When I Was Otherwise (2 page)

“I haven't been inside this house for an eternity—maybe longer! Where's Dan? Too scared to put in an appearance?”

“No, you big silly. But he thought he'd have time to slip out to the shops. I kept telling him he wouldn't.”

Marsha closed the front door and, having tried unsuccessfully to relieve her sister-in-law of her coat and woollen gloves, led her into the lounge. She had switched on the fire some half-hour earlier and Daisy made straight for it, standing with her back to the imitation live coals, rubbing her hands.

“Ah! This is a bit more like it! With any luck, I may begin to feel human again!”

“I'll put the kettle on, shall I?”

“That's the spirit.” Daisy gave her customary, rather husky, laugh. “Talking of which, I was meaning to provide a bottle of Scotch…to go with the cake. But the pubs were shut.”

“I'm very glad they were. Drink these days is hopelessly expensive.”

In the doorway Marsha hesitated.

“Oh! But would you like just the tiniest drop of whisky now? Instead of the tea?”

“What a lovely thought, dear…a real piece of inspiration! Oh, but do you think we should? No, tea will be very nice.”

“I'm going to pour us both a whisky,” announced Marsha, wickedly.

“Well, I can see there won't be any stopping you!”

“No, there won't.”

“Because the bit's well and truly between your teeth! By the way, dear, I take mine neat.”

“I shan't be long. It's in the kitchen.”

“In that case, wouldn't it be sensible to put on the kettle at the same time?”

A moment later she informed the empty room:

“But what a funny place to keep your whisky! Never heard of
anything
so extraordinary!”

On Marsha's return, Daisy had taken off her coat and thrown it carelessly over the back of a chair. She had stuffed her woolly pompommed hat into one of its pockets and run stubby, impatient fingers through her tight black curls. She was a short woman, trim, but even in her old age—Dan and Marsha had the previous night decided on seventy-six,
at least
seventy-six—she was still a sturdy one. Her white blouse looked a little grubby; her green jacket and pleated grey skirt could likewise have done with a good clean. But her solid black lace-ups shone as if newly and vigorously polished. Daisy had pulled up one of the armchairs very close to the fire and the elements were reflected in the leather of her left shoe.

Marsha issued a warning. “Now you watch out that you don't get chilblains!”

“My dear girl, why should I? Such things belong exclusively to the frightened folk. They exist only in the mind.”

“Well, if that's so, I must surely be one of the frightened folk.”

Marsha set down the tray and handed Daisy her drink. Daisy certainly managed to thank her, but only as an afterthought. Oh, my hat! Whisky served up in a sherry glass! Why not use a thimble and have done with it?

“You must have a very steady hand. You didn't spill a drop.”

“I think I do have a steady hand. But I also took care not to overfill the glasses.”

“Yes, that's true, dear. I noticed. Anyhow…here's mud in your eye! Happy times!”

They drank.

“I see they changed the wallpaper. Just as well. Not that this one's much of an improvement.”

“Why? What's the matter with it?” Marsha's laugh was a little nervous.

Daisy merely shrugged.

“I always considered Erica had quite nice taste,” said Marsha; never having thoroughly learned to leave well alone.

“Oh,
taste
. Yes, possibly. But did you ever see anything so utterly wishy-washy in all your born days?”

“Now, Daisy…”

“Naturally I'm referring to the wallpaper, not to Erica.” Daisy looked about her with disdain. “Dull. No spirit of adventure.”

She added as though it were the final and most crushing epithet in anyone's vocabulary: “Suburban.”

“I really don't think it's so bad.”

“Yes, I know, dear. I daresay you're right.”

Daisy gazed into her empty glass for an instant. She sighed lengthily, held it over her tongue to make sure there wasn't any more to be extracted, then put it in her lap. Marsha at once stood up, took it from her and replaced it on the tray.

“Mean-spirited,” said Daisy.

Marsha smiled. “I don't see how a wallpaper can be called mean-spirited.”

“Don't you?”

Marsha took Daisy's coat and hung it in the hall. She said when she came back: “I must say you're looking fit.”

“What's that?” Daisy fiddled a moment with the bulky hearing aid which she carried in her breast pocket. It gave a high-pitched whistle. “Oh, drat this thing! I'll swear it has a mind of its own.”

