They shook their heads again. 'My sisters were born in London,' volunteered Daisy. 'But they can't remember very much about it and Mama says Poplar was not very nice.'

'Poplar?' Smith-Jephcott raised his eyebrows. 'What were they doing in Poplar of all places?'

'What do you think?' I replied, somewhat testily. 'Baxter had a parish there. Before he came to Oxford.' Smith-Jephcott really is a fool.

'Ah. That explains it. An excellent opportunity for Good Works.'

'Papa says it was very hard work,' added Daisy solemnly. 'He often had to preach to a half-empty church. But I'd like to visit the interesting landmarks like Buckingham Palace and the Tower. Is the Bullingdon Arcade interesting too?'

Smith-Jephcott laughed, and murmured, 'Not unless you are interested in a certain sort of fine art. In fact, there is a photograph shop there that might interest you, Jameson. Also specializing in interesting images.'

I felt myself go quite red with embarra.s.sment and anger. 'I order all my necessaries by post,' I said. 'There is no need for me to linger in such places.'

'Such places? I'm sure I don't know what you mean.' But he smiled in a lascivious way I found quite nauseating. I was beside myself to think that I had brought the little girls into such a situation, with such a man, and was only thankful that their innocence protected them from his foul insinuations. I never cease to be surprised that such a man can be a member of a respectable college and I determined then that I would ensure that Daisy and Annie too, of course would not be exposed to any further grossness. I indicated slightly deceitfully that Hannah would soon be coming for the children and that they would need to eat and drink quickly before returning to my rooms. They were rather reluctant to leave the mechanical bird and his songs, and I thought I might have to drag Annie away with main force, but Daisy, remembering she had originally pleaded to spend five minutes only with the toy, persuaded her friend to finish the cup of tea she had carelessly left in the grate and come upstairs with me.

It was such a relief to be back in the comfort and familiarity of my own rooms. But it was brought home to me again that, to keep the attention of the young, one needs toys or amusing artefacts to occupy them, and I promised myself that henceforth I would always have about me some small item for the purpose. But Dinah, bless her, provided an alternative on this occasion, as she was in a sleepy mood and prepared to let the children stroke her fur. They looked so lovely, both of them, kneeling beside Dinah's chair, their glossy hair spreading over their shoulders, the line of their sweet profiles more beautiful than any d.u.c.h.ess's.

Annie was the first to break the spell. I think she saw me looking at them in an attentive way and asked, 'Are you not taking any photographs of us today, Mr Jameson? It would be nice to have one of us with Dinah.'

But just then, Dinah, as is the way with cats, chose to rise and stretch herself, jumping deftly away from the stroking hands and leaping up to sit on the windowsill, which is her second-favourite perch. Annie rose and made as if to fetch her back, but I put out my arm. 'If you annoy her she is likely to scratch you. And I wouldn't want to send you home covered in blood. Blood, in my view, should remain inside the skin where it belongs. But, to answer yet another of your questions, Miss Annie, I fear there is no time for photographs today, largely owing to my honoured neighbour's unexpected intervention. I won't rush things, you see, and Hannah is due at any moment.'

'I'm sorry. Are you very disappointed?' asked Daisy, as always concerned about others.

'A little, I own it. But we had a good walk, did we not? We counted six different b.u.t.terflies and five kinds of beetle in less than a mile. The photographs can wait for another day.'

'But I am going away to Ilfracombe next week!' Annie wailed. 'I won't be able to come.'

'Dear, dear. That is a shame. One little fairy less.'

'I could ask one of the others,' said Daisy rather reluctantly, I thought.

'Well, Enid can't come. She's going to her grandmother's in Wales now that school is finished,' said Annie.

'And Emma's got a chill,' added Daisy. 'Her mother thinks it was caused by putting on thin clothes and says she won't be allowed to come again.'

'So it looks as though it will only be you and me, Daisy,' I said, hardly able to restrain my delight at the prospect. I thought Daisy, too, looked pleased at the idea of meeting a deux.

At that moment, Hannah arrived, looking a little flushed. I put it down to the exertion of climbing the stairs to my rooms. They are quite steep and, if one is in a hurry, one can become out of breath. Benson is forever complaining of them. 'Did you get what you were looking for?' I asked her. She looked as if she was unsure of my meaning. 'At the haberdasher's,' I added.

