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
