I stared at her. 'Are you suggesting Mr Baxter has lost his mind, Hannah?'

'I'm only the maid, Mrs Baxter. You'd have to ask a doctor about that.'

I felt she was bordering on insubordination, but Hannah was always pert, and I couldn't afford to cross her now. I felt absurdly reliant on this nineteen-year-old girl. 'I think I know my husband,' I said. 'And I'm sure it's nothing serious.'

'I expect he'll come round now you're back,' she said, but not with a great deal of conviction.

'Yes. I'm sure he will. Thank you for your efforts with him in the meantime. And with Daisy too.'

'She's a good little girl when all's said and done. And Mr Baxter knows it. He's always quiet when she's around. He listens to her reading for hours.' She paused. 'It was him that saved her, you know.'

'Saved her?'

'By praying all the time and always keeping awake so that the Devil wouldn't take her.'

That sounded rather like medieval superst.i.tion to me, but no doubt Hannah had imperfectly understood the nature of Daniel's vigil and the substance of his prayers. But I was touched at this evidence if I needed it of his devotion to Daisy. No wonder he was tired, and drained of all his customary vigour. No wonder he had hardly recognized me and had been fearful that I was about to take Daisy from him after nursing her night and day. I had to admit that I had had no idea that Daniel would have shown his devotion by so continual a presence by her side. I had rather thought the burden of the bedside watch would have fallen on Hannah. But he had set himself a test, just as he said. And Daniel had never failed a test.

'I think I had better call Dr Lawrence all the same,' I said.

'He's away in Brighton, ma'am. And Mr Baxter didn't want any other doctor to see her.'

'I was thinking of Mr Baxter's own health. Some sleeping draught, perhaps. Or a tonic.'

She shook her head. 'It's hard to get him to eat or drink anything. Cook's at her wits' end.'

'Well, lack of food will have weakened him, without doubt. Get Matthews to run and see if old Dr Peac.o.c.k can come instead.'

'Yes, Mrs Baxter.' She turned to go. 'I did right, though, didn't I? By sending the letter, I mean.'

'To some extent,' I said, curiously reluctant to give her credit for her unconventional action. 'But why did you not speak to someone in authority in the church? Mr Morton, for example?'

'n.o.body from the church come near us. Mr Baxter was very strict in that: no visitors, he said. Even Mr Jameson had to wait on the doorstep. And I in't been out of the house for three weeks. Anyway, I don't know where Mr Morton lives.'

'You could have found out, though. You're not short of initiative, it seems.'

'I thought it weren't the thing to have the world and his wife involved, especially busybodies like Mrs Carmichael begging your pardon. But maybe I was wrong.'

'No, you were right,' I said, thinking the girl had her wits about her after all. The last thing I wanted was for Daniel's plight to become the talk of the neighbourhood.

Daniel didn't wake all that evening. He lay on the counterpane, his boots off but his clothes still half on. Dr Peac.o.c.k came, put his head round the bedroom door and said he should be left to sleep. 'He's a strong man,' he said. 'I daresay this tiredness of his will be over in a trice.' He gave me some purifying mixture to clear his system. 'Sometimes tired blood slows the workings of the brain.'

I didn't dare sleep in my usual place at Daniel's side. Instead I lay down in the room that belonged to Christiana and Sarah, leaving open the door to Daisy's room in case she needed me. But I could not sleep. I was too apprehensive about what I would find in the morning when Daniel awoke. Would he be his normal self or would he be this peculiar person I did not know?

All through the night I could hear Daisy's bed creaking as she turned over in her sleep. Then she started to mutter, so I got up and went to her. I had left a lamp burning low by the bedside and could see that she was moist with perspiration. 'No,' she said. 'I don't like it.'

'What is it that you don't like, Daisy dear?'

She woke up with a start at the sound of my voice, even though I had merely whispered. 'Papa?' she murmured, squinting up at me.

'No, it's Mama,' I said. 'I'm back now. There's nothing to fear.'

Her eyes looked very dark in the low light, her face a mere shadow. I put my hand on her cheek, but she shrank away from me as if my touch was a branding-iron.

'Daisy, what's the matter? Have you had a bad dream?'

