'I do say,' I reply with a certain pride, but feeling all the same something of an impostor.

'Oh, Daisy, I had no idea! I knew it had happened Mr Constantine getting married, I mean, and we all sent our good wishes. But I don't get to St Aidan's much these days and I seem to miss out on all the gossip parish news, I should say. I knew he were marrying an Oxford lady, but my friend Agnes said his fiancee was a Margaret Ba.s.sett, although I suppose she must have meant Baxter and I never thought of it being you, as you were always Daisy to me. But come in, come in! You're even more welcome, if it's possible.'

And so I go in, and although the house is tiny, with only one room for all to live in, with a scullery beyond, everything is spick and span as I would expect it to be with Nettie in charge. The fire is lit and there are clothes drying in front of it, neatly folded, and there is a tea table laid with a clean cloth, and a bunch of wild flowers in a jar. In a cradle by the fire is a baby.

'She's called Maud,' says Benjy, pushing his way past us. 'h.e.l.lo, Maudie!' he cries, waving a piece of bread at her. The baby chuckles.

'She's a fine baby,' I say, looking down at the infant. 'A really beautiful baby.' I feel a sob catch in my throat, and Nettie looks at me sharply.

'Don't worry. I expect you'll have one of your own soon,' she says. 'Now, Benjy, get out of my way so I can put more water in the kettle.'

'There's cakes,' says little Daisy. 'Ma, there's cakes!'

'Mr Constantine is always generous,' says Nettie. 'Now don't you dare touch nothing until I've cleaned your hands. That's right, isn't it, Daisy? I beg your pardon, Mrs Constantine, I should say.'

'You should say nothing of the sort, Nettie unless I call you Mrs Bunch in return. Anyway, it's lovely to be called Daisy again. n.o.body calls me that now.'

'I used to look after this lady before I got married,' she says to the children, wiping their hands with a damp cloth while keeping her eyes on me. 'And look how fine she's got although I wish she wasn't quite so thin!' Her eyes take in my gaunt face, my bony fingers. 'Tell Mr Constantine he'll have to feed you up.'

I think of the unfinished meals, the waste on the breakfast table. 'I'll do my best.' I watch her settle the children around the table. 'But why didn't you ever come to see me again? Why didn't you ever write? I thought about you all the time.' As I speak, I realize how the injustice of it still burns in me.

'I thought about you too and my little Benjy (not you, my love, another Benjy). But when you loses your place there's a lot of things to do to get another one, and every time I thought about you I started to get weepy, so I put my mind elsewhere and just hoped and prayed you was being well looked after by the new nursemaid.'

'Oh, she was utterly dreadful.'

'Oh, don't tell me that, Daisy!' she cries, her face a picture of horror. 'That was my one consolation!'

'Well,' I say, modifying my words. 'The fact is that she didn't like me.'

'How could anyone not like you?'

I laugh. 'Easily enough, I think. Mama said I was secretive, and you know how horrid my sisters could be. You were the only one who was always on my side.'

We smile at each other, and the years drop away.

After Nettie has made the tea and cut each small cake into two and given each child a portion, she and I take the wooden armchairs next to the fire, the drying clothes having been deftly whisked away.

'So when did you come back to Oxfordshire?' I ask, as I sip my tea. 'I thought you were in London.'

'London? Why ever did you think that, Daisy? I've never been to London in my life.'

'But you said if you were looking after children in London, you wouldn't have time to come and see me.'

'Oh, I expect when I said it I just wanted to get as far away as possible after all that terrible business on the river, I mean. No, I went home to Wallingford. I hadn't seen much of my ma and I wanted time to find a new position. I went to work for another minister, after that a Baptist in Bicester.'

'A Baptist! Papa would have been annoyed.'

