After Such Kindness Read online

  I pull my shawl around my shoulders. The house feels damp. It’s been closed up for some weeks, of course. There was some difficulty about the appointment of my father’s successor, the circumstances of his life being somewhat unusual, but now it’s all settled. My brother-in-law has been relieved of his position and Mr Arbuthnot has sent his housemaid in advance to clean and air the property. Yesterday, passing the house en route for the draper’s shop on an errand for some new cushion material, I saw the upstairs sash windows had been opened wide and that a steady stream of smoke was coming from the kitchen chimney. So I sent a note and today the servant has let me in, saying she ‘supposed it was all right’, before grudgingly lighting the fire with three sticks and four small pieces of coal. I forbore to say that it was my mother’s coal she was being so frugal with. There seemed to be little point in making her even crosser.

  I stand for a while, looking at the box. There’s my childhood name on the lid: Daisy Baxter, written in chalk. And then: Private. I can’t remember writing it. And the word ‘private’ brings an uncomfortable warmth to the back of my neck. What secrets could I have had in those days that I so much needed to protect? And is it right to uncover them now? But, all the same, I kneel down and unclasp the lid, letting it drop backwards on its hinges. The chest is full to the brim, just as Mama said. In fact, things start to fall out immediately. There are pieces of paper galore: old drawings, attempts at French and mathematics, exercises in syntax, dreadful poems by the dozen. I sit back and smile at my creations, examining them one by one before piling them up on the floor beside me. Under the schoolwork I find jigsaw puzzles and games and, below them, a large store of reading matter: children’s books, nursery rhymes and fairy stories, all very well-thumbed – some so much so that their binding is coming adrift. Everything is very tightly packed and it’s awkward to dislodge even a single object, but I persevere – tugging out each new thing, turning it over, and placing it on the rug beside me until I’m sitting in a sea of childhood reminiscence.

  After a while, I notice that my hands feel dry and dirty, as if I’ve been digging in the ground, and my back is aching with the effort of bending forward. But I’m almost at the bottom and there has been little of consequence; certainly nothing to deserve the warning sign on the lid. I’m both relieved and disappointed. My mother was right; apart from my books, most of the contents can be left behind for the Arbuthnots. I peer in at the last few items: an album of pressed flowers (incomplete), an India-rubber ball that Nettie once gave me (which I will certainly keep) and something coyly nestling in the corner, something flat and rectangular, wrapped in an old linen bolster-case.

  Seeing it makes me feel faintly sick, and my first instinct is to pretend it’s not there. Because I know exactly what’s inside. I’m aware that I am holding my breath and that my heart is thumping. Daisy buried it deep; she never wanted it discovered. ‘Private’, she said. And there is part of me that knows I should go no further; that I should let it alone; put it out of sight, let my mind dwell on happier things. But another part of me is horribly curious; it tells me to ignore that clutch at my stomach, that dry feeling in my throat. After all (it assures me in its most rational voice), what could there possibly be in an eleven-year-old’s diary for a woman of twenty to fear? It will be interesting, surely, to see what young Daisy has to say for herself. But my heart goes on pounding all the same and it’s some time before I have the courage to reach down and touch the thing – and, even more, lift it out. It feels unexpectedly heavy, just as it did all those years ago when I used to drag it on to my knees and write so carefully between the pale blue lines.

  I unfold the linen wrapping still holding my breath – and there it is – with its red cover, just as I remember, and with bits of loose paper poking out from between the gilt-edged leaves. I look at it – I look a long time – but I don’t open it. My fingers tremble as they even touch it. A warning voice sounds in my head. Best left alone, it insists. Best left alone. I don’t know what to do. I sit with it in my lap for a long while, unable either to open it, or put it back, drawn by curiosity and held back by fear. Then some sound comes up from the landing below – the servant’s voice perhaps, or her broom knocking against the skirting board – and I wake from my daze. I must follow my instinct. There is something dangerous about this thing. It must go back where it belongs, where I won’t have to think about it ever again. I thrust it back into the chest, covering it in a kind of frenzy with whatever comes to hand: the backgammon board, the nursery rhymes, the box of chess pieces, the exercise books, the French grammar, the drawings of kittens and flowers. Finally, I slam down the lid.