'Oh, yes. Three yards of petersham ribbon and several bobbins of thread.' She held up a small paper packet, as if to confirm the transaction. It crossed my mind that she had been away for a long time if these were her only purchases, but I a.s.sumed she had had to go from one shop to another to get exactly what she wanted as I had had to do for the alb.u.m, so I said nothing.

She was brisk, as usual. 'Come now, Miss Daisy, Miss Annie. Get your hats and gloves on we've got to hurry if I'm to have you both back in time.'

'More walking!' complained Annie, pulling her features into a terrible pout. I could see immediately that she would grow up to be the languid sort of beauty who is more at home in the drawing room than on a country path. She will also, I fear, be the kind of young woman who will tease her suitors to within an inch of their pa.s.sion and patience. I am glad I will never be among them.

'Oh, beg pardon, but I forgot to give you this, sir,' said Hannah, pulling a folded envelope from her pocket. 'It's from Mr Baxter. I'm sorry not to have given it you when we arrived but it went out of my mind.'

It was an invitation to dinner the next day. Although I had frequently taken tea with the Baxters, I had never before dined with them. And I understood from Daisy that she was now a frequent attender at the family table. I hastened to my desk to write a reply and handed the sealed envelope back to Hannah, who stared at it in surprise.

'What neat handwriting!' she exclaimed, staring at the superscription.

'I hardly expect a compliment on account of that,' I said, a little tartly. 'If it were foot-writing now, I would understand your surprise.'

The girls chuckled at this and Hannah herself smiled, which I thought improved her somewhat sharp demeanour.

'Be sure to give it to Mr Baxter immediately,' I said. 'It would embarra.s.s me considerably to turn up when I was not expected.'

'I will, sir. Don't you worry.'

I turned to Annie. 'So it seems, young lady, that I am to be deprived of your company from now on because of your selfish desire to take the sea air. However, you can make it up to me by sending me a picture postcard of the seaside when you arrive. I am very fond of the seaside and especially of watching all the young people disporting themselves on the sand. And if you write to tell me that you have been taking off your shoes and stockings and paddling in the waves in your bare legs, I shall be able to imagine you and wish I were there too. Now, will you give me a farewell kiss?'

She came forward boldly and lifted her face. And I bent down towards her and she planted a smacking kiss on my lips. 'I don't mind kissing you,' she said as she drew back. 'Because you have no whiskers.'

'I promise never to grow them on that account,' I said.

Then I looked at Daisy, who seemed uncertain whether to come forward or not. Hannah pushed her towards me. 'Give the gentleman a kiss, too,' she said, as if expiating for her forgetfulness earlier. 'He's been very kind to you both, having you all afternoon and that.'

Daisy raised her face. She was such a beautiful picture that I lost my courage and merely grazed her cheek with my lips. 'Goodbye, Daisy,' I said, my heart hammering away under my shirt and my tongue feeling enormous in my mouth. 'I will see you again very soon.'

'Yes, Mr Jameson.' And suddenly they were all gone. And, not for the first time in my life, my rooms seemed empty and lonely.

6.

MARGARET CONSTANTINE.

'Margaret! What on earth are you doing up there?'

It's my husband's voice. I hear his footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs as he gallops up two or three at a time. I close the book quickly and hide it under my skirt. He appears in the doorway, a little breathless. 'I couldn't find you anywhere.'

I smile. 'You can't have searched very hard, Robert. I haven't moved for at least an hour.'

'Yes, I see.' He comes into the room, looking past me to the open toy-chest, with its contents spilling around in disarray. 'But what have you been doing, exactly?'

'Looking at things. Remembering.'

'Well, have you decided what to take?' He surveys the scattered objects with his hands on his hips. 'Not all these things, surely? I thought you were going to decide on just a few.'

'I can't decide. Maybe I won't take anything. Leave it all to the Arbuthnots.'

'Surely not. Look at this ball and these books . . .' He picks up a pile of them. 'Holiday House, Robinson Crusoe, The Wide, Wide World, Uncle Tom's Cabin, The Water Babies, Oliver Twist, Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales . . . My, you were quite a reader, weren't you? And good heavens, what's this parasol doing here?' He lifts up a limp and yellowed object that had been jammed into the lid of the box. It looks so different, I can hardly believe it was the one Mr Jameson gave me.