This time she seemed to recognize me. 'Mama! Are you really back?'

'Yes, Daisy, I really am. I know it was wrong to leave you for so long, but I will make up for it now.'

There was a long silence. Then, 'Will you tell Papa to stop?'

'Stop what, dearest?

'Those horrid things he does. I don't like it. I want everything to be as it was before.'

'Oh, my poor Daisy!' I said, taking her hand. To have seen her father rushing half-clothed into the street and babbling such nonsense as Hannah had described must have sorely frightened the child. I wanted so much to rea.s.sure her that Daniel would soon recover and that our happy family life would be restored but I doubted that Dr Peac.o.c.k's blood remedy would be enough to bring him back to us, and I couldn't give her false hope. 'I don't like it either,' I said. 'And I only wish I could make it stop. But some things are beyond my power. The best thing is to hope it will soon pa.s.s. Now, dearest, go to sleep. I'll wait here a while and say a prayer for you. And one for Papa too.'

She lay on the pillow, still staring at me. 'But can't you ?' Her voice died away, and it seemed that she was still half-asleep.

'Can't I what?' I bent over her to hear the words. I could feel her breath on my cheek like the palpitations of a little bird.

'I don't know. Never mind.' And she turned away from me so I could no longer see her face.

I slept badly that night, torn between worry for Daniel's state of mind and concerns for Daisy's anxious state. But the next day, when I peeped into our bedroom, Daniel was awake, and seemed almost his old self. He kissed me and stroked my hair and let me help him dress. 'I am so glad you are back,' he said. And I said I was glad he was back, too.

But my hopes were short-lived. I quickly found that for every good day when he was in possession of himself, there were two or three where he was quite the opposite. 'You don't seem to realize,' he would say, shaking off my restraining arm, and pacing about the house. 'I must work every minute to make sure we are all Saved.' He refused the medicine Dr Peac.o.c.k had left, saying I was trying to poison him and accused me of keeping Daisy away from him (which, in the light of our bedside conversation, I'd felt it best to do). But, now it seemed that the weeks of nursing her had created a bond between them that he could not bear to be broken, and he became agitated without her, begging me to let her sit with him in the afternoons. 'She is my angel,' he said. 'She alone will save me.' I was reluctant at first, knowing how Daisy was unnerved by the changes in her father, but I sat her down and explained to her that her company would help him to get better. She nodded and said, 'I know.'

So it was arranged, and for a couple of hours each day, there was peace in the household. He'd read her stories and, in return, she would read to him from the Bible. He would always choose Corinthians: Love suffereth long and is kind. He could never hear it enough. I attempted to keep them company, to enjoy some of Daniel's calmer moments; but very often when I went into the room, he'd become agitated and even enraged. Once he threw the Bible at me, and when I remonstrated that he should not treat the Holy Book in that way, he looked at me very intently and asked if I had been baptized.

'Of course I have, Daniel,' I replied.

But he said I was wrong: 'You have a sin inside you that I can see clearly. I must wash it away.' And he took the jug from the washstand and poured the water all over me so that my hair and gown were utterly soaked.

Daisy looked at me with dismay, but I thought I detected in her face a touch of amus.e.m.e.nt at my plight. I think now that I was mistaken in this, but my mind was in such disarray that I was ready to jump to any conclusion. And I own that I was rather jealous that my husband should so insistently prefer my daughter's company to my own, and that they should enjoy things that excluded me. 'Don't laugh at me, child,' I snapped, as the cold water seeped into me. 'Hand me a towel. Can't you see I'm drenched?'

'I'm not laughing, Mama,' she said. And she fetched a towel from the washstand and began to dry my arms and hands in silence. I regretted my harsh words then, but was too angry to take them back. And she wouldn't speak or look at me, but simply went on patting at my gown until I took the towel from her and left the room.

After that, she became daily more and more mute. I know I should have reached out and asked her what was troubling her; but something held me back. We pa.s.sed silently on the stairs, and I no longer went to her when she called out in her sleep. In fact, I kept the door between us shut so I could not hear her.

