Lady Daisy Read online

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ his wife said.

  ‘And I could probably get a few quid for you, Ned, in ten years’ time, if some First Division side is short of a goalie.’

  ‘I’d be over eighteen,’ Ned said. ‘You wouldn’t get a penny of the fee, Dad.’

  His father laughed.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you’re probably wise to hang on to her. Her value can only increase, provided you take good care of her.’

  Ned had no intention of telling Lady Daisy Chain about Mr Merryweather-Jones’s offer. He could just imagine her saying, as Queen Victoria had done, ‘We are not amused.’ But then it occurred to him that she might have heard the dealer’s conversation with his mother, but apparently she had not. She might well have used the old Queen’s words, though, for she made it plain that she strongly objected to being manhandled by ‘that tall thin fellow, peering at one through those great spectacles, and even, would you believe it, raising the hem of one’s gown to examine one’s petticoats! Hardly the act of an English gentleman!’

  I wonder if she knows she’s French, thought Ned.

  ‘A Frenchman wouldn’t have done such a thing, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, do not talk to me of the French, Ned, I beg you! Any foreigner is bad enough, but the French! Our mortal enemies! Why, all through the centuries, from William of Normandy to that odious little Napoleon, we have been fighting the frog-eating rascals!’

  ‘Not in this century, Lady Daisy. They were our allies in two world wars.’

  ‘Such an alliance can only have been a faux pas,’ said Lady Daisy firmly, so Ned dropped the subject. Telling her that her hair was Italian would have made it stand on end, he thought!

  They had just settled down to watch Neighbours, when he heard his mother calling him to the telephone.

  ‘It’s Mr Merryweather-Jones,’ she said, her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Your mind’s quite made up, is it, Ned? Shall I just tell him that the doll’s not for sale?’

  Ned hesitated, not because he was wavering, but because he didn’t much like talking on the phone, and he didn’t, he thought, much like Mr Merryweather-Jones. But then he thought, no, I’m looking after Lady Daisy, I must deal with it myself.

  ‘No, I’ll talk to him, Mum,’ he said.

  His parents, listening while not appearing to listen, heard Ned’s side of the conversation.

  ‘Hello . . . yes, my mother told me . . . no, I don’t want to sell the doll . . . no, that wouldn’t make any difference . . . no, sorry, I shan’t change my mind . . . goodbye.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Ned’s father.

  ‘Offered me more money. Another hundred pounds.’

  ‘Told you so.’

  ‘You’ve got to admire the boy,’ he said to his wife when Ned had gone to bed. ‘Ninety-nine kids out of a hundred would have jumped at that fellow’s offer – six hundred quid for a child’s old toy. But no, he realizes he’s got a sound investment there, one that can only appreciate. Quite the little business man, our Ned.’

  ‘He is fond of Lady Daisy,’ said Ned’s mother.

  ‘Fond! Of a doll! Oh honestly, dear!’

  ‘I heard him the other day – I was sort of eavesdropping by mistake – talking away to it, with pauses for it to answer, just like a phone conversation. Only, of course, it didn’t say anything in reply.’

  ‘You amaze me. Since that doll arrived in this house, the boy’s been living in a world of make-believe, it seems. He must get it from you, I was never like that.’

  Later that evening the next-door neighbour called, to apologize for the damage done to Ned’s football by the dog Sandy, and to reassure his parents that such a thing would not happen again.

  ‘As luck would have it,’ he said, ‘a cat came into my garden that same day, and when Sandy chased it, it went over the fence into yours and he followed it. We had no idea the dog could jump that high, but don’t worry, he won’t do it again, I’ve fixed an overhang of wire all along the top of the fence. And as to the football, I believe my wife told Ned we would buy him a new one, but it’s probably best if he chooses it himself – he’s the expert – and then you can let me know what I owe you. Tell him to get a really good one.’

  When he was told this at breakfast next morning, Ned of course wanted to go straight down to the nearest sports shop. To be without a football made him feel less than whole, and he knew just the make and size he wanted.