'It was a birthday present,' I tell him. 'When I was eleven.'

'Well, it hasn't benefited from lying in a toy-box for eight years.' He tentatively starts to unfurl it.

'Don't open it in the house!' I cry, stopping him with my hand. 'It's bad luck.'

'Bad luck? You don't believe that, do you?' He's smiling, trying his best not to be critical.

'Of course not, Robert.' I smile back. 'It's simply that the last time I opened it, my brother nearly drowned in the Cherwell. So it makes me apprehensive.'

'Well,' he says in his best jovial manner, as he lowers the parasol. 'I'll indulge you, in that case.' He bends and attempts to kiss me.

I turn away deftly so that his lips just skim my cheek. And he in his turn, not wishing to look foolish, pretends he has bent low simply to inspect the toys. 'Look,' he says. 'Why don't we put everything back and get Matthews and young Frank to put the whole thing into the carriage? You can sort it out at home then. We don't have much more time. Shall I help you?'

'No,' I say, rather too quickly. 'Just call them, if you would. I'll put everything back myself.'

He hesitates, but I smile sweetly up at him, and he turns and thuds back down the stairs shouting for Matthews. I quickly slide the journal under the threadbare carpet. Then I start to put back the contents of the toy-box. I pile them all in haphazardly, not in the careful way they were stacked before, and the lid won't close properly. I pick up the parasol, wondering what to do with it. I'm still holding it when Robert comes back.

'All done? You're not keeping that parasol, are you? It's rather past its best.'

'Yes. I mean, no, you're right, I'm not keeping it. It's no use to anyone now.'

'That's the spirit.' He takes it from me, looks round to see what he can do with it, then, at a loss, stands it in the corner. 'The maid can clear it away.'

'Yes.'

Then Matthews and Frank come up, and Matthews nods to me. 'Miss Daisy,' he says, forgetting I am married now. They pick up the toy-chest, and carry it off between them, b.u.mping it against the walls as they round the narrow bend in the back stairs.

'Are you ready, then?' Robert is making every effort to be cheerful.

'You go down first. I want to say goodbye to this room.'

He smiles, indulgent. 'Five minutes, Margaret. Then we have to go.'

'Yes, Robert, I know.'

He leaves the room and I hear his footsteps echoing through the empty house. I stoop quickly and remove the journal from under the carpet. I know I'll have to secrete it on my person; there's no other way. With some difficulty I thrust it up next to my corset. It looks lumpy and square and it makes my bodice so tight it seems to constrict my heart. But I have no option if I am to keep it safe. I pull my shawl around me, hoping Robert will not try to embrace me in the carriage.

I stand in the middle of the room and look round me. All that remains are two broken wooden chairs, the worn carpet and the dusty muslin curtains at the window. All my life was spent in this house, and much of it in this very room. And now the house will belong to new people, and I'll never have the right to come here again. I walk to the door and turn round for one last look. I see Nettie in her cap and ap.r.o.n with Benjy on her lap. I see the two narrow, neatly made beds; the iron cot; the big oak wardrobe; the washstand; the meal table always with its white cloth; the hob with the kettle always on the boil. 'Goodbye,' I whisper.

'Margaret!' Robert's voice, from downstairs, a little sharper now.

'Yes, I'm coming.' As I turn to go, I hold out my hand and touch the ragged, yellowish parasol as it leans into the corner. I can't decide whether it makes me feel happy or sad. But I pat it gently before closing the door.

On the carriage ride, Robert talks about ordinary things: the weather, the state of the roads, the cost of keeping a horse in livery. He is wary of me, I know. He is afraid of putting the wrong foot forward. He is a dutiful husband and wants to be kind. But he also believes a man should be strong and not let weakness in his wife flourish and become a burden, or perhaps a sin. So I know it is only a matter of time.

We pa.s.s the University Parks. Little children are playing hide-and-seek. They look as if they have no cares in the world. I hold the journal tight against my stomach. When we arrive home, I let him take my free hand to help me down. 'I'd like to rest before supper, Robert, if I may.'

'Are you unwell?' He'd like to think ill-health would explain matters.

'No, just tired. I'd like to read for a bit.'

'Very well.' He looks businesslike. 'I've a good deal of work to do. I'll come up at six and see how you are.'