Perhaps Daniel was right and I never loved her as I should. Perhaps there was something from that time of her infancy which made my heart less generous towards her. But in the days and weeks that followed, my excuse if indeed I can allow myself one was that Daniel took up all of my attention. He made demands every minute of the day, whereas Daisy made none, falling in, it seemed, with whatever I proposed, never complaining in any way. But always giving me that mute, hostile look, as if she were deaf and dumb entirely at my behest.

When Dr Lawrence returned from holiday, he prescribed fresh air and activity, saying the Brighton air had invigorated his own mental capacities and would surely do the same for Daniel. As Oxford lacks sea air, Hannah and I began to take Daniel for short evening walks in the quieter byways of the neighbourhood. But it was very difficult to manage. We were always apprehensive about meeting any of the parishioners, and frequently had to escort Daniel down a back lane to avoid an embarra.s.sing encounter. On one occasion he ran away from us completely, and had to be brought back by a constable. On another occasion, he managed to get out of his bedroom window before breakfast, and ran into the church, addressing the dozen or so gathered for Morning Prayers, clad only in his nightshirt. Charles Morton and Robert Constantine had luckily been witness to this incursion and had brought Daniel home before too much harm was done, but I understood that rumours had begun in the congregation as to the exact nature of Daniel's 'nervous exhaustion'.

After several months of this hole-in-the-corner existence, I realized that I could not manage my husband with just the servants to a.s.sist me. We were all exhausted with the effort of trying to keep him occupied and fully clothed. So in the end I had no option but to confess all to the bishop. He was most perturbed: 'Daniel is such a fine preacher; such a fine, G.o.d-fearing man. We must all pray for his recovery.' He agreed that Charles should continue to take the services, with help from the curate at St John's, until such time as Daniel's state of mind had improved. 'I hesitate to suggest it, Mrs Baxter, but there are excellent sanatoria for clergymen who are undergoing any trials of er a mental capacity.'

'You mean an asylum?' I said. 'G.o.d forbid that ever Daniel should be committed to a place like that!' I'd once visited a poor parishioner in Bethlem Hospital and I'd never forgotten it.

'I leave the matter with you, of course, Mrs Baxter. But the Church is anxious that there be no scandal. I must have your a.s.surance that Mr Baxter will be kept out of the public eye.'

'Locked up, you mean?'

He tilted his head. 'Kept confined, I would prefer to say.'

'We cannot keep him in. We are all women apart from the gardener and my husband is strong.'

'Then I suggest you ask the churchwardens to a.s.sist you, or any member of the congregation that can be trusted.'

So, I set out to discover whom I might trust to help me. Mr Warner, the churchwarden, had in fact come to offer his help not long after my return, but he'd turned up with, of all people, John Jameson, so I'd refused him. I'd been incensed at Jameson's effrontery, having specifically written to him requesting him to cease all correspondence with both Daniel and Daisy, and yet he came in person asking to see Daisy, and making much fuss about a ma.n.u.script that he had left with Daniel. Maybe the purpose of his call was simply to retrieve it, as it formed the basis of that ridiculous fairy story, which later became so popular. However, much to my surprise, he used the occasion to end his role as Daisy's friend and confidant. I cannot say how much that contributed to my peace of mind. Daisy was upset, but she said nothing, and I was sure she would soon recover.

So I approached Mr Warner again, and, together with Mr Attwood, Mr Morton and Mr Constantine, we formed a kind of alliance to keep Daniel confined yet active; to distract him and to stop him accosting the general public with his revelations. We took it in turns to watch over him, and the men would bring new books to interest him and new subjects for him to write about, while Matthews taught him how to grow vegetables and clip the rose bushes. Sometimes he would be utterly absorbed in these occupations, but from time to time he would ask why he wasn't being allowed to preach at church. 'You are all preventing me from taking my message to the people,' he would say. 'You are of the Devil's party.'