  But even as I do so, I know that this is not the answer. Far from being out of harm’s way, it’s simply biding its time, festering until it’s uncovered again. And it will be uncovered if I leave it here. Some Arbuthnot child will come across it, in an innocent quest for toys and games, and set free its secrets. Because I know there are secrets even though I can’t remember what they are. They are part of that hidden time, those dark years that I cannot account for. And while I remember writing in the book, I don’t remember hiding it, or indeed why I did so – except there is a horror attached to it all. Daisy did well, burying it here. My sisters were far too grown-up to go rooting around for toys, while my brother would have disdained to engage himself with such girlish items as books and board games. Time and neglect (and a covering of carpet) have done the rest. But now it has come into my hands again.

  But what to do? The word ‘private’ won’t protect it now. It must be destroyed. And not just torn up, but burned to unknowable cinders. I delve back through the contents of the chest, pitching out everything that I have just replaced until I come to it again. I seize it and make for the grate. But the fire is paltry, a mere cage of powdery grey coals. I take the poker and try to ginger up a blaze, but I can only manage a small flame or two. And this book is too robust. The pages will only smoulder, leaving blackened words to be deciphered by the servant when she rakes the cinders or (worse) to be spotted by my husband when he comes to fetch me home. No, I need to take it to the scullery, shove it deep into the kitchen furnace, turn it to harmless ash in seconds. I should go now, immediately, down the back stairs, pell-mell, before I have time to think. My mind is ahead of me, already going down the staircase, sensing the familiar curve of the wall as it descends to the next floor. But my feet don’t move and the book seems to grow heavy in my hands, as if it, too, is resisting leaving the room. A new voice cajoles me. Read me, it seems to say. Read me now. I feel an absurd degree of panic at the thought. And yet, to cast such precious childhood writings unread into the fire seems suddenly too drastic, too irretrievable. Again that voice tempts me. Don’t destroy me, it says. Read a little at least. You never know. I may have the answer.

  I finger the cover. The scarlet leather is still soft, the gold-leaf decoration still bright. It seems hardly to have aged, like a saint found whole and incorrupt after years in the grave. But in the end, it’s only leather and paper bound together. And as for what’s inside – well, Daisy always had such an imagination – it ran away with her at times. There’ll be no great secrets here. In fact, I’ll probably smile when I see what foolish things she’s written.

  I sink onto the threadbare rug, careless of my fine new honeymoon frock, and open it.There on the flyleaf, reassuringly bland, is the greeting from my parents: To our dear Daisy on her eleventh birthday. It’s in my father’s handwriting, precise and firm, and the roots of my hair ripple a little with remembrance. And underneath, in my own unformed copperplate, I’ve recorded my full name and address with exceptional neatness. I can still remember how I measured each line to make sure that the words fitted in exactly.

  I turn the page. And there it is: my very first entry, the same clear, pencilled writing.

  Saturday 7th June 1862. My birthday.

  All sorts of things have happened today. I had some extremely nice presents and my friends came for a picnic, and Mr Ja
meson and Papa punted us up the river further than we have ever been. It was all extremely exilarating. But then just when I thought nothing could be more perfect, it was all spoiled.

  (Oh, dear God, of course – the fateful birthday party. And the even more fateful trip up the river. It was the day that my friendship with John Jameson started in earnest, the day when I noticed him properly for the first time.)

  Mama says we must all be grateful that it wasn’t worse. And I am, of course, although I wish it hadn’t happened on my birthday all the same. Nettie said I was Tempting Fate with my parasol, which made me think the accident was a little bit my fault, although Mr Jameson said it was no such thing, which I hope is true. (I can’t write more as Nettie is looking at me with a pretend glare and saying I must go straight to bed this minute, so I have to leave off until tomorrow.)

  Signed, Daisy Elizabeth Baxter (aged eleven).

  PS This journal was a present from Mama and Papa but I had a much superior present from Mr Jameson. I will write more anon.

