the man. I'm sure Mabel told you about our dreadful fallout in Monte Carlo.”

Howard, already smiling, raised his eyebrows. “No, she did not. But let's have a glass of lemonade in the garden and
you
can tell me all about it.”

And as Howard and Dosia walked off arm in arm down the passageway, Mabel glanced up at Daisy. “What on earth are you doing sitting there?” she asked.

“Just taking it all in. Home . . .”

Mabel smiled, blew a kiss up to her; then she, too, disappeared down the passageway toward the door onto the terrace.

Daisy sat for a while longer, listening to the sound of her parents' and aunt's voices and laughter. When she saw Ben's polished black shoes on the carpet next to her, she immediately stood up.

“Please, don't rush off,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “I want to apologize to you . . . about last night. I'm sorry. I'm afraid it was the wine, and the port . . . That's no excuse, of course, none whatsoever, and I can promise you it'll never happen again. Never.”

Daisy said nothing. She didn't want him there, didn't want to look at him.

“Please speak to me,” he said.

“It's over, Ben. Let's just try to get through tonight. And who knows? Maybe one day we can be friends again.”

It was the most she could offer him.

Mabel smiled and then looked away when Howard appeared in the drawing room—for once after her and still fiddling with his cuffs. The sight of him was still new to her, and this night, the surprise of him, quickened her heart.

Tall, lean, with silvering hair and dark eyes, he remained a handsome man, and in his white tie and tails, as dashing as she had ever known him. But there was something else, something altered about him. Or was it her? she wondered; her perception of him? Had it changed—or had they both changed? One thing was certain, Mabel thought: Absence
had
made the heart grow fonder.

She had loved him, hated him and experienced every shade of each emotion in between: from adoration to disgust, acute frustration to mild appreciation, but never indifference, she thought, never that. And yet, a new understanding of them both and their marriage, a process begun overseas, had released Mabel from
something that at first seemed to have no name. A feeling she had carried with her for so many years, one she had swallowed, stifled, held within her breast and then finally exhaled into the soft Italian air. And it was only after acknowledging it, letting go of it, that she realized it had a name,
anger
: a long-denied and festering anger that had turned to a putrid resentment.

Her escape, her journey across the continent, had pulled Mabel from a precipice and led her to forgiveness and the remembrance of a purer love. Now, with Howard standing next to her—still next to her after twenty-five years—Mabel felt a surge of happiness flow through her veins. She might never again go away on her own, but she would, she thought, take her husband with her.

“Shall we?” she said, offering Howard her arm.

Conversation hummed over the garden; over women in diaphanous pale gowns with diamond-crusted headbands and plumes; over men in starched wing collars and white bow ties, and those in uniform, their medals glinting in the early evening sun.

Older guests, those military men with stiff legs and walking sticks, red faced and bleary-eyed, and those ladies paying homage to more sedate bygone days, kept to the gritted terrace and allowed the young to spill out onto the lawn. Holding glasses of champagne, they tried to recall who was who: “Isn't that one of the Forbes girls?” When they had last seen each other: “It was at the Knights' victory party, I tell you.” Caught up on who had died: “Last winter. And quite sudden, I believe.” And from time to time they fell into silence as they stared out at those with unlined faces and unbent spines,
standing in huddles about the lawn; filled with nostalgia, remembering a time when they too had cut a dash.

When the gong sounded, the young men and women waited as the older ones slowly made their way along the red carpet, laid out across the striped lawn and leading into the tent, where the noise, now contained by canvas, was suddenly louder; and where the older men, holding a hand to their ears, shouted, “What's that you say?” There, the men waited for the ladies to be seated, and the ladies waited for Mabel, and everyone smiled and nodded at one another with nervous goodwill.

The large red flower was easy enough to see. Daisy had followed its path as it wobbled through the tent and then came to a stop at Iris's table. The dark suit, directly in Daisy's line of vision, had its back to her and was facing Iris, who looked quite devastating in a Chanel gown of cream chiffon stripes. She had been to Marcel and had had her bobbed hair dyed jet black, straightened with irons and a heavy fringe cut, so that it hung down like curtains about her face, large green eyes and red-painted lips—which she now puckered to blow a kiss back at Daisy. Then Valentine, seated next to Iris, said something to her and pulled her attention away.

All of them—Daisy and her family—were scattered about, so that almost each table had a Forbes family member seated at it. Only Mabel and Howard sat together—and side by side, Daisy noticed. And now she could see Reg and Margot: Reg leaning in toward Margot, one arm draped over the back of her chair, the other extended, gesticulating, making some point or other. Ben, she
saw, had been placed some distance away from the family, toward the back of the tent and on a table with older people and a few uniformed men. Lily and Miles were seated right in the middle of the marquee—under the chandelier. And she could hear Dosia somewhere in the distance, and arguing already: “Fair pay . . . fair pay! It has to be about fair pay.”