  ‘How soon can we go, Mum?’ he said.

  ‘Later, after I’ve done my housework – you’ll have to be patient.’

  After breakfast Ned could not settle, but paced about like an expectant father in a maternity hospital. He could not decide whether he should buy a ball with red chequers, or blue, or green.

  ‘Do get out of my way,’ his mother said, as he tripped over the flex of the vacuum cleaner. ‘Have you made your bed? No? Well, go and do it. And wash – your face is filthy.’

  While he was engaged in what passed for bed-making, Ned tried to explain his frustration to Lady Daisy.

  ‘I need a new football in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I’m out of practice, I haven’t trained for two whole days, I shall lose my form.’

  ‘You will have to be patient,’ Lady Daisy said. ‘Remember the nursery rhyme, Ned –

  Patience is a virtue,

  Virtue is a grace.

  Grace is a little girl

  Who would not wash her face.’

  ‘Have you washed your face?’ his mother called.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, do it. I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.’

  What with face-washing and bed-making, and decision-making too, Ned for once forgot all about Lady Daisy, and he was half-way down the stairs when he heard a voice coming from his bed-sitter.

  ‘Goodbye then,’ said the voice, a trifle plaintively.

  ‘Oh sorry, Lady Daisy,’ said Ned, rushing back up. ‘D’you want to watch telly? I’ll put it on for you.’

  ‘No, thank you, Ned.’

  ‘Shall I put you in your box then, for a nap? We shouldn’t be all that long.’

  ‘No, I should prefer to go downstairs, dear boy, if you will be good enough. Would you kindly put me on the sill of the front window in the sitting-room? I like to look out and watch things – the birds in the garden, you know, and people passing along the road.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ned.

  ‘You’re not bringing Lady Daisy, are you?’ his mother said, when he arrived downstairs carrying her.

  ‘No,’ said Ned. ‘She wants to look out of the front window.’

  ‘You do, do you?’ said his mother, addressing the doll directly. ‘I suppose you told him that, did you?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Lady Daisy. ‘How else could he know?’ but of course her question brought no answer. Instead Ned’s mother said, ‘Come on, Ned, I’m going to get the car out. Lock the front door as you come out, I’ve done the back one,’ and left the room.

  ‘I ought to have brought your elephants down,’ said Ned. ‘How am I going to prop you up?’

  ‘Lean me against that pot-plant,’ said Lady Daisy. ‘It is just the right height.’

  The pot-plant was a bonsai, a dwarf tree, in this case a fig, and Ned placed Lady Daisy carefully against it so that its little spreading branches supported her back.

  ‘Capital!’ she said. ‘Now I have a fine view! Off you go and purchase your precious football.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Bye bye then,’ said Ned.

  He did not notice that, when his mother had earlier shaken out a duster, she had left undone the catch of the sash-window.

  ‘Au revoir,’ said Lady Daisy Chain.

  As well as buying the new football (Ned chose a red-chequered one in the end, after a lot of havering), his mother had other shopping to do, and it was a good hour before they were finished.

  As they neared home, a van disappeared round the corner at the
bottom of the hill beyond. It was a white one, Ned noticed, as many vans are, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He was just longing to try out the new ball against the garage wall. He ran round the front of the house to show it to Lady Daisy, only to find that the window of the sitting-room was half open.

  The dwarf fig-tree still stood upon the sill, but it stood alone.

  CHAPTER 13

  Emjay Antiques

  Had anything else been taken, the police asked when they arrived.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ned’s mother said. ‘There’s nothing else missing.’

  ‘Anything damaged?’

  ‘No. It’s all my fault, I must have left the window unlatched.’

  ‘This doll that has been stolen – could you give us a description?’

  Ned’s mother did so.

  ‘The doll is your daughter’s, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s mine,’ Ned said.

  ‘Oh. Fancy. Fond of your dolly, are you, sonny?’

