The Snow Globe (13 page)

The only man to have ever given Mabel jewelry was her husband, and though she wasn't sure what significance the gift held, she knew she had to accept it, and graciously.

Minutes earlier, Mabel had placed the wreath upon the snow-covered grave and then stood silently in contemplation and prayer. She had not cried.

Reggie had been the one to persuade her to visit, had told her that she must and had promised to drive her there. It hadn't been easy. It was the first time she had visited in more than six years.

“I wish I'd been here for you then,” said Reggie.

Mabel shook her head. “That time's all a blur to me now,” she said. “I was so utterly lost . . . How could I grieve for a son I'd known and loved for weeks when so many were grieving for sons they'd known and loved for years, decades? I couldn't . . . I didn't. And Howard was in London . . . and I had the girls to think of . . . I cried in private, of course, and I slept a lot,” she said, turning to him, trying to smile. “I think I slept through an entire year . . . Yes, it was a queer sort of twilight existence, and if it hadn't been for the girls . . . well, I think I'd have run away.”

Mabel had never spoken about that time before, not to Howard, not to anyone. Her hands trembled as she spoke, as she fiddled with the tissue paper wrappings of her gift. And when Reggie placed his hand upon hers and stared back at her with tears in his own eyes,
it seemed to her as though he understood her in a way Howard did not, never had and perhaps never would.

“Do you still want to run away?” Reggie asked.

Mabel nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Then perhaps you should . . . Perhaps you should run away, for a little while, at least. I think it'd be very good for you.”

Christmas Eve luncheon was a strange affair to Daisy's mind. Howard remained almost completely silent, staring down the long table with mournful brown eyes at his wife. Like one of the spaniels, Daisy thought. Mabel, on the other hand, appeared brighter, breezier and unusually effervescent. She appeared to find everything amusing. Even when Ben knocked over the gravy boat, soaking the white linen in glutinous brown liquid, she simply smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

Margot barely spoke. She sat next to Howard—looking quite beautiful, Daisy thought—pushing about her food with not exactly a frown but a sort of pouted, concentrated mouth. Reggie, sitting on Mabel's right, was the one in command, or so it seemed to Daisy. The one to ring the bell and explain “the sinking of HMS
Gravy
”; the one to pour the wine—Mabel first; the one to ask Nancy to serve coffee in the drawing room. But then he was a
major
, Daisy
reminded herself, used to organizing and planning, logistics and locations.

When Reggie rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together and suddenly saying, “Right . . . last one to the drawing room's a nincompoop!”—and everyone, bar Howard, Margot and Noonie, jumped up and raced from the room, pushing and shoving through the doorway, careering across the hallway, then arguing about who was the last to have entered the room—Daisy thought once again how much fun Reggie was, and how unlike her father. She saw her mother fall breathless into an armchair, carefree and laughing, saw Reggie's tender gaze. And in that moment Daisy felt such gratitude toward him. He had made Mabel laugh. In spite of the bizarre and cruel situation, he had made her mother laugh. There was hope.

Charades—in which Dosia excelled—were followed by tea, which was followed by the usual quiet period leading up to the dressing bell, when people yawned and sighed and conversations were desultory, meandering, leading nowhere.

Noonie sat next to the wireless with the
Radio Times
on her lap, asleep, joining Dosia and the three slumbering dogs in a soft guttural chorus. Mabel fiddled on with threads and scissors and her embroidery, from time to time looking up to smile—at anyone, or at Reggie. Howard hid behind a newspaper, rustling it as he cleared his throat and turned a page—with a surreptitious glance across the room at Mabel, or at Reggie. Margot flicked through the pages of
Country Life
magazine, from time to time lifting her gaze toward Howard, and Ben sat alone at the far end of the room playing patience on the baize-topped card table.

The young
—as Mabel referred to her children and their friends
collectively—sat dotted about in a variety of chairs, fashions and poses: Lily and Miles sat huddled over their wedding album, whispering and giggling; Iris—having been banned by Howard from playing any music—sat quietly, for once, lost in her novel; and Valentine Vincent, who also held a book, watched Daisy playing with a strand of her hair and staring into the snow globe.

