Part 2 (2/2)

I said an hour or two would suffice on the first occasion (I was careful to plant the idea that more occasions would follow), but that I would be happy to give the little girls some tea and bread-and-b.u.t.ter once the picture-taking was over. I said that I would not wish to keep Hannah too long from her duties, and that I would be happy to entertain the children afterwards and walk them back to their respective homes. 'That is, if you think they will agree to such a rogue and v-vagabond as I being in charge of their precious offspring.'

Mrs Baxter laughed. 'I cannot think of a more respectable and reliable person than yourself, Mr Jameson. If one cannot trust a clergyman, whom can one trust? And they are only children, after all.'

I bowed. 'Indeed. But the world is full of Mrs Grundys. I would wish everything to be kept utterly respectable most of all for the little girls concerned. They are the most precious and innocent of beings.'

'I will deal with it, Mr Jameson. Rest a.s.sured, there will be no difficulty of any sort.'

And I am sure there will not be. I can see that Mrs Baxter has her own sort of vanity, which prides itself on its ability to a.s.sess character. And she is equally convinced of her capacity to charm away any kind of opposition.

Daniel then having to go out on parish business, and the older girls to attend an archery lesson, I was treated to a whole hour alone in Daisy's company. It was another lovely day, and Mrs Baxter sat in the shade of an acacia tree with a novel in her hand and the baby asleep on her lap, while Daisy and I walked around the vicarage's extensive and well-kept garden. Daisy showed me the marigolds she had been trying to grow in a plot near the kitchen wall. 'I'm afraid the caterpillars got to them,' she said, bending down in that delightfully pliant way that children have, and stroking the few ragged leaves that remained.

'What a shame,' said I, squatting beside her, feeling how small she was and how large I was in comparison, and enjoying the protective feeling it gave rise to. 'Although, without caterpillars, we would never have b.u.t.terflies to delight us with their beauty, would we? We would think that a shame too.'

She looked up at me then. It was the first time she had looked at me so directly, and she was so close to me that my insides nearly melted. 'But why do the marigolds have to suffer?' she asked. 'Can't things have their place in the world without eating others or being eaten themselves?'

She is such a kind child, it was hard to disabuse her. 'Nature is quite indifferent you know,' I said gently. 'Everything has to fight for its place.'

She looked perplexed and rather upset. 'Nature?' she said. 'But I thought G.o.d made everything the way it is.'

In her innocent way, she had brought down the axe. 'It's a conundrum,' I said.

'What's a conundrum?'

'An enigma. A mystery. Something we don't know the answer to.'

'Don't you know the answer, Mr Jameson?'

'I less than any man. Maybe your father does. He's a deep thinker.'

She did not seem very satisfied with that answer. 'Papa says you are the cleverest man he knows, so if you don't know, he won't either. He said you were a ”Double First”.' She looked up at me. 'What does that mean?'

'It means I have spent too much time with my nose in a book.'

'So why are there still things you don't know the answer to?'

'I don't know the answer to that. In fact, there are things to which I don't even know that I don't know the answer.'

She laughed at that, and I felt again how wonderful it was to be the cause of laughter in a child. Bubbles of happiness welled up in me and I wanted the moment to go on for ever. But she straightened and brushed down her pinafore and started to walk further along the path, further away from her mama. I fell into step beside her as we skirted the shrubbery. 'May I ask you a question?' she said.

'You certainly may. After all, a cat may look at a king. But I think it's not the question that is at issue; it's the answer. And, as you see, I cannot guarantee that I will have one.'

She pondered that for a bit, then she murmured in a low voice, 'Things aren't always fair in this world, are they?'

'Depends what you mean by ”fair”,' I said. 'What's fair to one person isn't fair to another. Is it fair that I am good at arithmetic, for example, but that your father is good at rowing?'

She considered this gravely. 'You and Papa are just different,' she said at last. 'I don't think that matters. But why are some people poor and others rich? And why are some people allowed to tell others what to do and they have to do it whether they like it or not?'

'A very good question. And one I have often asked myself without, I have to say, getting much sense in return. But, on the second point, I suppose you could say that in general parents know more than children do, for example, and therefore they have the right and the duty to guide them in their actions. And this might entail forbidding them certain things, or telling them they must accomplish certain things. And, again, the rich have certain duties towards the poor; and those with knowledge have obligations to those who are ignorant. I am sure you have heard your father preach such things.'

She shook her head. 'No, I mean why was Nettie told to go away and not be able to stand up for herself because she is a servant and has no money? Just because there is some sort of rule that says she mustn't. And I mustn't say anything about it, either, in case it makes things worse.'

Suddenly I understood her sad demeanour. Daisy was pining for her nursemaid her poor, wretched nursemaid who had given many years of loyal service night and day, but who had fallen prey to a moment's inattention and had been summarily dismissed. 'You must miss Nettie, naturally,' I said, recalling how the servant had been so proud of Daisy's recitation the day we first met, and how Daisy had smiled at her so warmly in return.

It was as if I had uncorked a bottle of seltzer. Daisy began sobbing in the noisiest and most abandoned way. 'Oh, yes, Mr Jameson,' she sobbed. 'I miss her all the time. I love her more than anything and now I'll never see her again!'

