The Snow Globe by Judith Kinghorn Page A

some private unhappiness or perhaps loneliness. And as Daisy gripped the smooth flesh in his hand a little tighter, she heard Iris again: “Like being sedated, darling . . . Quite . . . Of course . . . You, too. Good-bye, darling.”
    Daisy looked over at the large mirror hanging above the fireplace, saw Iris sashay across the room and up to it, pucker her painted lips and blow a kiss back at her.
    â€œYou must think of something to wish for,” said Daisy, turning her attention back to her father. “And concentrate. That’s what you used to tell me.”
    He’d been the one who had taught Daisy to dream, and it was one of the reasons she loved him, loved him above and beyond all others, and yet he had been absent for so much of her life. For a moment she saw her younger self waiting once more upon the wall by the gated entrance, waving furiously, then climbing down and running across the grass toward the car so the two of them could walk that last stretch together, hand in hand. Those moments when she had had to cram it all in, tell him everything before the others: . . .
and Lily said . . . and Iris told me . . . and it’s simply not fair, is it?
    Her father had always taken time to listen to her, nodding at the latest great travesty of justice, the catastrophic events of that day or week, and the inhumanity of the treatment meted out to her by her two elder siblings, from time to time gasping or shaking his head in disbelief. And yet he had not lied to her and did not pander to her tears, but sensitively, tenderly and seemingly with great thought and care he used the word
we
:
We must be reasonable . . . we need to setan example . . . we must try to understand . . . we must not reduce ourselves to that level
. It was, had always been,
we
. In his capacity as judge, jury or ombudsman, his words—
my last words on this
—were a true and lawful verdict, to be upheld and obeyed, and then, sometimes, repeated back:
Well, Daddy says . . .
    To Daisy, her father remained invincible, unsinkable, like a mighty ocean liner barely swayed by the unpredictable and truculent currents in which Daisy increasingly found herself—or imagined herself to be. His manners, morals and virtues were unquestionable. He seemed to know all that there was to know. She could, she often thought, tell him anything, because he understood and because she believed in him and believed him.
    â€œHave you done it? Have you made your wish?” she asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, don’t tell me.”
    â€œI wasn’t going to.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œHave you made yours?”
    â€œNo. I’m about to now . . .”
    Daisy closed her eyes tight and kept them closed for some minutes, concentrating on the word
happy
: happy home, happy family, happy father. Then, “Done!” she said, opening her eyes and turning to him. But he said nothing and continued staring out through the window, his expression impassive, his gaze fixed beyond the blackness, beyond the confines of that house and even its land.
    â€œYou don’t seem particularly cheerful tonight. Is anything the matter?” she asked.
    Her father sighed and smiled and cast his eyes downward. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. And I rather need a drink, but there doesn’t appear to be any soda water—or any ice.”
    â€œMother gave Blundy the night off. He’s gone with Hilda to the concert at the village hall.” She paused for a moment, then, quieter, she said, “Not right now, not tonight, but at some stage I need to talk to you about Stephen.”
    â€œStephen?” he said, turning to her.
    â€œYes, I need to talk to you about his life . . . his future. I think it’s important, and I’m concerned, very concerned.”
    Howard smiled wearily. He raised his hand to her