  ‘It’s a very valuable doll,’ said Ned’s mother. ‘I would not have troubled you if it had been a cheap toy. It was given to my son by his grandmother, and he has already been offered a large sum for it by a would-be purchaser.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘A Mr Merryweather-Jones, an antique dealer.’

  Ned tugged at his mother’s sleeve.

  ‘Just a minute, Ned,’ she said, and to the police, ‘He left his card with me. Here it is.’

  ‘Emjay Antiques, eh? Thank you, madam. We’ll be in touch if there are any developments.’

  ‘What did you want, Ned?’ his mother said when the police had gone.

  ‘I just remembered – when you said his name – there was a white van when we came in, at the bottom of the hill, it could have been his, we should have told them.’

  ‘There are lots of white vans about, Ned. You can’t go accusing people of theft like that. And, anyway, do you really think a respectable antique dealer is going to go around stealing things in broad daylight?’

  Yes, thought Ned, I do. It’s obviously him. He couldn’t buy her, so he pinched her. Oh, Lady Daisy, what a life you’ve led since you’ve been with me. And whatever can I say to Gran?

  ‘Whatever can I say to Gran?’ he said to his mother.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell her yet. There may be some simple explanation.’

  There is, thought Ned. Mr Loftus Merryweather-Jones has nicked Lady Daisy Chain.

  Meanwhile Mr Loftus Merryweather-Jones was confirming to the police that, yes, he knew of the doll, that it was a rare Victorian specimen, and that he had indeed offered the boy who owned it six hundred pounds if he would sell.

  Perched among a nest of tables in his shop and looking more heron-like than ever, he lit his pipe and puffed away furiously.

  ‘This is an absolute tragedy,’ he said. ‘To say that that doll is priceless is an exaggeration, but it is certainly almost unique, and in such wonderful condition. And now we have the worst of all worlds. I have failed in my efforts to acquire the doll, and the boy, who must be extremely fond of it, has lost it. I cannot quite think who would be tempted to steal such a thing, except a disreputable member of my own profession who knew or suspected its value. I hope, by the way, that you do not suspect me?’

  ‘Oh good heavens, no, sir! But we’d be grateful if you’d keep your ear to the ground and inform us, should you hear anything.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the dealer. He puffed some more and then said, ‘If you want my opinion, I should say that it’s possible that the theft was the work of some little girl who was passing and saw the doll – standing in the window in full view of the road, I think you said? – and just couldn’t resist her.’

  ‘I agree with Mum,’ said Ned’s father that evening. ‘Don’t tell Gran yet. Let’s do our best to get Lady Daisy back first. The best thing, I think, is to issue a full description and offer a reward. I’m not saying the thief will be stupid enough to claim it, but the doll may have been discarded and picked up by someone else. Or someone may see it and recognize it from the description.’

  So they composed a notice as follows:

  LOST

  Victorian doll of great sentimental value.

  Approximately eighteen inches tall, dark hair worn in pony-tail tied with gold ribbon, wearing apple-green gown with motif of daisy-chains, with a pink sash, and pink shoes and white gloves.

  Reward for safe return – £20.

  ‘I’ll get this photocopied at the office tomorrow,’ Ned’s father said, ‘and we’ll post the notices up all around the place – post office, petrol station, police station of course, your school, Ned, oh, and we’d better ask that antique dealer fellow if he’ll put one up outside his shop.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Ned said.

  Two days later, two days of misery at the loss of Lady Daisy, he did. By now he had absolutely convinced himself that Mr Merryweather-Jones had stolen her. He knew where she lived, he wanted her very badly, Ned had seen a white van that morning, it must have been him.

  As he got off the bus and made his way to Emjay Antiques, he felt very nervous. Not that he expected to see the doll standing on a shelf in the shop – the dealer couldn’t be such a barefaced thief as that. What was worrying him was the feeling that he really ought to confront Mr Merryweather-Jones, and say to him, ‘Come on now, I know you’ve got her. Hand her over,’ and the knowledge that he hadn’t the courage to say it. Instead he would just ask if the reward notice could be posted up in the window.

