Part 17 (2/2)

'We're happy, that's the main thing.' And I see that she is indeed happy, and that her children are happy, and I am sure her husband, in spite of his infirmity, is happy too. And I, with my nice clothes and nice house and healthy husband, am completely miserable.

'I haven't spoken to Mr Jameson since I was eleven,' I say, putting down my cup and watching as Nettie picks a piece of linen from the big pile beside her and starts to hem it. Her needle flies in and out like quicksilver, just as I remember. 'We went everywhere together that summer, and had such jolly times.'

'Oh, I read about them. Everybody in the world has read about what Daisy did on her summer afternoons.'

'Well,' I say, laughing. 'I didn't quite do all the things he wrote about at least I never remember going to sea with the Fatted Calf. But I did enjoy Mr Jameson's company. I was so upset when he stopped coming to see me. Not quite as upset as when you left, Nettie, but at least I knew why you went. I couldn't understand why John Jameson gave me up.'

'Gave you up?'

'He simply came to the house one day and announced that I was getting too old for him.'

'Too old? At eleven? My, he's a strange one.'

'He was always very nice to me. But I don't think Mama wanted to see him any more.'

'Even after he'd saved poor Benjy's life? Dear, dear, I am surprised! But what did your pa think? Him and Mr Jameson was the best of friends at least that's how it seemed to me.' She finishes the seam and breaks the thread with her teeth before starting again.

'But did you never hear what happened?' I ask, thinking that surely some rumour of it had got to her.

'Oh, you don't get Oxford news in Wallingford,' she says, laughing. 'And since I married Mr B, I haven't gone further than St Aidan's, let alone all the way into Oxford. And I don't go to St Aidan's as often as I should. Mr Constantine don't mind, though. He says I'm doing G.o.d's work with the little children and as long as we all pray every day which we do it's just as good as going to church.'

Suddenly I imagine Robert here in this house with Nettie's children around him, smiling and handing out apples. I imagine him taking Benjy or Daisy on his knee, and reading them a story. I imagine him thinking that one day he'll have children of his own to love. I see him full of optimism and joy. And now I have spoiled it all.

'What's the matter?' Nettie asks, quick as always to spot my changes of mood.

'Nothing. I like to hear you say nice things about my husband.'

She laughs. 'Well, you'll soon be hearing a lot more about him if you get out and about in the parish. I'm sure you don't mind me saying, but lots of people thought he was a bit solemn at the start, a bit bookish but he's set to and no mistake. He's never afraid to get his hands dirty. But you were going to tell me about your pa. I don't hold him no grudge, you know, in spite of what he done.'

'He was ill, Nettie.' I take a breath. 'More than ill. He had to go to an asylum.'

Nettie stops sewing and looks up. 'An asylum? Oh, Daisy.' She lowers her voice. 'You don't mean not a lunatic asylum?' I can hear the utter disbelief in her voice. 'I hope it wasn't for long.'

'Ten years, Nettie. He died there, in fact.'

She puts her hand in front of her mouth just as she did on the riverbank all those years ago, her face the same picture of horror. 'Oh, Daisy, how dreadful! Oh, poor man. And your mother and sisters and all of you what a time you must have had! And me sitting here all this time and knowing nothing!' She shakes her head.

'And now there'll be a new vicar, and all new servants except for Matthews, and a new nurse in the nursery. Everything will be changed, Nettie. Everything.' A sob rises in my throat. 'There's nothing left of the old times no curtains or beds or wardrobes or tables . . .'

'Beds and tables! You're not upsetting yourself about furniture, are you?' She laughs. 'Not when you've got a whole new life to look forward to.'

'It's not just the beds and the tables.' I weep, unable to control myself now. The sight of her neat frock and her kind motherly face is just too much for me. My words come out in a rush. 'If only you hadn't left us! Everything went wrong after that! Mrs McQueen came and Mr Jameson took the photographs and I cut my hair and was ill with scarlet fever, and Mama went away and Papa saw the photos and Mama wouldn't listen and then I forgot everything that happened and when I came to myself, Papa was locked away, and I married Robert thinking I'd be happy because he was so kind but we're not at all happy and now he's seen the photographs and thinks I did something wrong and doesn't want to be married to me any more! And now I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do at all!'

I'm aware that she is getting up, and the children are disappearing from the room as if by magic. The next thing her warm, plump arm is around me. 'Tell me again,' she says. 'But calmly this time, Daisy. So I can understand.'

So I start to tell her about the summer with Mr Jameson, and how nice he always was, and how he seemed to understand me. 'Almost as much as you did, Nettie,' I say. I tell her about cutting my hair and how Mama hated it, but Papa seemed to like it. And then I tell her how Mr Jameson had taken my photograph, dressed in different costumes. 'And sometimes as a cherub. You know,' I say, watching her face. 'With no clothes on.'

She frowns. 'No clothes at all?'

