Discovering Daisy
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They walked on side by side, not talking too much for the wind was too fierce, and presently, by mutual consent, they turned back towards the town, climbed the steps and walked up the main street.At the corner of the lane, Daisy paused. ‘I live down here with my mother and father. Father has an antiques shop and I work there.’
Mr der Huizma saw that he was being dismissed politely. ‘Then I hope that at some time I shall have the opportunity to browse there. I’m interested in old silver…’
‘So is Father. He’s quite well known for being an expert.’
She put out a wet gloved hand. ‘I enjoyed the walk.’ She studied his quiet face. ‘I don’t know your name…’
‘Jules der Huizma.’
‘Not English? I’m Daisy Gillard.’
He took her small damp paw in a firm grip. ‘I too enjoyed the walk,’he told her gently. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again some time.’
‘Yes, well—perhaps.’ She added, ‘Goodbye,’ and walked down the lane, not looking back. A pity, she thought, that I couldn’t think of something clever to say, so that he would want to see me again. She remembered Desmond then, and told herself not to be so stupid; he wasn’t in the least bit like Desmond, but who was it that wrote ‘Men were deceivers ever’? Probably they were all alike.
She took care for the next few days to walk the other way—which was pointless since Mr der Huizma had gone back to London.
A week or so later, with the shops displaying Christmas goods and a lighted Christmas tree at the top of the high street opposite the church, she met him again. Only this time it was at the shop. Daisy was waiting patiently by the vicar, while he tried to decide which of two Edwardian brooches his wife would like. She left him with a murmured suggestion that he might like to take his time and went through the shop to where Mr der Huizma was stooping over a glass-topped display table housing a collection of silver charms.
He greeted her pleasantly. ‘I’m looking for something for a teenage god-daughter. These are delightful—on a silver bracelet, perhaps?’
She opened a drawer in the large bow-fronted tallboy and took out a tray.
‘These are all Victorian. Is she a little girl or an older teenager?’
‘Fifteen or so.’ He smiled down at her. ‘And very fashion-conscious.’
Daisy held up a dainty trifle of silver links. ‘If you should wish to buy it, and the charms, Father will fasten them on for you.’ She picked up another bracelet. ‘Or this? Please just look around. You don’t need to buy anything—a lot of people just come to browse.’
She gave him a small smile and went back to the vicar, who was still unable to make up his mind.
Presently her father came into the shop, and when at last the vicar had made his decision, and she’d wrapped the brooch in a pretty box, Mr der Huizma had gone.
‘Did he buy anything?’asked Daisy. ‘Mr der Huizma? Remember I told you I met him one day out walking?’
‘Indeed he did. A very knowledgeable man too. He’s coming back before Christmas—had his eye on those rat-tailed spoons…’
And two days later Desmond came into the shop. He wasn’t alone. The girl Daisy had met at the hotel was with him, wrapped in a scarlet leather coat and wearing a soft angora cap on her expertly disarranged locks. Daisy, eyeing her, felt like a mouse in her colourless dress; a garment approved of by her father, who considered that a brighter one would detract from the treasures in his shop.
She would have liked to have turned away, gone out of the shop, but that would have been cowardly. She answered Desmond’s careless, ‘Hullo, Daisy,’ with composure, even if her colour was heightened, and listened politely while he explained at some length that they were just having a look round. ‘We might pick up some trifle which will do for Christmas…’
‘Silver? Gold?’ asked Daisy. ‘Or there are some pretty little china ornaments if you don’t want to spend too much.’
Which wasn’t a polite thing to say, but her tongue had said it before she could curb it. It gave her some satisfaction to see Desmond’s annoyance, even though at the same time she had to admit to a sudden wish that he would look at her—really look—and realise that he was in love with her and not with the girl in the red coat. It was a satisfying thought, but nonsense, of course, and, when she thought about it, it struck her that perhaps she hadn’t loved him after all. All the same, he had left a hole in her quiet life. And her pride had been hurt…
They stayed for some time and left without buying anything, Desmond pointing out in a rather too loud voice that they were more likely to find something worth buying if they went to Plymouth.A remark which finally did away with Daisy’s last vestige of feeling towards him…
During her solitary afternoon walks, shorter now that the Christmas rush had started, she decided that she would never allow herself to get fond of a man again. Not that there was much chance of that, she reflected. She was aware that she was lacking in good looks, that she would never be slender like the models in the glossy magazines, that she lacked the conversation likely to charm a man.