This regime continued for the best part of three years. In spite of some terrible lapses, we always imagined that we saw signs of improvement the return of Daniel's genial manner and more lucid conversation and we continued to hope. Charles Morton carried out all Daniel's duties and the bishop gave what support he could, finally bestowing on Charles the t.i.tle of Perpetual Curate pro hac vice, to be revoked on Daniel's return to health. The congregation prayed for him every day, and although his condition was formally attributed to overwork, most of them knew how badly his mind had been affected. Mrs Carmichael, calling to pay her respects, was distressed to find that Daniel did not know her before deciding she was the laundrywoman come to wash the shirt off his back, which he proceeded to remove. And he could be very insulting at times. He called me names that no woman should hear, and spoke harshly to Christiana and Sarah and made them cry. Dr Lawrence gave him copious doses of laudanum, which gave us respite but, in the end, nothing helped. Even Daisy's calming effect diminished. She became increasingly reluctant to read to him, although he was always asking for her. I didn't exactly blame her; Daniel's often-stated love for her was more than a little suffocating.

And so, at last, I had to swallow my pride and consider a 'place of asylum'. It was not a bad place as these places go but when I first visited Daniel there, I was shocked at the number of afflicted clergymen who skipped about and ranted to the heavens. Daniel came to me immediately, which was gratifying, but within minutes he accused me of being the cause of his captivity and caught hold of my skirts and begged me to release him. 'You are my wife, Daisy. They will listen to you.'

'It's Evelina,' I said. 'Not Daisy.'

'Ah, yes,' he said. 'Evelina. I see that now. You have long skirts and stars in your eyes. But where is Daisy? I've bartered my soul for her, you know. I have the right to see her.'

His delusions were clearly as bad as ever, and I had no intention that any of our children should see their father in such a place. In addition, it took the best part of a day to make the journey there and back. But the Superintendent said it might help Daniel recover if he could see his daughters. I refused at first, wishing to spare them more distress. Daniel could rarely be prevailed upon to wear anything more than a nightshirt; and he would often remove that. If I remonstrated, he would begin to unb.u.t.ton my bodice or lift up my petticoats or horror pull down my drawers, and seek to lie with me in full view of everyone. I, who had once been so intoxicated with his body, now shrank from him as if he were a savage. And, every time, he asked for Daisy, and cried when I told him she could not come.

But, finally, my conscience got the better of me. None of the girls was anxious to go, but I insisted: 'He is your father.' Benjamin was left out of the expedition; Daniel seemed to have forgotten he had a son, and I did not remind him. But I was, surprised at how reluctant Daisy was, and how pale she looked when we set off. She was even paler when we arrived, and I thought she might faint as we waited in a little anteroom for him to appear. Daniel seemed to have grown much older in the course of a few months and I could see that the girls were taken aback. He was very scantily dressed and, as usual, seemed unaware of any impropriety. He pressed his half-naked body against us with expressions of great joy. Christiana and Sarah submitted graciously, but Daisy hung back, her stare fixed on the ground. In fact, she paid him little attention, and when he took her on his lap, giving her loving kisses and showing her special attention, she sat stock-still and gla.s.sy-eyed, and made no attempt to speak to him. At first, I felt it was somewhat unkind of her, given her father's obvious joy in her company, and I was annoyed that she made so little effort. It was as if the sweet little Margaret who'd sat with him every day and been the apple of his eye had completely vanished, and a horrid, cold girl come in her place. But then I realized that it must have been a shock to her, as it had once been to me, seeing her beloved papa in even more reduced circ.u.mstances, no longer the adored shepherd of his flock, not even the t.i.tular head of the household but simply one madman among many. It was a great deal for a child of fifteen to bear, and I spoke gently to her then, and tried to ease her away from Daniel's smothering embrace. I knew that of my three girls, she'd been the one who had borne the brunt of the terrible changes in Daniel, and I could only suppose that after his departure, she'd comforted herself by putting all thoughts of him quite out of her mind. And now, this ill-advised visit had brought back memories she would rather have forgotten. I think I was right in my deduction: on the journey home she said nothing at all, and when I spoke of Daniel, she simply looked out of the carriage window. Indeed, I never heard her speak of him again. It was as if she had absolutely erased him from her mind.

None of the girls wished to repeat the visit, and not long afterwards, I put an end to my own. I could not endure being subject to such public humiliation. It was difficult enough that I had to endure all the curious and sympathetic enquiries at church every Sunday, and to stand in the pew saying the Creed and praising a G.o.d whom I felt had abandoned me.