As usual, there were to be carols around the tree at seven. This was a long-standing tradition at Eden Hall, and the whole household—including the servants and whoever happened to be staying—was expected to be there, on time
and
in full voice.

Once, before the war, the hallway had been flooded, jam-packed and crowded with black-and-white starched uniforms, ostrich feathers, diamonds and pearls. And though this Christmas Eve tradition had survived and Mabel continued to invite their neighbors—and their servants, too; those they still had—it wasn't the same.

People seemed to have lost their enthusiasm, Mabel thought, for Christmas, for celebration. Each year fewer and fewer people showed up, and where once their guests would have come with an army of servants trailing in after them, now you'd be lucky to get a single maid in uniform. Last year, Patricia Knight's housekeeper had come in a cardigan over a housecoat and a woolen hat—which she had kept on her head for the entire duration. And Dosia hadn't been much better: appearing in the hallway in the same creased tweed skirt and sweater she'd worn all day, her usual laced brogues (leaving a trail of dried mud wherever she went, Mabel remembered) and her hair all this way and that. But it was important, Howard said—and Mabel tended to agree—to keep up these traditions and customs, to dress properly and set an example. And so they continued
with their carols and, afterward, mince pies and sherry before Howard said a few words and the family lined up to shake hands with their diminished staff and diminished guests and wish them all a “Happy Christmas.”

Tonight, Reggie was to return to High Pines—in order to dress for dinner—and then come back to Eden Hall with the Singhs. He was keen for them to be included in all things, to embrace England and English culture. When Reggie stood up and said that he would be back in an hour or so, Mabel said, “Bring an overnight bag. It's silly—and dangerous, as much as anything else—you traipsing back and forth in this weather. You're spending the day here tomorrow, so please—bring your overnight bag and I'll ask Nancy to air a bed for you . . . and of course the Singhs are very welcome to stay too, if they wish.”

Reggie smiled, but before he could speak, Howard put down his newspaper and rose to his feet, saying, “Really, dear, I'm quite sure Reggie would far rather sleep in his own bed. It's hardly an epic journey for him, not as though he's driving to London,” he added, laughing, looking about the room.

Mabel ignored her husband. “Seriously, Reg, if you'd like to stay over, you're most welcome—more than welcome. And it'll simply mean you're here for tomorrow.”

“Yes! Do stay, Reggie,” Iris called across the room.

“Well, you're all very kind . . . but I'd hate to put you to any trouble, Mabel.”

Howard moved swiftly. “Not at all, dear boy. You know you're always welcome, but I completely understand—always better to wake up in one's own bed, eh?”

Mabel didn't look at Howard. She smiled back at Reggie and said quietly, “It's absolutely no trouble; we have more than enough room . . . and I'll be much happier knowing you're here, that we're all present and correct for Christmas.”

There then passed a moment—a long moment—when no one spoke, and other than the sound of snoring, everything went quieter than before. Howard stared at Mabel, who stared at Reggie, who sighed. “Well, if you're quite sure, Mabel . . . thank you, that'd be marvelous. Yes, really. Marvelous.”

And that was that. Reggie went off to drive the short distance home, get changed for dinner and return—with or without the Singhs but
with
his overnight bag.
The young
one by one left the room, and Margot excused herself, saying, oh my, was that the time and that she, too, must freshen up and dress for dinner. Howard stood fixed. Mabel fiddled, snipping at threads with her scissors.

“Very nice of you and all that to invite the major, but don't you think you have enough?”

“Enough?” Mabel repeated without looking up.

“We do have quite a full house. And . . . well, I'm not sure about him. Not sure at all.”

Mabel smiled. “You're beginning to sound like Daisy.”

“Really? I thought she liked him.”

Mabel looked up. “Oh yes, she does. She likes him very much.”

“Look here, Mabel,” Howard began, and then the dressing bell sounded.

“Righto,” he said, after a moment or two. “I suppose I'd better go up and change.”

“Yes, you do that,” said Mabel, snip-snip-snipping once more, almost holding her breath.