Daisy smiled back at Aurelia, sitting opposite her, between two of Howard's friends. She had been standing with Aurelia outside on the lawn when Stephen appeared with his parents and the flowery Tabitha on his arm. She had introduced Aurelia to Mr. and Mrs. Jessop and to Stephen, and then stumbled: “And this is Stephen's . . . friend, Tabitha.”

With that big red flower on the top of her head and her matching red dress, Tabitha Farley reminded Stephen of one of his father's prize begonias. Though to be fair, there were a few women in similar hats, including his mother and Auntie Nellie. They looked as though they were going to church, or to a wedding, Stephen thought, not that he knew anything much about women's fashions or what was right to wear to this sort of function. And there were certainly a variety of outfits, and all ages, and a surprising number of men in uniform. It was easy for him: He had only the one suit.

He scanned the tent once more. He could see his mother and father and Auntie Nellie at a table with the Singhs and some other neighbors, and Mrs. Forbes's mother; Nancy and Mr. Blundell down toward the back with Howard's cousins and some people he didn't recognize; Benedict Gifford . . . surrounded by silver heads and
uniforms; and the major and Mrs. Vincent, deep in conversation. But where was she? Where was Daisy?

He felt a hand on his thigh and turned. Tabitha smiled and winked at him.

“It'll be up to us to start the dancing,” Iris was saying, lighting another cigarette. “And there can't be any shilly-shallying, not from
this
table. We need to show them how it's done . . . You look like a dancer, Tabitha. Am I right?”

“Ooh yes! I love a turn on the floor. Not that there are many dances down here, mind you.” She laughed. “But the ones they have in the Jubilee Hall aren't that bad, are they, Stephen?”

“Aha! Stephen,” interrupted Iris, leaning forward over the table, “do you know the black bottom? Don't worry, Valentine and I will show you . . . We'll show you both how it's done, and you, too, Hilda. We'll have everyone doing it before the night is over.”

“I can't wait,” said Tabitha, squeezing Stephen's thigh.

It was going to be a long night, Stephen thought, watching Tabitha as she drained another glass of champagne.

After dinner, as pudding bowls were cleared away and bottles of port placed upon each of the tables, the orchestra struck up Irving Berlin's “Always.” Howard rose to his feet and led Mabel onto the dance floor. A ripple of applause passed through the long marquee. Heads turned. No one else got up to dance, not yet, and all eyes remained fixed on Mr. and Mrs. Forbes as they moved across the candlelit floor in a gentle waltz.

Howard and Mabel Forbes were, to many there, the embodiment
of a good marriage, and this night—even this dance—seemed only to confirm that to them. Howard in his tails and white tie, Mabel in her shimmering gown of palest silver: They made a handsome couple, everyone said. When the music ceased there was more applause; Howard bowed and kissed Mabel's hand. Then the orchestra began again and a beaming Howard beckoned to his guests to join him and Mabel on the dance floor. Iris and Valentine were first up, then the major and Margot, and there were a few unlikely pairings: Aurelia and Mr. Blundell, Dosia and Old Jessop, Nancy and Mr. Brown, and Mrs. Wintrip and Mrs. Jessop. By the end of the second dance, the floor was crowded, and Lily and Miles, too, had joined the swirling throng.

The only Forbes family member not on the dance floor was Daisy, who remained seated at her table surrounded by a few contemporaries of Howard's, reminiscing about the war, the trenches, lost friends and lost limbs. Ben had quickly found his way over to her and asked her to dance. She declined. The old boys sitting next to her also asked. To each one of them she said, “Thank you, perhaps a little later . . .”

Daisy had no desire to dance with or be anywhere near Ben Gifford, not then
or
later. And she had been distracted, riveted by the goings-on only a few tables away: watching Tabitha as she tried to drag Stephen to his feet, as he shook his head, as he helped her up when she fell forward onto the table, as she draped her arms around his neck and tried to sit on his lap. Ben had interrupted Daisy's vigil about then, but minutes later, after declining his invitation to dance, Ben had suddenly appeared in her line of vision—at that table. Daisy saw him exchange a few words with Stephen,
saw Tabitha rise unsteadily to her feet. Then Ben led Tabitha off through the scattered chairs and onto the dance floor. Daisy watched the red flower move hither and thither, drifting through the sultry air as though it had a life of its own, appearing and then disappearing back into the crowd. The dark suit remained; the intermittent glow of a cigarette like the beam of a distant lighthouse, guiding her in.