Hill Manse ... Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tapping on the passenger-side window, Daisy asked, “Why are you here so early?”

Richard got out and walked around the front of the car. “Finished my column and turned it in before deadline. Thought I’d step out for a bite. Would you like to join me?”

“I don’t think I could eat anything. My stomach’s a bit rough … nervous, I guess.”

“Come with me anyway. Something light … a consume’ or vegetable broth might go down nicely … take the edge off your nerves.” He opened the door and helped her in. Neither spoke on the ten minute drive but the silence was not uncomfortable.

Again he seated her at a corner table in the Palace Garden Restaurant. “I like this place. It’s a bit pre-war pretentious but also marvelously quiet and the food is good. I must tell you how wonderfully smart and professional you look. You’ll rock those two bachelors back on their heels, that’s for certain.”

Settling into her chair, Daisy said, “I’ve fed you a whopping helping of my love woes, now I think it is your turn to tell me about a special lady in your life and I don’t mean your mother … who is wonderful, by the way.”

“A bit of tit for tat … I see. Alright, I’ll tell you about my wife, Gwen.”

“Your wife! Oh, lordy … I thought you’d always been loose and fancy free.”

Richard grinned. “Not ‘wheezy old bachelor’… she says instead ‘loose and fancy free’. I like that.”

Slowly his manner sobered as he peered down at his hands then up at the chandelier. “I’d known Gwen Potter nearly all of my early life. She was usually my partner in cotillion. Those were the dance classes where children learn etiquette and social manners. As teens, neither of us ever doubted that we would marry someday. My mother and grandfather as well as her parents also counted it as a foregone conclusion. Gwen was energetic and pretty and had a sweet disposition. She thought I was the most clever good-looking fellow ever born. We became engaged when the war started in ’39, before I left to join the Royal Marines. On a fortnight’s leave in November 1941, we got married and spent ten wonderful days together in a small hotel in Cornwall. It was cold and rained the entire time, but we didn’t mind. After I went back to my unit, Gwen moved her things into my room at home. She and Mother enjoyed being together. My father was not a gentleman, Daisy. He mistook Gwen’s affable nature for more than it was. In the spring of ’42, she moved back with her family, saying only that she was homesick. German fighter planes made regular forays over London all during the war. It was in the summer of ’42 that a stray bomber flew over Town destroying Gwen’s family home. The human scraps found in the rubble could not be identified. We were unable to bury them separately. It was always understood that the chances were fifty-fifty that I might be wounded or killed. I never thought it would happen to Gwen. To say I was devastated would not be overstating it.” Richard looked over at Daisy.

Her knuckles were pressed against her lips and tears made rivulets down her cheeks. Fishing in her purse for tissues to mop her face, she muttered, “Hell’s bells! Where’s the ladies room?”

“Good God, Daisy … I’m sorry … it’s at the end of that hallway.”

I’m really liking this woman!

Returning to her seat, Daisy complained. “I’ve got a red nose and pink puffy eyes. The Gregor’s will think you’re bringing a white rabbit into their home.”

She leaned over and laid her hand over his. “Richard … your Gwen sounds like a wonderful girl. I’m so sorry. You obviously haven’t found anyone since then that you could love as happily.”

He turned his palm up and cupped his other hand over hers. “It may be that you and I aren’t daft enough or brave enough to bare our hearts again. What do you think?”

“I think that there are very few men who would want a woman who expects to be treated as an equal partner rather than an underling.”

“A suffragette with a broken heart.”

Daisy bristled. “I have feminist tendencies, true, but where did you come up with that ‘broken heart’ bit?”

“Because, my dear … you and I have gone through much the same heart-wrenching experiences. I thought I would never be whole again. I suspect you might have felt that way, as well. May I ask if you encountered Pat Chaynes again?”

Pinching her lower lip between her teeth, Daisy silently ordered herself not to start sniveling again. “Yes I have. We spoke this morning. He told me he will be leaving on Saturday for Honolulu. I took your advice and listened to his explanation. It was perfectly reasonable. I assured him I have forgiven him everything.” This time Daisy’s eyes stayed on her hands. She did not look at Richard.