Christiana was, to my surprise, my staff and comfort during this time. Indeed, she has turned out to be the most dutiful of our children. She lives just five miles from me now, across the Welsh border where Charles has at last taken up a Living of his own. He is an excellent man, and the whole Baxter family owes a great deal to him. He was not the suitor we would have wished for our eldest daughter and not the one she had dreamed of herself, I daresay, when she drew her bow with such grace in front of Leonard Gardiner, or danced with such feeling around the drawing room at Westwood Gardens. Charles, poor fellow, is rather pale and thin, with spindly legs and an indistinct voice, and I'd feared that she would ignore him much as she had previously ignored John Jameson and for many of the same reasons. But she has been faithful and done her duty.

Sarah is still unmarried and likely to remain so, dedicated as she is to the life of an amanuensis in the household of a German theologian, crammed up, I believe, in an attic bedroom with pen and paper and dozens of Bibles. I have encouraged her to come home but she insists she is happy learning Hebrew and Greek, and hopes in time to attend lectures at the university under the auspices of Herr Doktor Fischer. She has set no date for her return. I tell her that we are no longer in Oxford to be pilloried and pointed at, but she only says that Dr Fischer cannot do without her.

Benjamin, of course, cannot remember his father and takes each day as it comes. But he is away at school much of the time, so I cannot count on his company. He can't bear to be called Benjy, which he says is childish. If I have to shorten it, he says, he'd prefer 'Diz', after the prime minister which I think a good deal worse. He chafes at schoolwork and I fear he often neglects his prayers. Maybe Oxford will change him in due course, but he has no desire to follow his father's profession, and looks forward instead to inheriting his grandfather's estate when he is twenty-one. The tenants know him well and find him amiable and cheerful. Already he has Daniel's hearty manner and bonhomie. Sometimes, when he pushes back his hair and smiles at me, he is so like Daniel that I can hardly bear to look at him.

And then there is Daisy or rather, Margaret. It is an odd thing, but it's the old name that keeps sticking in my mind. 'Daisy' was Daniel's name for her, but, as is the way of children, she decided one day that she didn't like it. Of course, a change of name cannot change a person's character, but it seemed to me that the alteration I had observed in her when I returned to Oxford at Hannah's behest, was reflected somehow in her decision to change her name. Once she was Margaret, she became even more unknowable and secret.

She is still unknowable, now. There is a froideur that keeps me at a distance. I feel I am about to say the wrong thing, or that I have already said it. She is such an awkward person to converse with that I am amazed that Robert Constantine was able to make any headway with her, especially as he is a shy young man himself. I had no idea, in all the years he was visiting the vicarage, that he was attracted to Margaret, or she to him. A mother likes to think that she has a sixth sense in such matters or at least that her daughter will confess to her when she is in love. But with Margaret there was nothing just silence, stillness and secrecy. She and Robert spent hardly any time alone as far as I remember, and she showed no excitement, no blushes, no sense of delight at being close to him. He might have been her brother or indeed her father. As the wedding approached, I thought it likely that she was ignorant of the intimate duties of a wife, but when I tried to speak to her, she turned the conversation elsewhere, and so I let it lapse. Robert would guide her, I was sure, just as Daniel guided me. It does not do for a woman to know too much. It is the husband's place and his pleasure to instruct her.

I have not seen her since the wedding, she and Robert being on honeymoon, and I being so preoccupied with settling myself here at The Garth, although I have corresponded weekly with her, as I do with all my children. She writes of all the new things she is doing. She sounds quite animated, and I hope this means that married life is suiting her, although there is no mention yet of a child. I cannot help feeling that she is fortunate to have gained the love of Robert Constantine, who will, when his great-aunt dies, have wealth enough for a large family. With this thought in mind, I directed Daisy to the old toy-box that was left behind when I moved, and I believe she is going to investigate it. I warned her it was mainly dog-eared paper, but Daisy will make up her own mind.

18.

JOHN JAMESON.