“Like you, Daisy.” Marsha mouthed the words and pointed.

Daisy chuckled. “Yes, dear, like me! How right you are.
Just
like me, thank goodness! Ah, that's got it!” This final exclamation was as triumphant as if, after prolonged effort, she'd swatted some persistent fly. “Now, what was it you said?”

“I said how fit you were looking.”

“Oh, yes. Well. One has to do
something
to keep one's pecker up. Somehow…” She brooded over this for several seconds; then rallied, to illustrate her own maxim. “Not that my appearance would ever pity me, even on my deathbed. I always had a good colour.”

Indeed, Daisy had such a good colour, she resembled a rag doll which had small round patches sewn onto either cheek. It wasn't quite what Marsha had envisaged when once, long ago, she had given her a few hints on how to apply her makeup.

And Daisy had a portrait of herself, done in oils, by Augustus John…whereas, if Marsha had ever been painted, watercolours might have seemed more appropriate.

At present she was wearing a beige woollen dress, only a shade or two lighter than her softly waved brown hair; and although she was sixty and looked neither especially young for sixty nor especially free of worry lines—or those, maybe, occasioned more by regret and disappointment—she was still a very pretty woman, with a mainly gentle expression.

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Dan's taking his time,” she said. “All he had to get was a tin of peas and a jar of marmalade. Oh…and a box of tissues. I left them off my shopping list this morning.”

“Ah.”

“I don't like it when he's gone too long. I start to grow anxious.”

“How is Dan?”

“Marvellous. Considering.”

“I think it very strange,” said Daisy, “that no one let me know. Not until
after
the funeral. Very strange, indeed. And I shall make no bones about telling him so.”

Marsha was embarrassed.

“He didn't think you'd want to come, Daisy.”

“Why not?”

“Well, don't you remember how things stood between you and Erica?”

“Oh, what nonsense! The merest little tiff, that's all. We were always quite the best of friends. And he could at least have given me the option.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

“Besides, it must have
looked
so strange. Not that one cares anything about that, of course. But… I suppose everyone came back for drinks and things, after the service?”

Marsha nodded. There was a brief silence.

“And what did you have? At this little do of yours?”

“I'm not too sure one should describe it as a ‘do'.”

“Well, describe it as anything you like.”

“It was all very simple, really. We had tea and sandwiches. Three sorts.” Slowly, on her fingers, Marsha ticked off the fillings. “Scrambled egg…grated cheese…sardine. I mixed up a little salad cream with the cheese. We also had chocolate cup cakes and an assortment of biscuits. And I made a sponge. It was nice and light.”

“But what to drink? Only tea?”

“Earl Grey. Everybody liked it. I had to make six pots.”

“Six? That does sound a success.” But Daisy now seemed reconciled to having missed it. “Did you say, dear, that you had put the kettle on?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Marsha got to her feet again and picked up the tray. “I know that, to some, cup cakes might appear a bit unexpected. But they were always a particular favourite of Erica's.”

“Why? Did she come, too?”

“No, of course not. She—” Marsha suddenly realized she'd been caught out. They both laughed.

“Oh, Daisy, I'm sure that we shouldn't, but you're so absurd. I'd almost forgotten what a tonic you are. I shan't be long with the tea.” But at the door she stopped. Daisy was hopeful.

“Oh, Daisy. Before Dan comes. You won't speak of the wallpaper or anything like that?”

“Don't worry, dear. I'm not a fool.”

“Oh, good gracious, no, I wasn't—”

“But what about
after
he comes?”

Their laughter was renewed. “Oh, you silly so-and-so! But your talk of making no bones worried me a little. And you do realize, don't you, how very fond he was of Erica? We don't want to upset him. It was so good of him to offer us his home.”

Daisy stared at her.

“What!”

Then she quickly added: “He may have offered
you
his home. But I thought
I
was only here for the weekend.”

“Oh dear. Didn't he tell you in his letter? Then I shouldn't be spoiling his surprise.”

“Ha! But now that you've done so, you might as well carry on. I won't say anything if you don't.”

At first, Marsha was undecided.