“The waitress at your teashop says he looks like a film star … a bronze Gary Cooper. She was ga-ga about him.”

Daisy’s head shot up. “When was that?”

“Late morning yesterday … I was looking for you, remember. Found you at the BL.”

“Oh … right. So much has happened this week; my capacity to think is nearly worn through. I should probably go home soon.”

“You’ve got work to do, yet, my girl. Sop up that broth and let’s get to it.”

She began to feel better. Being with Richard could be unsettling but also comforting. He pushed her … but, so far, in the direction she wanted to go.

----

Hill Manse was a mansion, as its name implied, in the Tudor style. It sat at the end of a long lane lined with huge old oak trees. Daisy’s imagination immediately called to mind the country manors described in the Agatha Christie mysteries. This was obviously not set in a rural landscape where immediate access to the constabulary would be difficult when the murder inevitably occurred, but it was Christie-like in size and demeanor.

I hope I was right about ‘dead and bleeding’ really meaning ‘ wed and breeding’.

“This is a remarkable house, Richard. I think your home is warm and wonderfully comfortable but it might not impress the Queen. I think this one would, though.”

“It hardly compares with Windsor Castle, Daisy.”

“No, it doesn’t have the interior or exterior acreage, but it speaks volumes when it comes to projecting wealth and style, don’t you think?”

“You’re right there. It impresses people. They dig deeper into their pockets when they know the master of this manse mines his own bank account regularly for veteran causes.”

A tall, angular, very dignified balding man in his sixties ushered them through the foyer into the ‘receiving room’. “You and your guest are expected, Mr. Hamblin. Please make yourselves comfortable … Mr. Alistair and Mr. Duff will be with you presently.”

“Thank you, Morris.”

“Oh, lordy, Richard”

A butler! An honest-to-goodness butler! He looks to be fairly benign, though. Not “the butler did it” sort of fellow at all. Oh, for heaven sake, nutsy ... snap out of it!

‘“You’ll be fine, you’ll see. Those questions in the folder are only guidelines. Once they start talking, you won’t need them.”

A door opened and a man with attractively mismatched features, a bit above average height, solidly built, thick dark brown hair, comfortably dressed in country tweeds with an ebony cane and slight limp addressed them.

“Miss Landis … Richard … please come in by the fire. Miss Landis, I’m Duff Gregor and this older version of me peering at you through his ancient eye piece is my father, Alistair.” The older gentleman lifted Daisy’s hand and brushed continental lips across her fingers.

“I am delighted to meet you Miss Landis. Richard … you mentioned that Miss Landis was a journalist from America but you neglected to say how singularly attractive she was.”

Daisy smiled graciously, “If you are trying to embarrass me, you may succeed, sir … but please call me Daisy, if you don’t mind the informality.”

She turned to Duff to include him, “Thank you both for agreeing to tell me about the veterans you champion.”

Duff said, “Please sit over here, Miss … Daisy. Richard … sit next to her. Before we begin … since both of us are rather ‘wind bags’ on the subject … let me ring for refreshments.”

“Good thinking, my boy … we’ll need something rather stiff, I imagine”, said Alistair. Miss Daisy, do you mind if I invite a cousin of ours to join us? She’s visiting from near Aberdeen in Scotland and is also interested in our dedication to this particular cause.”

“Certainly, sir … it would be unforgivably selfish of me not to share your company, as tempting as it is.”

Richard groaned softly, “Gawd.”

“Hush”, whispered Daisy, “This is fun.”

Alistair Gregor led a tall, trim, elegant-looking woman in her mid thirties into the convivial lounge area. “May I introduce Mrs. Cara McNally … Cara, this is Miss Daisy Landis, an American journalist and this is our very good friend, Richard Hamblin. Richard is a sports writer for the London Times. Miss Landis has come to interview Duff and me about our work with war veterans.”

Cara McNally said, “How-do-you-do”, shook hands, smiled graciously and sat down in a Queen Anne wingchair opposite Duff Gregor.