I heard last week that Daisy Baxter is married, and that she has moved into St Aidan's Rectory. I can hardly believe that my little flower now manages an entire household, and warrants being addressed as 'Mrs Constantine' every day of her life. At the same time, I feel sick at heart to think that her childhood is now so irrevocably past, and that I am the only one to mourn it as it should be mourned. I have many other child-friends now, a fact not unconnected with my small fame as an author; and I can pick and choose among the cream of those whom I meet or who write to me in their hundreds. I can even delight in the companionship of girls as old as fourteen or fifteen, provided they keep the freshness of childhood in their hearts. But once a young girl marries, she generally loses all capacity for enchantment. Still, it is the way of the world, and I hope Daisy is happy in her new life.

I think of her, of course, and imagine how delightful it would have been to take a photograph of her on her wedding day a flower still in its perfect bloom. I would have had her look directly at me, her dark hair framed in its veil of white; orange blossoms ma.s.sing in her hair; and that ineffable combination of purity and eagerness in her grey eyes. But this is mere foolishness. Far from taking any photographs of the bride, I did not even attend the ceremony. Mrs Baxter has not spoken to me for years and fails to acknowledge me in the street and my relationship with Daisy was forfeit long ago. I have seen her at a distance, as I have seen them all; Oxford is a small place and we have been obliged to rub up against one another from time to time at concerts or in the public parks, and occasionally at the cathedral the eldest girls very tall and fine, and never looking in my direction, and the little boy Benjamin giving his arm to his mother with great ceremony, as if he were the paterfamilias. We never speak, but Daisy has always contrived to give me a shy smile before being hustled away in a flurry of petticoats. Naturally, I cannot help but hear the gossip that swells in their wake the whispers, the commiserations, the questions. The family has had to put on a brave face since Baxter's downfall. That was a very bad business. A very bad business indeed.

I was as shocked as everybody else by his sudden descent into insanity, but having had a good deal of time to consider the matter, I confess there were some early signs that his mind was overwrought. He was ever a man of extremes and, since those first debates in college, he had struggled with doubts about the validity of his position in the Anglican Church. I could myself never warrant becoming heated over Anglican Att.i.tudes, or even the famous Tracts. I did not entirely lack sympathy with Baxter, but while I had long come to the conclusion that logic has to be thrown to the winds where matters of faith are concerned, poor Daniel was incapable of taking such a pragmatic approach. He could not (like the rest of us) put his doubts in a separate and hermetic container, and trudge on with familiar habits of belief simply because they were familiar. He needed absolute certainty. I rather think he expected personal guidance from G.o.d Himself. And although I might be regarded as but a poor subst.i.tute for the Almighty, he would nevertheless catch me in the hallway when I went to collect Daisy, and, like the Ancient Mariner, draw me into his study and make me listen as he reviewed the whole basis of his faith. 'Suppose I have chosen the wrong path?' he would say. 'Suppose I am leading others down the wrong path? Perhaps Newman is right. Maybe a return to the traditional rites and beliefs is what we need. But I don't know, Jameson. I don't know.'

I always attempted to rea.s.sure him. 'Your parish does more good in Oxford than anyone has the right to expect. Think how many souls you have brought to salvation; how your church creaks at the seams on Sunday with eager worshippers who want to hear you preach. It's the Devil that makes you doubt, Daniel.'

I wish, in retrospect, that I had not mentioned the Devil. That fiery ent.i.ty had been preying on Daniel's mind rather too much. He had allowed himself to dwell excessively on the question of Eternal d.a.m.nation and no explanation could satisfy him. But that was the other characteristic about Daniel: he could not hold his uncertainty quiet within him; he had to take up a Position. I urged caution, time to reflect, but for him there were no half-measures. And because I refused to become agitated in the matter, to as it were stand on the street corner with a tract in my hand, he accused me of Laodicean lukewarmness: neither hot nor cold. It was typical of him to have been poring over Revelations a Book I am not fond of, I must say. And it was typical of him to find such a text.