She had friends whom she had known for most of her life; most of them were married now, or working in some high-powered job. But for Daisy, once she had managed to get a couple of A levels, the future had been an obvious one. She had grown up amongst antiques, she loved them, and she had her father’s talent for finding them. Once she’d realised that she’d studied books about them, had gone to auctions and poked around dingy little back-street second hand shops, occasionally finding a genuine piece. And her father and mother, while making no effort to coerce her, had been well content that she should stay home, working in the shop and from time to time visiting some grand country house whose owners were compelled to sell its contents.
They had discussed the idea of her going to a university and getting a degree, but that would have meant her father getting an assistant, and although they lived comfortably enough his income depended very much on circumstances.
So Daisy had arranged her future in what she considered to be a sensible manner.
She thought no more about Desmond. But she did think about Mr der Huizma—thoughts about him creeping into her head at odd moments. He was someone she would have liked to know better; his calm, friendly manner had been very soothing to her hurt feelings, and he seemed to accept her for what she was—a very ordinary girl. His matter-of-fact manner towards her was somehow reassuring.
But there wasn’t much time to daydream now; the shop was well known, Mr Gillard was known to be an honest man, and very knowledgeable, and old customers came back year after year, seeking some trifle to give as a present. Some returned to buy an antique piece they had had their eye on for months, having decided that they might indulge their taste now, since it was Christmas.
Daisy, arranging a small display of antique toys on a cold, dark December morning, wished that she was a child again so that she might play with the Victorian dolls’ house she was furnishing with all the miniature pieces which went with it. It had been a lucky find in a down-at-heel shop in Plymouth—dirty and in need of careful repair. Something she had lovingly undertaken. Now it stood in a place of honour on a small side-table, completely furnished and flanked by a cased model of a nineteenth century butcher’s shop and a toy grocery shop from pre-war Germany.
All very expensive, but someone might buy them. She would have liked the dolls’ house for herself; whoever bought that would need to have a very deep pocket…
Apparently Mr der Huizma had just that, for he came that very day and, after spending a considerable time examining spoons with her father, wandered over to where she was putting the finishing touches to a tinplate carousel.
He bent to look at the dolls’ house. She wished him good morning, then said in her quiet voice, ‘Charming, isn’t it? A little girl’s dream…’
‘Yes? You consider that to be so?’
‘Oh, yes. Only she would have to be a careful little girl, who liked dolls.’
‘Then I’ll buy it, for I know exactly the little girl you think should own it.’
‘You do? It’s a lot of money…’
‘But she is a dear child who deserves only the best.’
Daisy would have liked to have known more, but something in his voice stopped her from asking. She said merely, ‘Shall I pack it up for you? I’ll do it very carefully. It will take some time if you want it sent. If you do, I’ll get it properly boxed.’
‘No, no. I’ll take it with me in the car. Can you have it ready in a few days if I call back for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I shall be taking it out of the country.’
Going home for Christmas, thought Daisy, and said, ‘I’ll be extra careful, and I’ll give you an invoice just in case Customs should want to know about it.’
He smiled at her. ‘How very efficient you are, and how glad I am that I have found the house; presents for small children are always a problem.’
‘Do you have several children?’
His smile widened. ‘We are a large family,’ he told her, and with that she had to be satisfied.
CHAPTER TWO
PACKING up the dolls’house, wrapping each tiny piece of furniture carefully in tissue paper, writing an inventory of its contents, took Daisy an entire day, and gave her ample time to reflect upon Mr der Huizma. Who exactly was he? she wondered. A man of some wealth to buy such a costly gift for a child, and a man of leisure, presumably, for he had never mentioned work of any kind. And did he live in England, or merely visit England from time to time?And if so where did he live?