I was somewhat alarmed at this outburst, thinking Mrs Baxter might imagine I had said (or done) something untoward. But she was a long way off, and seemed to be asleep, and there were no other people in the garden to hear or see. 'Please don't cry,' I said, wanting to put my arm around her, but afraid to do so.

Daisy shook her head. 'I know I shouldn't say so,' she declared through her tears. 'And you mustn't tell anyone, Mr Jameson. But I love Nettie better than Mama or Papa. I love her more than anyone else in the whole world. Benjy loves her, too, and he doesn't understand why she isn't here any more. He keeps looking round for her and crying because she's not there.'

'Well, he's not crying now,' I ventured, casting my glance once more at Mrs Baxter in her shady spot. I couldn't help thinking how enormous the baby seemed as he lay across her delicate lap. He had always struck me as a fat child, and was certainly a lead weight when I pulled him out of the water. But now he looked pink-faced as well more like a young pig than a boy.

'He's asleep,' said Daisy. 'That's the only time he's quiet. It's driving Hannah to distraction and she says she'll give in her notice if things go on like this.'

'I expect you will have a new nursemaid soon enough,' I said. 'And I daresay you will get used to her before you know it.'

Her colour rose. 'No, I wouldn't! How could I? No one is as nice as Nettie. And, anyway, Mama says I am too old to be in the nursery now. I'm to move downstairs next to my sisters and start to be a grown-up girl. So Benjy will be on his own with the new nurse and I won't even be there to comfort him. It's all so horrid.' She turned to me. 'Oh, Mr Jameson, you are so kind. Couldn't you speak to them? Ask them if we can have Nettie back so everything will be as it was before?'

It was wonderful to be appealed to in this way and I was in half a mind to do what she asked. After all, such an intervention would inevitably bring us closer. But I knew that even in my current state of grace I would not be able to prevail against the Baxters on such a matter. And I knew Mrs Baxter would not take kindly to interference in her domestic sphere. 'It's not possible,' I said eventually.

'Why not?' she said, giving me the most imploring look. 'All they have to do is write to her and say she can come back.'

'It's possible in theory,' I said. 'But it's impossible in fact.'

'How can it be possible and impossible all at once? That's nonsense.' Her voice was rising now, and I was afraid Mrs Baxter would hear this time and put an end to our conversation.

'Life is frequently nonsensical,' I said. Then, aware that this remark was unlikely to quell her tears, I adopted as calm a voice as I could, and fell back on the well-known phrases that always come to hand in situations of grief. 'But you have to believe, Daisy dear, that everything is for the good in the end. We have to believe that. Life will become clear eventually, at the time of reckoning, when all doubts will be set at rest and all suffering a.s.suaged.'

'When we die, you mean?'

'Indeed. Exactly so.' Faced by the child's straightforward questions, I was feeling less and less fit for my task as sermonizer, and could think of no more to say. After a few minutes, during which she continued to weep, I took out my pocket-handkerchief and handed it to her. 'You will cry a whole puddle-full of tears at this rate,' I ventured. 'If you carry on, you may even cry a lake-full, and you and I will be up to our necks and will have to start swimming for the sh.o.r.e.'

She smiled wanly. 'I can't swim at least not very well.'

'All the more reason for stopping now. You may keep the handkerchief and return it when it is laundered. I always carry a spare, and I have three hundred and sixty-five of them in college so they last me a whole year. I find a good pocket-handkerchief an essential item which can be put to no end of uses. In fact, I am infinitely surprised you do not have one yourself.'

'Nettie always made sure I had a fresh one every day. But I couldn't find any at all this morning and Hannah said I'd have to do without as she was too busy to go looking. I couldn't even find the ones my sisters gave me for my birthday and I've never even used them. They've always said I lose everything I'm given, and I thought they were wrong, but maybe they're right after all.' She looked at the point of tears again.

'Not at all,' I said gaily. 'Handkerchiefs have a habit of going for walks. I often see mine walking hand in hand around my chest of drawers or taking a promenade along the mantelpiece as airily as if they were at the seaside. Of course, when they see me coming, they fold themselves up and get into the smallest possible s.p.a.ce under the coal scuttle or in the b.u.t.ter dish. And, if they can, they delight in getting themselves lost in the laundry. In fact, every washerwoman in the world must have several bedrooms-full of pocket-handkerchiefs that refuse to go back to their owners, and I rather think the poor women have had to put their children to sleep at the next-door neighbour's on account of the lack of s.p.a.ce in their own establishments.'

Daisy laughed. 'You are funny, Mr Jameson,' she said.

'Well,' I said, 'I don't want to boast, but my sister Mary used to say that if she had a cough or a cold, all she needed was for me to come along and she'd quite forget her wretchedness. And if you could be persuaded to spend time with me in your spare afternoons, I could be very funny indeed. I'd make you forget all your woes. Would you like that, Daisy?' I queried.

She looked up at me again, the tear stains on her face as charming as the face itself, and her wild, untidy hair the most fetching it had ever been. She considered me for a long time. 'Yes,' she said. 'I think I would like that very much.'

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