'Thank you, Robert.' I try to kiss him on his cheek. But he wants my lips. The dark bristles of his whiskers are rough against my skin as he presses against me. I tighten every muscle in my body and endure him as best I can. Then I pull away. 'Not now; everybody will see.'

'And what does it matter if they do? You are my wife, after all; it's not such a great scandal. And I hope you will truly be my wife before long. Otherwise I shall think you don't love me.' He gives a little laugh, and I laugh too. Rea.s.suringly.

Once in the bedroom, I unhook my bodice with relief and release the journal. I don't bother to refasten my dress, but sit by the window and open the pages straight away. I'm greedy for the words now. The whole of my forgotten life seems to be opening out again.

Friday 27th June Mr Jameson came to dinner tonight which was most exciting. We had Mock Turtle Soup, Fried Whiting and Jam Roly-poly. Papa and Mama had some pale-coloured wine they called Hock and so did Mr Jameson, although he would only have half a gla.s.s and kept filling it up with water. Hannah brought in the soup as usual, but when it was time for the fish, Cook came in herself with a big oblong dish and banged it down in front of Papa and seemed very cross about something although she didn't say a word, just wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and stalked out! Hannah had her lips folded very tight when she brought the plates and vegetables, and later we could hear a lot of clashing coming from the kitchen which we all pretended not to hear.

Mr Jameson was quiet during the meal even though Papa was trying to make him talk to Christiana, saying things like, Have you ever tried archery, John? Which he hadn't, although he said he didn't mind a game of croquet now and again in spite of being in general against Blood Sports. Mama said croquet wasn't a Blood Sport but Mr Jameson said it had been whenever he'd seen it played. Everyone laughed at that including my sisters who are very good at croquet and are not above hitting you on the ankles with the mallets.

Then everyone started to talk about poetry. Mama is very fond of poetry. Papa told us Mr Jameson wrote poetry himself but Mr Jameson said no it wasn't poetry, not like Wordsworth or Tennyson, it was just verse and he'd never put himself in the same catagory as those Great Men. Mama said she'd like to read his verse all the same or perhaps he could recite some for us after dinner? Mr Jameson said he didn't ever recite in public because of his speech impedament but he would send her some if she really wished but it was just light stuff, nonsense really. And Mama said she'd like that but surely he wasn't too shy to speak among friends and she hoped that he regarded us as friends and how did he manage to give his lectures if he didn't speak in public? He said he had to steel himself to it because he had to earn his crust, but he hoped that at such an agreeable dinner party he would not be expected to put himself through such agonies. I noticed that while all this was going on that his stammer had got worse and worse and it was difficult to listen to him because of the long pauses when I wanted so much to put in the word for him but thought it not quite polite. Christiana didn't look very sympathetic though, and she and Sarah did try to finish his words from time to time, muttering them under their breath as he asked for things on the table: j-jam roly-poly and c-c-c-custard. I felt very sorry for him as he is such a kind man and sometimes my sisters can be horrid.

I'd forgotten how Mr Jameson was willing and even eager to suffer the humiliation of a family meal when he could have eaten in college among men who ignored his shortcomings. But I do remember how much I'd looked forward to the event. It was the first time we'd had a guest to dinner since I'd been allowed to dine with my parents, and I was anxious to show off my grown-up etiquette. I had no proper idea then of quite how much pleasure Mr Jameson took in my company, but I was sufficiently aware of myself to want to look my best, and I'd combed my hair again and again, almost weeping that Nettie was not there to help me. Mr Jameson, I knew, liked little girls to look pretty. But even as I'd struggled in front of the looking-gla.s.s it didn't occur to me that his fondness for me was anything out of the ordinary, or that there was any impropriety in returning that fondness. My mother and father seemed glad to promote his attention towards me; and the previous day, when I had hung back, hesitant to embrace him, Hannah had positively pushed me into his arms. I'd been surprised by the pleasant nature of his kiss. I usually disliked kissing grown-up men; they were invariably covered in whiskers, and smelled strongly of tobacco, especially Mama's Uncle Bertie who always took hold of me very tight and had a very wet mouth. He would breathe very heavily, as if he was intent on pa.s.sing all the breath from his mouth into mine, and stale old rum-smelling breath it was too. I always had to go into a corner and cough it out afterwards. Even kissing my father was not altogether pleasant, and thinking about it now makes me give an odd kind of shudder. But Mr Jameson had skin like a woman and smelled only of soap. He'd also kissed me very delicately and respectfully, so I didn't at all mind the prospect of doing it again.