'Well, wings and so forth. But it was art, Nettie. As if I was in a painting.'

'I see.' She looks dubious. 'But what did your mother think of this ”art”, then?'

I can't suppress the blush. 'She didn't know. Mr Jameson said she might not understand.'

'It sounds a bit peculiar to me. But then, you were only eleven. And he was a clergyman after all. He wouldn't have done nothing wrong.'

'I don't think that being a clergyman makes you always right,' I say. 'I think that clergymen are just like the rest of us. And some are worse.'

'Oh, Daisy, surely not. You only have to look at Mr Constantine,' she says. 'Or even your own father.'

'How can you say that, Nettie? Papa turned you out, and he didn't care how terribly I'd miss you and how Benjy would cry for you all that time. He seemed to think that as long as I had a maid of some kind it didn't matter who it was. As if being a child meant I wasn't quite a human being. As if I didn't notice things. As if I didn't feel as deeply about things as he did!'

'My, my, Daisy!' She gives a rueful laugh. 'I can see you're still angry about it after all this time. It don't do no good, though, keeping bad feelings alive like that. It poisons your mind. I've had to forget it. So should you.'

'I did forget it for a long time, Nettie. I told you. I forgot everything that had happened during four whole years.'

'Four years? But, Daisy, however can you forget four years?'

'I don't know, Nettie! But it happened. One moment I was ill with scarlet fever and Papa was looking after me and the next thing I was fifteen years old and Papa was in the asylum, Mr Morton was in charge, and Robert was coming to visit every day. Robert was very kind to me, Nettie. Very kind indeed. And when he asked to marry me, I thought it was the right thing to do.'

'I can't imagine a better match.'

'Everyone said that. And I thought everyone must be right. And I do love him, Nettie. But when he comes near me, in that way, and holds me and kisses me I feel almost sick. Our wedding night oh, Nettie, it was dreadful! I wouldn't let him near me. And we still haven't you know.' I start to cry again.

She pats my hand. 'Now, now, don't upset yourself. Many a bride's got herself into a panic on her wedding night. I was a bit taken aback myself. It's all so very surprising, isn't it? But Mr Bunch was good to me and things worked themselves out in the end. In fact,' she says with a little smile, 'I quite enjoy it now.'

I dry my eyes. I imagine Nettie and the unknown Mr Bunch happily embracing in the upstairs bedroom, and I know that it is the most natural thing on earth. But I also know that, when I saw Robert coming towards me that night, it didn't seem natural at all. It seemed like the worst kind of nightmare, and all I could think of was Papa coming towards me; Papa kissing me and showing himself to me and putting his hands in my secret places, so that I wanted to faint away with the fear and shame of it all. But I can't tell Nettie. Much as I want to, I can't find the words. As I look at her kind and honest face, I almost believe it didn't happen. 'I can't tell you the worst,' I say at last.

'Come now, Daisy, you've got this far. I'm sure you'll be all the better for getting the whole lot off your chest. It's about them photographs, isn't it?'

I almost welcome the diversion. 'Yes,' I say. 'It's the photographs. Robert thinks I was wrong to let John Jameson take them. He thinks I'm tainted.'

'Tainted? My Daisy tainted? Wherever did he get that idea? I mean, I can understand a man not liking to think his wife had showed herself to another man, even if she was a child even if it was ”art” and I'm not at all sure Mr Jameson should have asked you, not without asking your Mama first. But to say you were tainted! It's like you were a piece of bad meat. Shame on him!' She pauses, bristling with indignation. But then she softens. 'But on the other hand, I suppose Mr Constantine had that high an opinion of you in the first place that he thought you could do no wrong. It'd come as a shock, then this ”art”.'

'I didn't do any wrong, Nettie. At least, not '

She interrupts. 'You see, men can be very touchy when it comes to things like that. They gets put off their stroke. I wouldn't mind betting that Mr Constantine is regretting his words, now. All you needs to do is show him that you love him. Put your arms around him. Give him a kiss. You'll find he'll forgive you. And then things'll come natural after that.'

She makes it sound so easy. But she doesn't know the depths of the divide between us. 'It's not just the photographs,' I say. 'There's more, Nettie. It's much, much worse.'

But I struggle once more to find the words. It almost seems as if what happened with Papa took place in a different world. A world where n.o.body could be trusted and nothing was as it seemed. Whereas now, with Nettie here in front of me, I'm in the ordinary world, the one in which everyone is kind and responsible and where such thoughts seem almost heresy. 'I'm sorry, Nettie, but it's too horrible to talk about!'

'Not too horrible for Nettie, surely? And you know a trouble shared is a trouble halved.' I can't help smiling at Nettie's affection for the proverbial: all the things that will come out in the wash and the inadvisability of crying over spilled milk. She sits beside me and draws me close, composing herself to hear my tale of woe.

'I'm afraid you'll blame me, and take Papa's side.'

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