Drinks were offered, accepted and sipped gratefully. Duff nodded to Daisy. “How would you like to begin?”

She leaned forward, “Actually, with a confession. Before yesterday, I was fairly ignorant of the mental suffering many veterans endured due to war trauma and are still enduring today. I just met with a friend from back home who told me some of the misery he’d suffered. As you well know, the physically wounded are often thought of as heroes and, as such, accepted by the public more readily than the mentally and emotionally wounded. I want to know how both, the physically and mentally disabled veterans are cared for today. Are they honored for the damage done to them in the line of duty by lip-service or with tangible help and benefits?”

“Ah, that is the rub”, as the bard so wisely wrote, said Duff. “Unlike the United States, we practice socialized medicine in the UK. All of our citizens are assigned a physician in their area and have medical care available to them. Specialized care is harder to come by. Military leaders and medical men learned from the ‘Great War’ that ‘shell shock’ is a psychiatric illness. The facially disfigured, those that lost limbs as well as those unable to procreate are also in need of ‘special’ services as are their families. Great Britain did not then and still does not have the expert staff or funds necessary to handle all these men and their problems. If families could not afford private nursing homes, the men were sent home. Parents, wives and sweethearts have had to deal with this damaged element of humanity. Wrong as it is, any illness of the mind has the stigma of shame, disgrace and dishonor attached to it. As you correctly stated, the physically wounded are thought heroes, but only for a short time. They are hard to look at, you see, and are a reminder of terrible times. After a very few years, these ‘heroes’ fall from grace as the ‘uninitiated young’ become adults. Only power, strength and wholeness are truly admired.”

Daisy asked, “What are your efforts able to do for these men?”

“Not enough, dammit!” Angry but also contrite, Alistair apologized. “I beg your pardon, ladies.” … Do forgive me, please!” His tall, bulky form was dressed in distressed tweed trousers and a thick green wool cardigan. His hair was parted just above the left ear and carefully combed up and over a shiny pate and carefully pasted in place above the right ear with hair cream. He paced back and forth in front of the fire … slightly embarrassed … mostly agitated. “So many of the men won’t admit to needing help and then, there are those that are too lost … their minds unable to grasp the simplest concepts, therefore, not able to accept what help is available.”

Duff added, “We bribe young doctors to study psychiatry. We send disfigured soldiers to plastic surgeons. Artificial limbs are heavy, clumsy, painful and wear-out within a few years. Making certain prosthesis’ are replaced as necessary is a constant expense. The wait for the men is interminable when going through the National Health Service. We’ve set up a private hospice, run by a friend of mine, name of Jordy Travis, that houses, feeds and cares for a number of veterans that have no other place to live. We are non-profit but still must pay those people who carryon the day-to-day work of our charities. Father and I fete the donors … others have the task of seeing to the mundane matters.”

Using shorthand allowed Daisy to write quickly. She noted the passion for their cause threaded through the dialogue as well as the compassion for the veterans. “I would imagine these problems are just as prevalent in the U.S. We have a Veterans Administration Office in Washington D.C. and Veteran Hospitals in nearly every state. But physicians studying psychiatry and plastic surgery would be few as well; new lighter materials for making prosthesis stronger and more manageable may be discovered in the future but that does not help current patients; and housing for disabled veterans would be as unaffordable and unattainable at home as it is here. I can see why Mr. Alistair does not feel completely satisfied with what has been done. The task sounds overwhelming and terribly heartbreaking.”

“Succinctly put, young lady”, said Alistair.

More questions were asked from Richard’s list and answered. After an hour the interview wound down and Daisy was gathering her notes together and scooting to the edge of the sofa when Duff walked up to her extending his hand to assist her before Richard could offer.

“Miss Daisy, I noticed you are extremely adept at shorthand, do you type as well?”

“Yes I do. I am also a terrific speller, my punctuation is spot-on and I can boast a large vocabulary … for an American, that is. In Omaha, I am a high school English teacher.”

“She could be the answer to our particular need at the moment, Da.” Duff said over his shoulder.