After dinner, Mr Jameson stayed behind in the dining room with Papa and 'we ladies', as Mama now called us, returned to the drawing room. Christiana stood on tiptoes in front of the mantelpiece mirror and adjusted her hair saying Mr Jameson was such a dull man and why couldn't we have someone more interesting to dinner? Mama asked her whom she thought was more interesting and she said someone like Mr Gardiner, the archery teacher, and Mama said, Nonsense, we couldn't ask someone like that to dinner, and Christiana said why not? and Mama said she knew perfectly well why not, and if she didn't by now, she'd better learn quickly. Christiana went very red and said was it because we paid him money? And Mama said that would do as an answer for the time being although it was a lot more complicated.

I keep thinking that grown-up life is extremely complicated and it doesn't seem fair that you can't invite someone you like to dinner because you give them money. But it seems that paying people is part of these silly Rules of England that meant Nettie couldn't stay with us although she wanted to. Christiana went to the window then, and stared out at the garden in an annoyed way, and I wondered what sort of person Mr Gardiner was and why she liked him. And I wondered if he liked her in return in spite of her being so very contradictery.

Papa and Mr Jameson came in to join us quite quickly after that as Papa said John had no head for port and neither of them enjoyed a pipe. And Mama said what has happened to your thealogical arguments? And Papa said he was writing his sermon tomorrow and sufficient unto the day. Then Mama played the piano for us, and then Christiana played a duet with Sarah. Mr Jameson asked if I could play and I played Rondo which is the only thing I can do properly with both hands, and Mr Jameson clapped a great deal at the end although I did make some mistakes with my left hand. He then said 'Why don't we play Consequences?' and Mama said 'Why not?' and Sarah got some pencils and paper and we started to play. Most of the Consequences were about famous people like Lord Palmerston and Queen Victoria, but when it came to my turn, I unfolded my paper and found I had The Rev. John Jameson meeting Mrs E. Baxter on a London omnibus. He said: Will you marry me, delight of my life? And she said: We need some more coal on the fire. And the consequence of this was: They both took a dozen lessons in Elementary Logic. (Mr Jameson did this last bit as I recognized his writing.) We all laughed, especially my sisters, and neither Mama nor Mr Jameson looked the slightest bit put out as of course it is only a game! I wanted to do another round but Mama said it was time for me to go to bed and so I had to say goodnight and leave them all. I kissed Mama and Papa and then Christiana and Sarah, and then Mr Jameson was looking so left out that I went up and kissed him on the cheek too. He said he'd take my kiss and put it in a box and take it home with him as it was the sweetest thing he'd ever had. Christiana sn.i.g.g.e.red and Mama said, Oh, Mr Jameson, I thought I was the one you wanted to marry! And everybody laughed. Then Papa said 'Goodnight, Daisy dear' in a way I knew meant I had to go.

When I crossed the hall to go upstairs I could hear Cook and Hannah and Matthews all arguing down in the kitchen. I would have dearly liked to know what it was all about but didn't dare try to listen. I hope Cook is not going to give in her notice as I could not bear more changes.

When I got to the landing I could hear Benjy crying and Mrs McQueen stamping back and forth across the nursery floor. I have maybe forgotten to mention that Mrs McQueen is a very strict person and I am glad that I don't have to sleep in the nursery any more as nothing seems to please her and she is even worse than Hannah ever was. If I speak to her she always contradicts me and tells me to mind my manners although I think it is she who is rude, always making personal remarks and telling me my hair is untidy and that my ap.r.o.n needs a good wash! She is even a bit stern with Mama who always agrees with her suggestions and says she must do as she thinks fit and please not to bother her about every small thing. I think Mama is afraid she will leave us and Benjy will be without a nursemaid again. She also says she wants someone who will be sure never to let Benjy out of her sight like Nettie did and Mrs McQueen is very experianced and reliable. She certainly sticks to him like glue, rocking him so hard I think he must get a headache but Mama says that gives her peace of mind.

