At the same moment, Daisy and Paul were sitting at one of the wooden picnic benches outside the Tea House in the grounds of the Holburne Museum of Art, having visited the Nureyev exhibition.
‘I found it fascinating,’ Paul was saying, ‘to be so close to his belongings. That costume in the glass case, for instance. Did you say that it’s the one he’s wearing in the photograph you’ve got?’
Daisy nodded: she couldn’t ever remember being so happy. Her sudden tumble into love had the effect of reducing everything else to insignificance; even the physiotherapist’s gloomy reports on the damage to the torn muscle in her back no longer had the power to depress her. Just at present Paul was filling her whole world. She’d never felt like this before. She’d been too busy, too obsessed with work, but now, quite suddenly, she’d been translated into a special sphere: the same world, of course, but one seen through a bubble whose protective thin shiny membrane glossed it to an abnormally brilliant clarity.
Paul was talking on. He’d been surprised by the shortness of the jacket Nureyev had worn as Albrecht – he’d expected him to be taller – and wasn’t it amazing that his peasant stock could be traced back to Genghis Khan and the Mongols?
She sipped her tea, smiling radiantly, still nodding happily.
‘I liked the recreation of his dressing-room best,’ she said, getting a grip on herself. She wanted to take and hold on to one of his hands that gesticulated as he spoke but was just managing to control herself. ‘Those false ears from L’Aprèsmidi d’un faune, and his tights on the make-up table. You expected him to wander in at any minute and start putting on his make-up, didn’t you? I’m glad you liked it.’
‘Oh, I did.’ He was looking with interest at the little single-storey building, with its shuttered windows and latticed porch, and now he took a postcard from his pocket. ‘Look at this. I bought it earlier. It’s a rather romantic version of the Tea House painted in 1991.’ He chuckled. ‘It doesn’t matter what the artist has done to give it that Regency atmosphere, it still looks like an air-raid warden’s hut to me.’
‘I hadn’t realized that it was an air-raid warden’s hut,’ Daisy admitted, studying the picture. ‘I’ve never been here before. But once you go inside it’s like a stepping back in time, isn’t it? I love the way they cut all the crusts off the sandwiches, and the flapjacks are delicious.’
He looked at her sternly. ‘Do I detect that you are more interested in the cakes than in the history of the place?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said at once. ‘Much more interested. Dancers love their food. I thought you knew that.’
‘I’m beginning to believe it. You won’t care about this one much either, then, though I bought it especially for you.’
He pushed another postcard across the table. Angelica Kauffmann’s portrait of the pretty little Henrietta Laura Pulteney, posing with her basket of flowers, was familiar to Daisy: as she stared at it, however, it was his words ‘I bought it specially for you’ that filled her mind.
‘I thought you ought to have a reminder of the person your street is named after,’ he was saying. ‘Must be rather good, mustn’t it, to have a beautiful city full of your family’s names on the streets and bridges?’
Daisy turned the card over. ‘But you haven’t written on it,’ she protested lightly. ‘If you’re going to send a postcard you ought to write on it first.’
‘OK. Give it here.’ He took a pen from the inside pocket of the cotton jacket folded on the bench beside him. ‘Now then.’ He mused for a moment or two and then scribbled. ‘There you are.’
It was crazy, she told herself, that her heart should beat quite so loudly at the prospect of his words written on a piece of card. She devoured them eagerly. He’d addressed it: ‘To Daisy Quin of Henrietta Street, Bath.’ In the space opposite the address he’d written: ‘I bought this especially for you.’
She felt foolishly disappointed despite the fact that, only moments earlier, these words had pleased her so much: he might at least have signed his name, she thought. Immediately, however, she reconsidered it, giving the words their full due and extracting the maximum meaning. She was learning to do this: to take a few compliments, an affectionate gesture, a small gift, and weave something of substance out of the meagre sum of them.
It was clear that the breakdown of his marriage had the effect of making him careful: thus far and no further, he seemed to be saying. Yet she was able to tell herself that it was simply a question of giving him the time to recover, to be prepared to wait, and any preconceived ideas she’d had about equality in a relationship had quickly sunk in this flood of longing. She, whose dancing had been the only thing that mattered in the world, had already began to imagine them living together in the house in the school grounds. She saw herself cooking delicious meals and making friends with his pupils, assisting with the school play, perhaps, and suggesting that dancing classes should become part of the curriculum.