“Well, all right. But, anyway, I've more or less told you. You see, Dan knows you're not very happy where you are…the same as he knew
I
couldn't really afford to stay on in that poky little flat of mine. And so he said it might be a good idea—since he was now all alone in this great big rambling house of his…”

Daisy certainly didn't think of it as a great big rambling house: a three-bedroomed semi-detached in Hendon, rejoicing under the lovely name of Shangri-La.

“The three of us together,” she murmured. “Well, I don't know about that. I'm not too sure, dear. Do you realize I haven't seen Dan in roughly five years?”

She said this partly to avoid the necessity of having to commit herself straightaway—although the idea clearly had its advantages—but more especially to stop Marsha believing she was simply going to jump at the opportunity. You should never let people think you were too available.

“Is that so?” asked Marsha. “My goodness! A whole five years?”

“It was 1970. Erica was in Germany or some such place. And previously I hadn't set eyes on him for…well, I don't know how long…except that I can tell you he was still just skin and bones
then
, whenever it was, so you can imagine my surprise when I suddenly saw this great fat chap who was opening the door to me…”

“Oh, I wouldn't say exactly
fat
.”

“Well, I did and Dan himself didn't appear to mind. Bloated, then, if you'd prefer it. But definitely unhealthy.”

“In any case, fat or not, he's the most saintly person I've ever met. He's always trying to do what's right.”

“Oh,
saintly
,” said Daisy. “Well, if it comes to that, I suppose most of us are always doing what we can to try to help others.”

“Anyway, about our all living together. Dan says he's sure it's what Henry would have wanted.”

“And how do you feel about it yourself, dear? I mean, of course, when you're not under the influence.”

But at that moment they heard a key in the front door. Or, rather, Marsha did. And in the minute or two before her brother-in-law came into the room, Daisy—having to remind herself not to expect the slim young man she still mainly visualized—briefly remembered something.

3

One Saturday morning in the autumn of 1936 she had been on Rosslyn Hill, in Hampstead, when from across the street she had seen someone whom she recognized. She hailed him cheerily. “Dan! Dan!” How nice. She would get him to buy her a cup of coffee in that smart new café she had just passed.

But he didn't hear her. All he'd been doing was disposing of a cigarette packet in one of those rubbish bins attached to a lamppost. Yet he seemed oddly preoccupied and as he began to walk on he kept glancing back over his shoulder. He was appearing rather furtive.

Daisy was intrigued. For the moment she didn't call again. She simply stood and watched.

And as she did so she saw Dan suddenly turn and hurry back to the rubbish bin. He still looked ill-at-ease and, this time, little wonder: he actually put in his hand and pulled out…well, presumably that same cigarette packet he had just dropped in! What extremely strange behaviour—even for a Stormont.

Now he was crossing the street but still he didn't see her. He made off quickly down the hill. Daisy followed. The same thing happened: the cigarette packet went into a rubbish bin on
this
side of the road. Then he slowed his pace again, while continually looking back.

But this was thrilling, thought Daisy. Thrilling! He was in the Secret Service. How swiftly and astronomically he rose in her estimation; how could she ever have called him stodgy? And what a tale there'd now be to tell them at the club! Shades of Bulldog Drummond and Sexton Blake and the Scarlet Pimpernel. Sinister German spy rings. The winging knife between the shoulder blades. The microfilm secreted in the cigarette.

Who, though, was the opposite number he clearly mustn't acknowledge? For an enraptured minute Daisy scanned the street. Ah! A grim-faced Norland nanny pushing her pram. Yet was there, in fact, a baby under all those coverings, and didn't the woman betray a distinctly mannish gait? Then—laden with carrier bags—a grubby old crone wearing two overcoats and holey mittens shuffled past; was
she
what she appeared? A seemingly nervous young man was either selling things or going from door to door searching for employment…well, anyway, so he would have you believe. But that striped tie—had he really got the right to wear it? And what was he carrying in his black case? And wasn't his whole look quite suspiciously Mid-European? Daisy stood by a shop window, ostensibly gazing at antiquarian books. Then she skulked in a doorway, collar turned up, woolly hat pulled down. Her childhood wasn't so far behind her, thank God (nor would it ever be), that she hadn't retained a true delight in the bizarre…and a magical ability to turn it to account. Imagination and a sense of fun! Curiosity and wonder! A
sine qua non
, each one of them.