Oh, yes, the dreadful Mrs McQueen. What a bane and blight she was. Poor Benjy was kept to such a strict routine, and pressed so hard against her stiff, black frontage that he was eventually cowed into submission. In just a few days he'd become a wretched, grizzling creature, and he seemed frightened of everyone even of me. Mrs McQueen would never let me hold him or even feed him, and said what was important in raising children was getting the Upper Hand. 'Children know when they meet a soft-willed person,' she said. 'They cry deliberately, just to annoy and tease. They must be put in their place.' And she'd poke me with her finger to bring her point home. She poked very hard, and I often had a bruise on my shoulder or in the middle of my back.

I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing he was so upset. So I knocked on the nursery door because Mrs McQueen said I must, although I never did it when I slept there, but she says it's not my room now and I can't go marching in as if I own it. She didn't open the door but her voice came out in a kind of hiss asking who it was. When I said it was 'me', she asked what 'me' wanted at this hour, and when I said I had only come to say goodnight to my brother, she said it was a pity I'd decided to do it so late as she was just calming him down and didn't want me exciting him all over again. But he was already excited, or at least he was still making a noise, so she let me in. But Benjy didn't seem to want to know me, just bent his back in a big arch so that I thought he was going to fall out of Mrs McQueen's arms and when I tried to whisper soothing things to him he hit me in the face (without meaning to, I'm sure) and gave me a scratch on my nose which stung very hard. I told her Benjy had never been so grizzly before but Mrs McQueen said he'd been spoiled before and now she was making sure she got the Upper Hand and that of course Benjy didn't like it. I could see he was simply overtired as Nettie always said but when I said this, Mrs McQueen said Don't contradict me, child! So I had to leave him.

He's still crying, now. I really don't know what to do about it. I fear Mama won't listen and I daren't speak to Papa unless he speaks to me first, which of course he won't as he doesn't know about it. I wonder whether Mr Jameson would know what to do. He is not a married man but he likes children very much and I am sure he would not want any child to suffer. He is also very clever. DEB I recall now, how I lay in bed that night and many others, wondering why people chose to look after children when they didn't seem to like them very much, and why ladies like Mama didn't look after their babies themselves, but paid someone else to do it on their behalf. I knew, of course, that Mama was not strong. I knew that giving birth to me had weakened her dreadfully, and having Benjy had nearly killed her; so she always needed to be careful not to overstrain herself. I was used to her spending a good deal of time lying on the sofa, reading a book or sleeping. Sometimes she used to say to Papa that she regretted not helping him more with his parishioners, and all these committees and a.s.sociations and groups that he was involved in at St Cyprian's.

'I have fallen away from all the good habits I had in Poplar,' she would say from time to time. 'I should really go out and visit the poor. I will do so tomorrow, Daniel. I have decided.' But Father used to laugh and say there was not a single unvisited pauper in his entire parish and, if one were to be found, Mrs Carmichael would be there before her, making cabbage soup or washing babies at a great rate of knots. And if Mrs Carmichael didn't do it, there were at least half a dozen other ladies eager to enter the fray as a change from arranging the altar flowers and supervising Sunday School. 'Yes, I am sure there are many ladies eager to please you, Daniel dear,' she'd say. 'But I feel as if I am not doing G.o.d's work as I should.'

Papa would press her hand to his heart and say, 'We are all called in our different ways. Remember: They also serve who only stand and wait.'

That was a favourite saying of my father's and at the time I wasn't sure how anyone could serve G.o.d simply by standing (or sitting) around doing nothing, especially when I was being constantly told that Satan found mischief for idle hands. When Sarah had once taken my father at his word and declined to help with the Christmas blanket-sewing on the grounds that she had decided to serve G.o.d by prayer instead, she was given short shrift by my father, who made her stand on a footstool in the middle of the parlour for an entire afternoon, saying she was setting a bad example of Christian life. Sarah wept for hours afterwards. 'It's so unfair,' she said. Indeed, it seemed as if there were different rules for us and for Mama. She was curiously detached from our lives, and our time in the drawing room was always strictly limited in case it tired her. But the more remote she was, the more I longed to be close to her, and the more I was a prey to any perceived preferences she gave my siblings. Envy, I knew, was a mortal sin, and one I prayed to be delivered from every night, but I still resented Christiana and Sarah for being older and more beautiful than me, and enjoying a greater measure of Mama's attention. I would have given anything for her to spend even a few minutes combing my hair or reading the English compositions that Miss Prentiss had sent home with an 'Excellent' at the bottom, but she simply gave them a glance and smiled: 'Well done.' Occasionally she took it into her head to walk along the river at Binsey and all three of us would traipse behind as she strolled languidly along, gathering wild flowers, telling us their Latin names. We'd press them afterwards between sheets of blotting paper, and we'd copy out the names with pride when we put the specimens into the book.

