The Snow Globe by Judith Kinghorn Page B

brow and pushed back a wisp of hair. “My angel . . . always so concerned about everyone,” he said. “We shall sit down first thing tomorrow and talk about Stephen.”
    â€œIn private?”
    â€œIn private.”
    Daisy wrapped her arms around his waist. “I love you,” she whispered. She stood on the very tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll fetch you some soda water and ice,” she said, then stepped away from him into the brightness of the room.
    She lifted the silver ice bucket from the drinks trolley, placed it on her head and attempted to walk like Iris across the Turkey carpet toward the door, hands on hips. Inevitably it toppled. Luckily she caught it. Her grandmother gasped, shook her head. “Such high jinks . . . There’ll be an accident yet.”
    She crossed over the hallway swinging the empty bucket like a child crossing sands to the sea, and took a short cut through the dining room, where candles still flickered among strewn linennapkins. She paused at the baize door, smiling at the hushed voices of Mrs. Jessop and Nancy on the other side. And then she pushed gently, very gently . . .
    â€œDon’t look at me like that. It’s the truth.”
    Daisy leaned closer.
    â€œI’m telling you,
he is
.
He’s back with that fancy woman of his,” continued Nancy. “Mrs. What’s Her Name, the actress.”
    â€œMrs. Vincent,” offered Mrs. Jessop.
    â€œThat’s her. Margot Vincent. It’s where your Stephen drives him every Sunday night . . . Well, an actress; it’s only to be expected, I suppose. It’s poor Madam I feel sorry for, turning a blind eye all these years while he gallivants about up there, leading a double life.”
    â€œMr. Forbes may not be a saint, Nancy, but he’s not all bad . . . I know that much.”
    â€œWell, I’m not so sure. Not anymore.”
    â€œHe’s done many good deeds,” Mrs. Jessop muttered.
    â€œOh, I know you said he was good to that poor bastard child, but—”
    â€œDon’t use that word,” Mrs. Jessop interrupted. “I happen to know the child’s very loved.”
    The sound of a chair scraping the kitchen’s stone floor made Daisy step back from the door. The universe rocked; the room slid sideways. And as random images spiraled toward her like the snowflakes she had a minute ago been watching, there was a strange juddering vibration—inside her chest, her throat, her head: like a motor over-revving and stuck in acceleration—because there had been no warning, no warnings of any bend ahead. Enlightenmenthad come with the same impact as a car traveling at great speed hitting a wall.
    Dazed, she turned and walked back to the hallway and sat down on the bench by the tree. Somewhere in the distance she could hear music intermingled with laughter and shrill-sounding voices. Somewhere in the distance she could hear
him
: as smooth as velvet, innately charming and in control. And somewhere in the distance she heard herself whisper,
Daddy
.
    When Daisy finally rose to her feet she was still trembling. And though her heart continued to pound, that initial downward dash had become an ever-slowing reeling sensation. But a new weight rooted her, making her feet reluctant, her limbs heavy. And so, slowly, very slowly, empty-handed, her arms hanging down by her sides, she moved toward the open doorway, the music, the voices, and crossed over the threshold. She cast her eyes about the room, over the silk brocades, tapestries and tasseled velvets, over the crowded mahogany and walnut surfaces glinting with silver and china and glass; and the snow globe, with its miniature house and pine trees and diamonds in the sky. All ornamentation, she thought: all of it a lie, shielding him—her father.
    And there he was, Howard Forbes, a dinner-suited arm resting upon the black marble mantel,