  With a great effort Ned stopped himself from turning for home, and opened the shop door.

  There seemed to be no one in, and Ned’s first thought was that the place was on fire, for there was a cloud of smoke in a far corner. But then he could see that in the middle of the cloud sat Mr Merryweather-Jones, smoking away and writing something at a table.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ned said.

  At the sound of his voice the antique dealer laid down his pen, took his pipe from his mouth and put it in an ashtray. He unfolded himself from behind the table, came across the room with his high-stepping wader’s walk, and stood looking down at Ned through his thick spectacles.

  ‘Can I help you, young man?’ he said.

  ‘Please,’ said Ned, ‘could you put this up in your window?’

  Mr Merryweather-Jones scanned the notice. Then he peered at Ned, as intently as a heron stares down at a fish before impaling it on its long beak. But the only movement he made was a friendly one, putting a hand on Ned’s shoulder, and his voice sounded kindly as he said, ‘Why, it’s Ned. I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Yes, of course I’ll put this notice up. I was most distressed to learn that your doll had been stolen. I do hope she’ll be found safe and well.’

  She might be if they searched this shop, thought Ned, but he didn’t feel so sure now. The man sounded quite nice. But then he was just putting on an act, wasn’t he?

  ‘Well, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

  Just then another customer came in.

  ‘Hang on a minute, can you, Ned?’ said Mr Merryweather-Jones. ‘I’ll just see to this gentleman and then I have something I’d like to show you.’

  While Ned waited, his eyes were darting all over the place, taking in the conglomeration of items with which the shop was crammed from floor to ceiling – pieces of furniture, paintings, books and knick-knacks of every kind – until suddenly he saw, on a high shelf in a dark corner, a collection of dolls.

  Three of them were standing upright on the shelf and he could just make out that each had fair hair, tightly curled. The fourth doll, though, was lying flat, and all that Ned could see of her was her hair, hanging over the edge of the shelf. It was dark, and it was long.

  ‘Now,’ said the dealer when the customer had gone, ‘what I wanted to –’ but Ned interrupted him.

  ‘That doll,’ he said, pointing. ‘Up there. Is it . . .?’

  Mr Merryweather-Jones reached up and took the fourth doll from the
shelf. Long dark hair it may have had, but otherwise it was as unlike Lady Daisy Chain as it could possibly be. It was dressed in a short, rather threadbare frock of electric blue that showed off its fat legs, and its face wore an expression of great stupidity.

  ‘Very different from yours, eh?’ said the dealer. ‘I haven’t anything to touch her. These four are all of English manufacture, not worth a great deal. No, what I was going to show you was this.’

  He went over to a large pile of dusty old books and picked one out.

  ‘I thought this might interest you,’ he said. ‘It’s very typical of the sort of books Victorian boys and girls were given to read a hundred years or more ago. Full of stories about well-mannered, kindly, obedient, God-fearing children, quite content with very simple pleasures. Not like today’s kids at all. It will give you a flavour of those times, some while even before your doll was manufactured.’

  Ned took the book from Mr Merryweather-Jones’s hands. It was called Early Days, and on the front cover was a picture of six happy smiling children playing with spinning-tops. Inside was the date of its publication, 1885.

  ‘D’you mean I can borrow it?’ Ned said.

  ‘I mean you can have it,’ said Mr Merryweather-Jones.

  At home, Ned opened Early Days at random. There, at the top of page ninety-eight, was

  LETTIE’S RIDE

  Here’s Lettie in her coach and pair,

  With Puss, and Rose, and Jane the fair,

  All going for a ride.

  Here it was – great-great-aunt Victoria’s favourite rhyme! He could hear the tones of Lady Daisy’s voice as she had recited it, and for a moment it brought her very close.

  But where was she now?

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘I’ve Found Her!’

  In fact Lady Daisy was, for the second time in her life, inside a carrier-bag.