  How it all comes back: my eleventh birthday and the picnic treat I’d been promised for so long. It had taken weeks to plan. Mama had asked me what I wished to include in the luncheon hamper, and I’d thought about it every day for weeks, consulting poor Nettie at tedious length before deciding on poached salmon, potted shrimps, roast chicken, egg-and-cress sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, sugar buns and cream jellies. My mother had smiled when she read the list and said she wouldn’t promise that there would be absolutely everything I’d asked for, but that she was sure Cook would do her best to oblige. I’d also been allowed to invite three of my friends – but only three, as my two older sisters and baby brother were to be of the party; and with my parents, Nettie and Mr Jameson, we would more than fill the two hired punts. By chance – or so it seemed – my very best friends happened to number exactly three, and I’d been very excited to hand them stiff white invitation cards with all the details inscribed, and a request for an RSVP to Miss Daisy Baxter at St Cyprian’s Vicarage, Westwood Gardens, Oxford. All three had sent back equally grown-up cards saying they would be delighted to accept, and we’d spent every minute between our lessons with Miss Prentiss talking about the outing – what we would be wearing, and what we would do to entertain ourselves. My father had said he had a secret up his sleeve ‘for our delectation’, and I was dying to know what it was. I was looking forward to the whole thing so much I was practically sick with nerves. I was particularly worried about the weather. If it rained, Papa said, we could not go on the river, as getting drenched was ‘dismal stuff’, and an alternative picnic would be held at home instead, maybe in the summerhouse, with games later in the drawing room with the carpet rolled back. I could hardly bear to contemplate so tame an option, and prayed every night that the weather would be fine.

  In fact, the day dawned so bright it seemed as if the air were made of solid sunlight. When I opened my eyes, I could see the slopes of the nursery ceiling almost shimmering in the heat, and the air was already warm. I pushed back the bedclothes and rushed to the window, slipping my head under the muslin and standing on tiptoes to gaze out. Ahead of me was the bright blue sky – not a single cloud – and directly below me, the garden. It seemed a long way down, with the flower borders, and the line of the hedge, and the summerhouse and the croquet lawn all as small and neat as items in a toy village. Matthews was already watering the beds, and the boy was on his knees pulling up weeds and putting them in a barrow next to him on the lawn. ‘Oh, Nettie,’ I cried out excitedly. ‘We’ll be able to go on the river. The weather has stayed fine after all!’

  ‘That’s because you’ve been a good girl all year, Miss Daisy. The Lord has rewarded you,’ said Nettie, coming up behind me and putting her hands on my shoulders. I could feel her warm, comfy chest against my back as she pulled me towards her, swaying a little. ‘Now, make sure you thank Him properly when you say your prayers tonight.’

  ‘Oh, I will!’ I replied. I’d prayed so often for it to be fine, it would have been churlish to forget my thanks now that my request had been granted. I was sure I would have no trouble at all in remembering, but I whispered a quick intermediate prayer against the windowpane just in case God was under the impression I did not appreciate His goodness.

  After I’d washed my hands, Nettie said I might have breakfast in my petticoat as there was no point in putting on my day dress just to take it off again later, and even more foolish to put on my best dress with the chance of getting it dirty, which she wouldn’t thank me for. So I sat at the nursery table feeling strangely free and cool with my bare arms and neck, and helped myself to bread-and-butter and jam. Nettie was busy making up a porridgy mess for my brother, and whenever her attention was elsewhere, I quickly dipped the jammy slices into my glass of milk before putting them in my mouth. I suspected she saw me, but she pretended not to, partly because it was my birthday and also because I was in my petticoat with nothing pretty to spoil. When the porridge was ready, she took Benjy from his cot, sat him on her lap, and began to spoon it into his mouth. He wasn’t at all interested and kept turning his head to look at me, holding out his hand and gurgling, so that the spoon traced a porridgy line across his cheeks from mouth to ear, in a shape rather like Papa’s whiskers.

  ‘Do you know what day it is?’ I asked him after a while, unable to contain my joy. He didn’t reply, of course, but he smiled at me and gave a little shouty noise, and I put my head close to his and gave him a kiss. ‘It’s my birthday!’ I whispered. ‘And we are going to have the best treat ever! A picnic miles up the river with all my favourite things to eat. Only you must be very good and not cry, as that makes Papa cross and then everyone is miserable.’