Daniel was very extreme in other ways too. He told me he took a cold shower every day, rubbing and scrubbing until his flesh was raw: 'To keep the Devil away, John. To keep the Devil away!' And such ablutions were not just a prophylactic against sin; he took actual pleasure in the icy water, and expressed surprise that I myself took no similar daily refresher. I said I did not feel the need to mortify my body further; it was a poor enough thing as it was. But to be perfectly frank, as well as having a reluctance to engage with the unreliable workings of the college plumbing, I am rather like a cat, and hate to be cold or wet for any length of time. I like to go about my toilette in a quiet, methodical way and nothing invigorates me afterwards so much as the prospect of a big fire in my room, and Benson coming in with a plate of toasted m.u.f.fins. And as for the Devil well, we have had our tussles, he and I, and continue to do so; but I don't feel cold water is much of an impediment to his temptations. So, in my lukewarm way, I took all these manifestations of my friend's excitable state of mind very much in my stride. I thought them not only native to him, but necessary to his equilibrium, in that they allowed him to let off steam. In that I was apparently both right and wrong.

I did not, in fact, witness the first signs of his breakdown, as I had decided to move to the seaside for the remainder of the summer vacation. The decision had been somewhat forced on me when I found all my hopes of attending on Daisy dashed. I'd called at the Baxters' house regularly throughout her illness, and once I had good news of her improvement, I hoped I would soon be reading a story at her bedside and encouraging her once more to take an interest in the world. I'd already sent numerous gifts of fruit and sugar biscuits, as well as a draft of a fairy story which I thought would amuse her. But each time I presented myself, I found the vicarage closed to me, and Daniel himself incommunicado. The servant Hannah would always answer the door, take the gifts, and give me reports on Daisy's progress; but she always added that Mr Baxter thought she was not yet well enough for visitors: 'Not for some weeks, sir, he says.' It was quite a blow; and I feared that I was being kept away as a punishment for not taking proper care of her.

Indeed, I blamed myself to some extent, recalling all too late an incident that had occurred and which had fallen from my mind with all the anxiety and hullaballoo. Just days before she fell ill, Daisy (who had a p.r.o.nounced fondness for babes in arms which nothing could subdue) had enthusiastically embraced the infant of a somewhat uncouth family who had been waiting at the boating station alongside us. The child was rather dirty and wore a sticky residue around his mouth, and had coughed all over Daisy's face as she tenderly bent over him. Now, it is hardly to be credited that a sensible family would take a child with scarlet fever on a boating trip; but there again, some families are not just un-sensible, but insensible and now I feared that this encounter may have given rise to Daisy's illness. But, with my guardianship of Daisy already under criticism, I felt discretion was advisable, and communicated nothing to Baxter of my post hoc suspicions. I might have written, I suppose, but Hannah, the servant, persistently stated that her master was exhausted by his duties in watching over Daisy night and day, 'and wasn't his usual self', so I felt such news would be an additional burden. With hindsight, I believe that he had already become caught up in his derangement.

Being, therefore, with time on my hands, I determined to make an exit from Oxford. I am used to decamping, as I generally take a holiday in July or August at one of the popular watering places, somewhere where there are plenty of little children to observe, and if I am lucky to talk to for a while. While trying to decide between the joys of Brighton and Bournemouth, I recalled that Daisy's friend, little Annie Warner, had mentioned that she was going to Ilfracombe for the summer, and it occurred to me that I might go too. I had never been to Ilfracombe, but had heard it had a bracing climate and picturesque cliffs and rocky coves, so I decided to take my camera and equipment and see what opportunities presented themselves. Benson had become a dab hand at packing my equipment and could do it in nine minutes flat. I have an excellent folding chest of a patent design, and I was able to fit myself, my clothes and my camera into the cab without the slightest problem, and thence onto the train. As we puffed out of the station, I breathed Daisy a sad farewell and turned my attention to the future, as a man must do when he is disappointed in love.

