street. He must have seen her, for the street was almost empty, but he walked on, to all intents and purpose a complete stranger.
Daisy went back to the shop and spent the rest of the day packing up a set of antique wine glasses which an old customer had bought. It was a slow, careful job, and it gave her ample time to think. One thing was clear to her; Desmond didn’t love her—never had, she admitted sadly. True, he had called her darling, and kissed her and told her that she was his dream girl, but he hadn’t meant a word of it. She had been happy to believe him; romance, for her, had been rather lacking, and he had seemed like the answer to her romantic dreams. But the romance had been only on her side.
She wedged the last glass into place in its nest of tissue paper and put the lid on the box. And at the same time she told herself, I’ve put a lid on Desmond too, and I’ll never be romantic again—once bitten…!
All the same, the next weeks were hard going. It had been easy to get into the habit of seeing Desmond several times a week. She tried to fill the gaps by going to films, or having coffee with friends, but that wasn’t entirely successful for they all had boyfriends or were engaged, and it was difficult to maintain a carefree indifference as to her own future in the face of their friendly probings. She got thinner, and spent more time than she needed to in the shop, so that her mother coaxed her to go out more.
‘There’s not much doing in the shop at this time of year,’ she observed. ‘Why not have a good walk in the afternoons, love? It will soon be too cold and dark, and there’ll be all the extra custom with Christmas.’
So Daisy went out walking. Mostly the same walk, down to the sea, to tramp along the sand, well wrapped up against the early November wind and rain. She met a few other hardy souls; people she knew by sight, walking their dogs. They shouted cheerful greetings as they passed and she shouted back, her voice carried away on the wind.
It was during the last week of November that Daisy met once more the man who had likened her to a fish out of water. Jules der Huizma was spending a few days with his friend again, at his house some miles out of the town, enjoying the quiet country life after the hurry and stress of London. He loved the sea; it reminded him of his own country.
He saw her some way ahead of him and recognised her at once. She was walking into the teeth of a chilly wind bearing cold drizzle with it, and he lengthened his stride, whistling to his friend’s dog so that it ran on ahead of him. He had no wish to take her by surprise, and Trigger’s cheerful barks would slow her down or cause her to turn round.
They did both. She stopped to pat his elderly head and looked over her shoulder; she greeted him politely in a cool voice, his words at the hotel still very clear in her head. And then forgot to be cool when he said, ‘How delightful to meet someone who likes walking in the rain and the wind.’
He smiled at her as he spoke, and she forgave him then for calling her a fish out of water—a plain fish too. After all, in all fairness she had been both. Indeed, when it came to being plain she would 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