Mr der Huizma, unaware of Daisy’s interest in him and, truth to tell, uncaring of it, was strolling down the centre of the children’s ward of a London teaching hospital. He had a toddler tucked under one arm—a small, damp grizzling boy, who had been sobbing so loudly that the only thing to do was to pick him up and comfort him as Mr der Huizma did his round. Sister was beside him, middle-aged, prematurely grey-haired and as thin as a rail. None of these things were noticed, though, for she had the disposition of an angel and very beautiful dark blue eyes.
She said now, ‘He’ll ruin that suit of yours, sir,’ and then, when he smiled down at her, asked, ‘What do you intend to do about him? He’s made no progress at all.’
Mr der Huizma paused in his stride and was instantly surrounded by a posse of lesser medical lights and an earnest-faced nurse holding the case-sheets.
He hoisted the little boy higher onto his shoulder. ‘Only one thing for it,’ He glanced at his registrar. ‘Tomorrow morning? Will you see Theatre Sister as early as possible? And let his parents know, will you? I’ll talk to them this evening if they’d like to visit…’
He continued his round, unhurried, sitting on cot-sides to talk to the occupants, examining children in a leisurely fashion, giving instructions in a quiet voice. Presently he went to Sister’s office and drank his coffee with her and his registrar and the two housemen. The talk was of Christmas, and plans for the ward. A tree, of course, and stockings hung on the bed and filled with suitable toys, paper chains, and mothers and fathers coming to a splendid tea.
Mr der Huizma listened to the small talk, saying little himself. He would be here on the ward on Christmas morning, after flying over from Holland in his plane very early, and would return home during the afternoon. He had done that ever since he’d taken up his appointment as senior paediatrician at the hospital, doing it without fuss, and presenting himself at the hospital in Amsterdam on the following day to join in the festivities on the children’s ward there—and somehow he managed to spend time with his family too…
A few days before Christmas he called at the shop to collect the dolls’ house. Daisy, absorbed in cleaning a very dirty emerald necklace—a find in someone’s attic and sold to her father by its delighted owner—glanced round as he came into the shop, put down the necklace and waved a hand at the dolls’ house shrouded in its wrappings.
‘It’s all ready. Do take care not to jog it about too much. Everything is packed tightly, but it would be awful if anything broke.’
He wished her good evening gravely, and added, ‘I’ll be careful. And we will unpack it and check everything before Mies sees it.’
‘Mies—what a pretty name. I’m sure she will love it. How old is she?’
He didn’t answer at once, and she wished she hadn’t asked. ‘She is five years old,’ he said presently.
She wanted to ask if he had any more children, but sensed that he wasn’t a man who would welcome such questions. Instead she said, ‘I’ll get Father to give you a hand—have you a car outside?’
When he nodded, she asked, ‘Are you going back to Holland today?’ She sighed without knowing it. ‘Your family will be glad to see you…’
He said gravely, ‘I hope so. Christmas is a time for families, is it not?’He studied her quiet face. ‘And you? Do you also attend a family gathering?’
‘Me? Oh, no. I mean there isn’t a family—just Mother and Father and me.’She added quickly, ‘But we have a lovely Christmas.’
Mr der Huizma, thinking of his own family gathered at his home, wondered if that were true. She didn’t seem a girl to hanker after bright lights, but surely Christmas spent over the shop with only her parents for company would be dull. He dismissed a vague feeling of concern for her as her father came into the shop; theirs had been a chance meeting and they were unlikely to see each other again.
He and Mr Gillard carried the dolls’house out to his car, and before he drove away he came back into the shop to thank her for her work with it, wish her a happy Christmas and bid her goodbye.
There was an air of finality about his words; Daisy knew with regret that she would not see him again.
She thought about him a good deal during Christmas. The shop was busy until the last minute of Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day was filled to the brim, with the morning ritual of opening their presents, going to church and sitting down to the traditional dinner in the late afternoon. On Boxing Day she had visited friends in the town and joined a party of them in the evening—all the same, she found time to wonder about him…
And of course on the following day the shop was open again. It was surprising what a number of ungrateful recipients of trinkets and sets of sherry glasses and china ornaments were anxious to turn them into cash. And then there was a lull. Money was scarce after Christmas, and customers were few and far between, which gave Daisy time to clean and polish and repair with her small capable hands while her father was away for a few days at an auction being held on one of the small estates in the north of the country.