Ilfracombe is a very pleasant place, though very hilly when one has to carry around a portmanteau of bottles and wet-plates, so I decided I would reconnoitre without my camera before I attempted to capture any views. I also hoped I might meet Annie as I strolled about. I put on a suitably maritime straw hat, selected a walking stick, and set forth in the direction of the harbour. There were a great many people enjoying the sunshine: men, women, children and also a great variety of dogs. The whole promenade seemed full of white crinolines and sun bonnets. Most of the ladies had frilled parasols as well as large, brimmed hats, and many of them were pushing perambulators with more frilled children inside. I half expected to find the dogs had frills too, in the manner of Dog Toby, but there was no Punch and Judy to be seen. A bra.s.s band was playing in a bandstand just under the hill, and a group of little girls was dancing in time to the music, supervised by a nursemaid with a long, frilled cap. I smiled as I pa.s.sed and one of the girls gaily waved her hand. 'Do you know that gentleman?' the nurse said and, in response to something inaudible, she retorted, 'Then don't wave at strangers.' How sad my heart was to hear those words, to know how the natural friendliness of children was being shaped and curbed to the demands of an ignorant society.

I decided to walk up Capstone Hill and see the view. There was a telescope near the summit, and I hoped to be able to pick out some children who might make good subjects for a picture. I could see a group out on the rocks with buckets and nets, the girls with their petticoats tucked up, and the boys barefoot and bareheaded. They bent and peered into the pools, and fished things out and examined them with concentration before placing them in a bucket. I thought it a charming scene and resolved to strike up a conversation with them, if I could, with a view to drawing them, or taking their photographs if I could obtain permission. I find mamas are so flattered at the thought of having a photograph of their children that they are willing to give me carte blanche as to composition and length of sittings, with the only proviso that I must give them a copy at the end. I have had the occasional mother who has insisted on sitting and watching throughout the whole process, and this is most disconcerting but such parents are generally in the minority.

I set off down the hill again, lengthening my stride along the winding path, but I was nearly knocked down by a child who was rolling down the slope at forty-five degrees to my own direction of travel. I bent and caught the child by the arm to prevent her rolling further. The hill is fairly steep and the deep sea lay below us with not a great deal in between. 'Good heavens, child,' I said. 'Have you no sense of danger?'

A face looked up at me from between the strands of delightfully disordered brown hair. A child of about six, her rosy cheeks even pinker from her exertions. At the same time I became aware of a buxom nursemaid and two other children racing down the path. To my surprise and considerable pleasure, the older of the two children was Annie Warner. She threw herself at me, embracing my waist. 'It's Mr Jameson!' she cried, more enraptured than she had ever seemed when she had come to tea in Oxford.

The nursemaid swiftly picked up the child who had rolled into me. 'What was you thinking of, Lou?' she said. 'You could of fallen into the sea, and we'd never of seen you again!' Then she thanked me and, turning to Annie, she said, 'Do you know this gentleman, then?'

'Of course, Deedee. How else would I know his name?' said Annie, with her usual spirit.

I touched my hat. 'I am J-John Jameson, a tutor in mathematics at the University of Oxford,' I explained.

'Sir.' The nursemaid gave a quick curtsey, while keeping one hand on Lou's shoulder and the other around a boy of about four.

'Annie is a little friend of mine,' I went on. 'She has come to tea at my college several times, with her mama's permission, and I have taken her photograph.'

The nurse still looked wary, as if I might be about to doff my respectable suit of clothes and turn into a serpent, so I tried again. 'I am also the friend of the Reverend Mr Baxter, of St Cyprian's.'

'Oh, Mr Baxter.' Her face softened. 'Oh, yes of course. We all know Mr Baxter. He gives a lovely sermon the best in Oxford, Mr Warner says. Still, Lou's got no right to go rampaging into you like that, friend or no friend. I don't know what might have happened if you'd not been there to stop her.'

'I was slowing down,' said the child, crossly. 'He just got in the way.'

'Ah, young lady,' I said, bending down to her. 'What you don't know is that other forces may have acted upon you a sudden gust of wind, for example, or the unexpected eruption of a rabbit from a rabbit hole which may have changed your trajectory and sent you over the edge. Fortunately, it is a calm day and I have seen no rabbits; and, therefore, on balance, I conclude that it was not dangerous. But, because of all the variables and unforeseen possibilities, it was not undangerous either.'

'Undangerous? That's not a word!' Annie laughed.

'You've heard of undignified? And undamaged? So why not undangerous?'

'You may as well say ungood, or unbad,' she added.

'You may as well say unspeak and hold your tongue,' I countered.