'Well, if your pa had kept me on, there'd have been no need for me to go there. I even offered to work for nothing, but he wouldn't have it. I don't blame him, really, but I did miss you so much! Mr Protheroe was quite different, very quiet, with a cripple for a wife and just one little girl of seven, very moody. It was a bit tedious to tell you the truth, but beggars can't be choosers. I was only there a couple of years, and then I met Mr Bunch at St Giles's Fair. We got courting, and then we married and I moved here with him. He used to be a servant in one of the colleges, what they call a scout. But it's not a job for married men. And anyway Mr Bunch weren't fit enough after he fell down the stairs. They're stone stairs in the colleges you know, Daisy, ever so worn and slippery '

'Oh, yes,' I say. 'I've seen them. I used to go to tea every week with Mr Jameson.'

'Well then, you can imagine what it would do to your back to fall down a whole flight of them. Mr Bunch was off for weeks, and when he did go back he couldn't carry the coal scuttles or make the beds or carry the wine up from the cellars and that's the main part of the job. He'd been at the college since he was a boy, but they still give him notice.'

'Oh, Nettie, how unfair!'

'Well, I have to admit they do what they can for him, casual work and such, and we're grateful for it. There's not much work round here except for the colleges and he has to do all sorts to make ends meet sharpening tools door-to-door and suchlike. But there's a big dinner tonight and so the Bursar has called him in to help wait at the High Table. That'll be a few extra shillings.'

'Oh, Nettie, how do you manage?' I say, thinking how easily I can spend a few shillings. 'But what about Billy and Lizzie? Don't you get paid for looking after them?'

'Not really. Their mother used to live in half a house around the corner, but she was put out on the street for not paying the rent. She come and asked me to mind the children while she looked for work, and I couldn't say no, not with those two poor things looking up at me. She promised to pay me regular as soon as she got herself some employment. That was eighteen months ago, and I've never heard from her since. She was a bit flighty, to tell you the truth, and I think the children are better off without her. The things they've told me you wouldn't credit it! Some children are dragged up any old how. We should thank our lucky stars that we were both brought up right.'

I am sorely tempted to tell her. I take a breath, but I can't find the words, and the room is full of children. I glance at Billy and Lizzie, fighting surrept.i.tiously over the last piece of cake. 'So, you're keeping those two for nothing, Nettie?'

'No, Daisy, I'm keeping them for love.' She looks across at them with the old fond look I remember so well. And I wish again that I could have kept her close through all my growing up. I'm sure she would have protected me from harm. I long to nuzzle into her shoulder, climb on her lap, have her tell me that everything will be all right.

But now she wants me to talk about Mr Jameson. She's saying she'd heard he was quite famous now, and that he'd written books for children, which everyone had read, including Queen Victoria, although he still went on living in those same old college rooms day after day.

'You seem to know quite a lot about him, Nettie.'

'I gets the news from Charley Mr Bunch I mean.'

'And how does he know?'

'Oh, didn't I say? He used to work in Mr Jameson's college. He even used to help out Mr Jameson's scout '

'Benson, you mean?'

'That rings a bell. Anyway, that's where he is today helping get ready for the dinner.'

'So,' I say teasingly, 'all these years you've known about Daisy's Daydream, but never once come to see the real Daisy?'

'I did come once. A long time ago.' She looks down at her hands.

'To our house?'

She nods. 'You and Benjy was so much in my mind at first that I couldn't settle to anything. I'd just started with Mr Protheroe and as soon as I had half a day off, I took the train back to Oxford and walked up to Westwood Gardens.'

'Did Mama let you in?'

'I didn't go to the front door, silly goose. I went round the back and saw Cook and Hannah. They said Benjy was in the drawing room with your mama and that you had gone out with Mr Jameson. They said you were always out with Mr Jameson and that you talked of nothing else but what you had done and what you would do next. "Is she happy, then?" I said. And Hannah said, "Like a dog with two tails." So I was satisfied, and went home. I thought it better not to write, to bring up old memories.'

'Oh, Nettie, how I wish I'd known! I thought you didn't care about me!'

'Well, now you know I did. It's all water under the bridge now. You've grown up and got married and are as happy as you deserve.'

I flush. 'I'm not sure I am deserving, I mean. You are more deserving, Nettie, and yet you have no money and your husband isn't well. Where's the fairness in that?'

'Oh my, you haven't changed. Always wanting to know why things are the way they are and not how they should be!'

'But it's true, isn't it?'

'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.'