The fact that he was withholding himself simply made him all the more desirable. She refused to believe that he was being capricious but guessed that he just wasn’t ready yet to make the next big step away from his marriage. He was still adjusting himself to the move to Bath. All she actually knew was that his wife was unable to put Paul’s career before her own and that he’d refused to pass up this opportunity, having missed two chances of promotion already. He’d volunteered this information very reluctantly, as if he’d decided that she was entitled to some background colour, and, bursting though she was with questions, she’d controlled her need to know more. Already she was so far gone in love that his happiness must be put before her own and she had no desire to make him uncomfortable or miserable by forcing explanations from him.
Daisy reminded herself that this was not a new situation for her. At twelve years old, after her mother died, she’d had to make exactly the same kind of allowances for her father when he remarried. His new wife was possessive and, when their baby arrived, Daisy’s father had explained to her that, though she would always hold a unique place in his affections, his wife and baby needed a special show of love. It was important, he’d told her, that she mustn’t misunderstand or be jealous; she must trust him. Daisy, anxious that he should be happy, had gladly received the small tokens of love that he’d managed to spare for her and embraced her new family wholeheartedly. At the stage school in London during term-time, and often working for part of the holidays, her visits to Yorkshire were few and far between so that the new family soon realized that she constituted no threat to them.
Back then, grieving for her mother and missing her father, Daisy had learned to glean the small crumbs and drops of affection left over from her father’s new love and take what nourishment she could squeeze from them. Then, her work had filled the empty spaces in her affection, bringing comfort and purpose to her life. Now, when her work had failed her, it seemed that love might be her sustenance. It pressed in on her, leaving no room for depression or anxiety or fear, blossoming like some vital organism and overwhelming her. She tended it carefully, lest it might become bruised or damaged, not wishing to appear demanding or inquisitive.
She was also refusing to give way to an instinct to picture Ellie – she knew Paul’s wife’s name now – as an archetypal ‘harridan wife’ figure. Daisy resisted the desire to see her as a selfish woman, ready to put her own ambition before Paul’s happiness or their marriage, cold and sharp-tongued. In fact, Daisy tried not to picture Ellie at all and certainly Paul rarely spoke of her. He made no bid for sympathy and behaved as if his marriage had no bearing on his life in Bath. At the same time he continued to withhold some essential part of himself, throwing up those invisible barriers she was powerless to storm and disappearing behind them.
As she finished her flapjack and drank the last drops of her tea, Daisy wondered what alchemy now possessed her: striking her dumb where once she would have asked a thousand questions, and rendering her weak and trembling at the briefest touch of his fingers. It was terribly important to make another date with him before they got back to Henrietta Street so that she had something to which she could look forward and around which she could build her hopes. She was taking his lead, keeping the friendship light whilst gently moving it forward, but she simply couldn’t bear another cool farewell or the abrupt withdrawal of his warmth without knowing that they would be together again soon.
She racked her memory for other events they might share: Walcot Nation Day took place in June and the annual French market, that came to Queen Square for a week, wasn’t due until the bank holiday at the end of May. Daisy was especially looking forward to this, convinced that Paul would love it as much as she did: the French voices of the stallholders beneath their yellow and white striped canopies, the smell of freshly baked baguettes and croissants, the long queue at the crêpes stall where the experts cooked the delicious pancakes. Visitors would crowd around stalls that sold onions, garlic, artichokes, cheese, pâté and olives, exchanging remarks, often in French, with the stallholders. Yes, Paul would love the French market but it was two weeks away and she needed something much sooner than that.
It was Paul who said: ‘Have you ever been on one of the river cruise boats? I only found them a few days ago near Pulteney Bridge. There’s a little café halfway down the steps that sells real Cornish crab sandwiches. The cruise company has a landing stage just above the weir.’
‘That sounds fun.’ She could hardly say the words, so grateful and happy was she at the prospect. ‘I’d love to go on a cruise,’ she grinned, and mimed smacking her lips, ‘not to mention the crab sandwich.’
‘You and your inner woman!’ He shook his head in pretence reproof. ‘Very well, you shall have a crab sandwich. I’ve got a leaflet back at the flat so I’ll check the timetable and let you know. We could take a picnic.’
So relieved and thankful was she that even when he glanced at his watch and said, ‘Must go, I’m afraid. There’s something on at school and I have to show my face,’ she wasn’t cast down but was able to smile and say goodbye, watching him walk away across the grounds, his dwindling figure mingling with the visitors until she could see him no longer.