always be that.
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?