  It was a mistake to go so close to him. He grabbed my curl-papers with his sticky hands and pulled so hard that my eyes watered. The curl-paper came right off and a lock of porridgy hair flopped down into my eye.

  ‘Serves you right for interfering with the child,’ said Nettie. ‘Don’t blame me now if your front curls won’t sit straight.’ But she put Benjy in his high chair and took a wet comb and wound the curl-paper up again really tight. ‘That’ll soon dry in the heat,’ she said. ‘Not that I knows why we has to dress up in order to go and sit on the grass for hours on end when a body has work to get on with.’

  I knew Nettie was not altogether keen on this picnic party. Or at least she thought that she and Benjy would be better to stay at home. ‘The child doesn’t like the heat, Mrs Baxter,’ she’d said to my mother a couple of days before. ‘And he’ll be fussing all day.’

  But it was no good. ‘The vicar wishes the entire family to be there,’ said my mother. ‘There can be no argument, Nurse. Take plenty of cooling drinks and a sun bonnet. I’m sure you can manage perfectly well. You always do.’ And Nettie said no more.

  After I had washed my face and hands, Nettie had laid out my best frock on the bed together with my new white stockings, and Hannah came up from the boot room with my newly polished shoes. ‘All the servants wishes you the best, Miss Daisy,’ she said, dropping a quick curtsey. ‘You’ve got a lovely day for it.’

  After she left, I kept an eye on the door, hoping my parents or sisters would come up to the nursery to offer their good wishes as well. I was even hoping to have a present or two, although my mother always told me not to be greedy and never to expect anything, so I was trying to be grateful for what I already had, which was so much more than the poor children had, especially if they were in Africa or India. And of course the picnic was a great thing in itself. ‘I wonder if Mama and Papa will come up,’ I said idly to Nettie. Then, with a sudden feeling of horror, I added, ‘You don’t think they’ve forgotten, do you?’

  ‘Course not, miss. It’s just that your ma and pa are very busy with all the arrangements just at the minute. It’s like a madhouse in the kitchen, I can tell you.’ But she must have seen the disappointment in my eyes, as she hesitated and added, ‘But I’ve got a little something for you to be going on with. It’s fr
om me and Master Benjy.’ She went to the big chest of drawers and took out a lumpy parcel wrapped in red and white paper, with a red ribbon around it and a large label tied on with string: Best Wishes on Your Birthday from Your Brother Benjy and Loving Nursemaid Nettie. It was quite light, and the wrapping was awkwardly put on, with blobs of sealing wax holding the edges together. I broke the wax and pulled the paper away. Inside was the most perfect India-rubber ball, all the colours mixing together like the patterns in the marble columns at church. It was much nicer than the plain red one belonging to my sisters, which they wouldn’t let me play with even when they were sitting down doing nothing. ‘We might want to play at any moment,’ they’d say. ‘And you’d be sure to lose it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much,’ I said, putting my arms around Nettie. ‘I shall treasure it for ever and ever.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. Just don’t go losing it,’ she said, looking cross and pleased at the same time.

  At a quarter past nine, Nettie, Benjy and I went downstairs. I had on my best white dress with blue piping and a blue silk sash, and was already feeling very hot. Nettie had put more ribbons than usual in my hair so as to fix the ringlets in position, but I knew the curls would be out before the end of the day, especially once I’d put on my straw hat. It was the absolute sinful desire of my life to have natural curls like my sisters. Each strand of their hair was always very well-behaved and fell in exactly the same way at the end of the day as at the beginning. I watched them now, sitting demurely side by side on the piano stool, wearing grown-up dresses with extremely puffed sleeves and with silver bangles around their wrists. They always seemed so much older than me, although Christiana was only fifteen and a half and Sarah a year younger. They were both tall, like Papa, whereas I was small for my age and, to my continued mortification, always being mistaken for someone much younger. Mama looked ravishing as usual. I remember Papa said: ‘My dear, you look ravishing,’ when she came into the room with her dainty print frock and straw hat, and carrying a furled parasol. She smiled and said he looked handsome too. He’d taken off his clerical collar and was wearing a light-coloured coat – suitable, he said, for the exertions of the river.