As the door closed, she put down her scissors and looked up. The sudden realization that there had been some sort of shift, that it was no longer she watching Howard but he watching her, that she had the power to crush him, to not only ruin his Christmas but also possibly ruin his life, made her gasp, and as she did so she felt a sharp sting and glanced down to see that she had pierced her thumb with her needle.

Daisy lay on her bed with Iris, sharing a cigarette. She couldn't decide which dress to wear: the navy blue silk with cream lace collar, or the new green velveteen—a Christmas present from her mother . . . though she had intended on keeping that for tomorrow.

“Depends,” said Iris. “Whose eye do you want to catch?”

Daisy giggled and dug her elbow into her sister. “Really!”

“Seriously, you have three of them to choose from. You need to decide which one.”

“Three?”

Iris handed the cigarette back to Daisy, then sat forward and turned to her younger sister. “You know, the name Dodo suits you far better than Daisy.”

“Mm, really?”

“Yes, because it's what you are. A complete and utter dodo!”

Daisy smiled. “So . . . three?”

Iris raised her hand: “Mr. Gifford,” she said, pulling down her index finger. “Stee-phen . . . ,” she said, elongating the syllables and
pulling down her middle finger. Daisy closed her eyes. “And now . . . now the rather delicious Valentine Vincent,” Iris said, pulling down another finger.

Daisy tried to blow a smoke ring. “Well, let's be honest. Stephen doesn't really count, does he?” she asked, glancing to Iris.

Iris shrugged. “Can do—if you want him to . . .”

Stephen. He was one of the very few people—apart from Iris (and her father, up until hours ago)—whom she felt able to talk to openly and about almost anything. She quite loved him, she thought, but not in
that
way. “And even if I was madly in love with him,” she said, thinking aloud, “nothing could ever come of it.”

“Oh, darling, don't be so old-fashioned. Times have changed—and
are
changing.” Iris paused, took the cigarette from Daisy's hand. “Look at Susan Knight. She didn't take any notice of convention—class, whatever you want to call it. She married for
love
.”

“But Susan's parents more or less disowned her. They've only just started speaking again—after three years!”

“So? They're speaking, they got over it and Susan—clever woman—is now married to the man she wanted to marry and not to that dreadful mustachioed lawyer from
the suburbs
that her parents wanted her to marry. Do you remember him? God, he was ghastly! She may not have the lifestyle she could have had, but she's happy—and
free
. And the two go together: You can't be happy unless you are free, and you can't be free until you're truly happy—which means being true to yourself first and foremost.” She paused again. “If I met and fell in love with someone now—no matter who they were and no matter what anyone said—I'd give myself to them . . . and I'd be with them, whatever it took.”

“I thought you didn't believe in marriage.”

Iris laughed. “I didn't say I'd
marry
them!”

“You mean you'd live in sin?”

“I mean I'd live
in
love
, darling. I couldn't give a hoot what convention says, really! Who wants to be conventional?” She shuddered. “And anyway, most of our so-called conventions were invented by men—men like Howard—as a form of control, of course.”

At that moment Daisy, who had been trying for some time, blew a smoke ring that rose into the air in a perfect circle. “Look at that—I did it!”

Iris smiled, then continued: “No, to remain free, to be truly free, I believe one must live outside of conventions. I have no desire to be shackled as Mrs. Anyone, and as I don't intend to have children, there's little point in my marrying.”

Daisy didn't say anything. She was confused. Iris seemed to believe in love—but a particular kind of love, one that required no commitment. But if she didn't wish to marry, to have a family of her own, what sort of life was she planning for herself? Even
with
a flat in London, even with her shop and all those clothes and all that dancing, was spinsterhood
really
freedom? And what would happen, what would she do when she was too old to dance or sell clothes? Sit about in her trousers and read novels for the rest of her life? No old ladies wore trousers; she'd
have to
go back to dresses then. And as for having lovers, which Daisy presumed was what her sister had meant when she had said that she'd “give herself,” it seemed a little casual . . . and cheap. Surely she was worth more than that?