The best times of all were when she read us stories The Little Mermaid or Uncle Tom's Cabin when we would sit around her armchair like ordinary children. I cherished these precious times of intimacy, and afterwards I'd return to Nettie in a state of high excitement, saying 'Mama this' and 'Mama that', and wondering why Nettie had such a sad expression in her eyes. But these glorious times were few. Mama always seemed less interested in us and more interested in things that were not-us my father mainly and, to a certain extent, the Christian life; but also music and poetry. She often used to recite poetry as she lay on the sofa or walked about the drawing room, smiling at us as if she were on one of Wordsworth's mountaintops amid the wild grandeur and sublimity of nature, and we were dull toilers down in the valley, of only peripheral interest.

However, since Nettie had gone, I'd had more opportunity to observe my mother. I couldn't help noticing how very solicitous my father was for her welfare, especially if he was going out on parish business late at night (which he did a great deal), or when he had a summons in the middle of a meal to attend the sick or dying. Hannah would come in with a note and Papa would read it and say, 'I must go, my dear. Old Mrs So-and-So is at her last breath. Will you be all right?' And I'd wonder why she shouldn't be all right, as she was at home, surrounded by servants and family and quite as comfortable as she had been a minute before. And he'd kiss her and pat her hair and fuss over her to an excessive extent before putting on his coat and picking up the Bible and prayer book he always kept ready in a bag on the hall table a bag that had been embroidered by Mrs Carmichael for his special use.

I knew she had been brought up to a life of ease. I also knew that she and my father had fallen in love when she was very young fifteen when they had first met, as they enjoyed telling us and how he'd had to wait for almost two years before declaring his intentions, and another two before Grandpapa would agree to the marriage. Then there had been some strife after the wedding because my father had his curacy in the East End, which Grandfather did not consider a suitable environment for a lady of my mother's sensibilities, but she had defied him and gone to be with Papa, supervising the Sunday School and teaching sewing and cooking to the women of Poplar. 'I don't think they could believe such an angel had come amongst them,' my father was fond of saying. I always imagined her in white clothes, standing out like a vision among the poor people in their dirty rags. But, according to my father, Mama had turned up her sleeves, donned an ap.r.o.n, and set to with a will, scrubbing and polishing and setting the best example of Christian work. It was hard for me to believe that; she was so ethereal and fragile by then. Even Christiana, who was born there, hardly remembered the time in that poor London parish. And by the time I was born, everything had changed. We were in Oxford, and there was a wide circle of helpers especially female helpers and my father could attend to his parish duties without my mother's help. But he hated being apart from her, even for an afternoon. Nettie said you could tell they were still in love and I thought perhaps this was the reason they had less time for us children. I certainly often felt excluded from their mutual bliss.

But even if Mama didn't choose to spend time with me, I couldn't understand her callousness over Benjy Benjy who had been her pride and joy, the longed-for son, the unexpected gift from G.o.d. I remembered her desperation when she thought he might have drowned, how she had held him so tight and cried over him so loudly. How, then, could she leave him to the devices of such a person as Mrs McQueen? It seemed another instance of the ways of the adult world, which no one except Mr Jameson seemed to find at all odd.

Sat.u.r.day 28th June It is so exciting! I have received a proper grown-up letter from Mr Jameson! It was in an envelope with my name on but no stamp. He hadn't put it in the post but left it with Mama last night. She gave it to me at breakfast after I had finished my milk and toast. When she put it in front of me, I recognized Mr Jameson's handwriting straight away. I asked her what it was about, and she said I'd have to open it as that was the usual way to find out what was in letters. It was very neatly written and had some little drawings around the edge Mr Jameson as a Tired Old Bird and me as a Daisy Flower.

The letter is attached, pinned to the journal. I recognize Mr Jameson's neat hand and his very strange little drawings.