He came back well satisfied; not only had he made successful bids for a fine set of silver Georgian tea caddies and a pair of George the Second sauce boats, but he had also acquired a Dutch painted and gilt leather screen, eighteenth-century and in an excellent condition—although the chinoiserie figures were almost obscured by years of ingrained dirt and dust. It had been found in one of the attics and had attracted little attention. He had paid rather more than he could afford for it, and there was always the chance that it would stay in the shop, unsold and representing a considerable loss to him. But on the other hand he might sell it advantageously…
It fell to Daisy’s lot to clean and restore it to a pristine state, something which took days of patient work. It was a slow business, and she had ample opportunity to think. It was surprising how often her thoughts dwelt on Mr der Huizma, which, considering she wasn’t going to see him again, seemed a great waste of time.
It was towards the end of January, with the screen finished and business getting brisker, when two elderly men came into the shop. They greeted her with courtesy, and a request that they might look around the shop, and wandered to and fro at some length, murmuring to each other, stooping down to admire some trifle which had caught their eye. Daisy, whose ears were sharp, decided that they were murmuring in a foreign language. But they spoke English well enough when her father came into the shop, passing the time of day with him as they continued their leisurely progress.
They stopped abruptly when they saw the screen, right at the back of the shop. For two calm, elderly gentlemen they exhibited a sudden interest tinged with excitement. There was no need for her father to describe it to them; it seemed that they knew as much about it as he did, possibly more. They examined it at length and with great care, asked its price, and without further argument took out a chequebook.
‘I must explain,’ said one gentleman, and Daisy edged nearer so as not to miss a word. ‘This screen— you tell me that you bought it at an auction at the Kings Poulton estate? I must tell you that an ancestress of ours married a member of the family in the eighteenth century and brought this screen with her as part of her dowry. It was made especially for her. You will have seen the initials at the edge of the border—her initials. When we were last in England we enquired about it but were told that it had been destroyed in the fire they had some years ago. You can imagine our delight in discovering that it is safe—and in such splendid condition.’
‘You must thank my daughter for that,’ said Mr Gillard. ‘It was in a shocking state.’
The three of them turned and looked at her. She smiled nicely at them, for the two elderly gentlemen were friendly, and she was intrigued by the screen’s history and the chance discovery they had made of it. ‘It is very beautiful,’she said. ‘I don’t know where you live, but you’ll need to be very careful with it; it’s fragile…’
‘It must return, of course, to our home in Holland— near Amsterdam. And we can assure you, young lady, that it will be transported with great care.’
‘In a van, properly packed,’ said Daisy.
The elder of the two gentlemen, the one with the forbidding nose and flowing moustache, said meekly, ‘Most certainly, and with a reliable courier.’He paused, and then exchanged a look with his companion.
‘Perhaps you would undertake the task of bringing the screen to Holland, young lady? Since you have restored it you will know best how it should be handled, and possibly you will remain for a brief period to ensure that no harm has come to it on the journey.’
‘Me?’ Daisy sounded doubtful. ‘Well, of course I’d love to do that, but I’m not an expert, or qualified or anything like that.’
‘But you would do this if we ask you?’
She glanced at her father.
‘A good idea, Daisy, and you are perfectly capable of doing it. You’ll need a day for travelling, and another day for the return journey, and a day or two to check that everything is as it should be.’
‘Very well, I’ll be glad to do that. I’ll need a couple of days in which to pack the screen…’
The moustached gentleman offered a hand. ‘Thank you. If we may return in the morning and discuss the details? I am Heer van der Breek.’
Daisy took the hand. ‘Daisy Gillard. I’m glad you found your screen.’
His companion shook hands too, and then they bade her father goodbye.
When they had gone, Daisy said, ‘You’re sure I can do it? I can’t speak Dutch, Father.’
‘No problem, and of course you can do it, a sensible girl like you, my dear. Besides, while you’re there you can go to Heer Friske’s shop in Amsterdam—remember he wrote and told me that he had a Georgian wine cooler I might be interested in? Colonel Gibbs has been wanting one, and if you think it’s a genuine piece you might buy it and bring it back with you.’
‘Where will I stay?’ asked the practical Daisy.
‘Oh, there must be plenty of small hotels—he will probably know of one.’
It was surprising how quickly matters were arranged. In rather less than a week Daisy found herself sitting beside the driver of the small van housing the screen on her way to Holland. She had money, her passport, and directions in her handbag, a travelling bag stuffed with everything necessary for a few days’ stay in that country, and all the documents necessary for a trouble-free journey. She was to stay at Meneer van der Breek’s house and oversee the unpacking of the screen and its installation, and from there she was to go to Amsterdam and present herself at Mijnheer Friske’s shop. A small hotel close by had been found for her and she was to stay as long as it was necessary. Two or three days should be sufficient, her father had told her.
Excited under her calm exterior, Daisy settled back to enjoy her trip. Her companion was of a friendly disposition, pleased to have company, and before long she was listening with a sympathetic ear to his disappointment at missing his eldest daughter’s birthday. ‘Though I’ll buy her something smashing in Amsterdam,’ he assured her. ‘This kind of job is too well paid to refuse.’
They crossed on the overnight ferry, and since Mijnheer van der Breek had made all the arrangements for their journey it went without a hitch and in comfort.
It was raining when they disembarked in the early morning, and Daisy, looking around her, reflected that this flat and damp landscape wasn’t at all what she had expected. But presently there was a watery winter sun, and the built-up areas were left behind. They stopped for coffee, and then drove on.
‘Loenen aan de Vecht,’ said the driver. ‘The other side of Amsterdam on the way to Utrecht. Not far now—we turn off the motorway soon.’
He bypassed Amsterdam and emerged into quiet countryside, and presently onto a country road running beside a river. ‘The Vecht,’ said Daisy, poring over the map.
It was a delightful road, tree-lined, with here and there a pleasant house tucked away. On the opposite bank there were more houses—rather grand gentlemen’s residences, with sweeping lawns bordering the water and surrounded by trees and shrubs.
Before long they came to a bridge and crossed it.
‘Is it here?’ asked Daisy. ‘One of these houses? They’re rather splendid…’
They turned in through wrought-iron gates and drew up before an imposing doorway reached by stone steps. There were rows of orderly windows with heavy shutters and gabled roofs above the house’s solid face, and an enormous bell-pull beside the door. Daisy got out and looked around her with knowledgeable eyes. Seventeenth-century, she guessed, and probably older than that round the back.
The driver had got out too and rung the bell; they could hear its sonorous clanging somewhere in the depths of the house. Presently the door was opened by a stout man, and Daisy handed over the letter Mijnheer van der Breek had given her in England.
Invited to step inside, she did so, prudently asking the driver to stay with the van, and was led down a long, gloomy hall to big double doors at its end. The stout man flung them open and crossed the large and equally gloomy apartment to where Mijnheer van der Breek sat. He handed him the letter and waved Daisy forward.
Mijnheer van der Breek got up, shook hands with her and asked, ‘You have the screen? Splendid. It is unfortunate that my brother is indisposed, otherwise he would have shared my pleasure at your arrival.’
‘It’s outside in the van,’said Daisy. ‘If you would tell me where you want it put the driver and I will see to it.’
‘No, no, young lady. Cor shall help the man. Although you must supervise its removal, of course. We have decided that we want it in the salon. When it has been brought there I will come personally and say where it is to go.’
Daisy would have liked five minutes’ leisure, preferably with a pot of tea, but it seemed that she wasn’t to get it. She went back to the van, this time with Cor, and watched while the men took the screen from the van and carried it carefully into the house. More double doors on one side of the hall had been opened, and she followed them into the room beyond. It was large and lofty, with tall narrow windows heavily swathed in crimson velvet curtains. The furniture was antique, but not of a period which Daisy cared for—dark and heavy and vaguely Teutonic. But, she had to admit, a good background for the screen.