Daisy thought, Oh, lordy, what need is that … a bride, a promising breeder that can type?

“Richard, let me talk you and Miss Daisy into staying for tea. We must become better acquainted. Father and I wish to know more about her current plans and circumstances. Will you please stay?”

Richard looked at Daisy and shrugged. “Have you plans for this afternoon?”

Shaking her head dubiously she asked, “Do you?” Leaving it to him to make the excuses for them.

“Not a thing,” he turned to Duff and accepted the invitation.

Cara McNally walked to where the tableau had paused to chat. “Miss Landis, may I invite you to my rooms where we might freshen up a bit before tea?”

“Thank you … that would be great. I have pencil smudges on my fingers. Please call me Daisy.”

“Fortunately, Daisy, the Gregor’s do not stand on ceremony … they do not have tea exactly at four o’clock, as most do who honor ‘Tea Time’, but whenever it pleases them.”

“Well, Mrs. McNally, that’s certainly a good thing. Not to have one’s food needs dictated to by a strident clock or fussy cook shows a democratic household, as regards meals, that is.”

Cara McNally smiled and led the way up a dramatic flight of circular stairs to the second floor landing. “Now, you must call me Cara.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Duff’ Gregor’s sister live in the Manse?” Daisy was curious as to why Margaret Gregor was not around.

“Yes, Margaret is here somewhere. You’ll meet her at Tea.”

Having washed up, combed her hair and powdered her nose, Daisy looked at the lovely icy blue and ivory sitting room that adjoined Cara’s bedroom and bath. “Your rooms are absolutely stunning. Half of my house in Omaha could fit in here.”

“These are not really my rooms. I’m a guest of the Gregor’s. I have a home in Scotland, not far from Aberdeen … an estate house. I live there with my son, Donal.”

“You have a son … how wonderful. How old is he?”

“Eight and a half, as he would have it. He’s in the nursery fabricating something quite complex, I expect, with his erector set.”

“Will he join us for Tea? I’d love to meet him.”

“Of course, if you wish, so long as Duff and Alistair don’t mind. It sounds as if Tea might be an occasion for a proposition they wish to make you.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. Daisy thought.

Cara moved toward the door, turned and said, “Let me take you to the nursery to meet Donal in his natural habitat. He’d be terribly shy thrown among adults … more himself with a biscuit and cocoa on a tray among his toys.

“Sounds good to me … Is your husband with you?”

“I’m a widow, Daisy. Douglas died before Donal was born. Please, don’t be embarrassed, I’m not hurt or offended in any way by your question. It was a long time ago.”

Reaching a door at the end of the hallway, Cara opened it and spoke to a mop of reddish-brown hair studiously bent over a metal tower-like structure ascending from a plethora of similar metal pieces carpeting the floor. “Donal, darling, I want you to come and shake hands with, Miss Landis. She’s from America.”

Donal straightened his sturdy body, wiped his hands on the seat of his corduroy trousers, walked over to Daisy and stuck out his hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, too, Donal. What a well-designed piece of architecture. It looks complicated but soundly constructed.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Donal beamed with pleasure. He looked exactly like an eight year old boy ought to look … rumpled, jam smeared on his chin, a few freckles sprinkled across a snub nose, dark brown eyes like his mother’s with coppery glints in them that suggested he was not unfamiliar with monkey business. He was obviously intelligent and well-mannered.

“We have a map of America in my geography book. Which bit do you live in?”

“Nebraska … one of the middle bits. It’s a prairie state … really flat. We grow wheat, corn, and alfalfa, raise cattle, hogs, chickens … all kinds of fruits and vegetables, too. Our state is regarded as a part of the ‘bread basket’ of the nation. That means we grow America’s food.”

“Wow … you do all that?” Donal’s look of astonishment caused both women to chuckle.

“I don’t do any of that. When I said ‘we’, I meant the people of Nebraska. It is the farmers who do the really hard work. I am a high school English teacher. I came to London on holiday.”

“London’s terrible mucky just now … it’s been cold and rainy most everyday. Has your holiday been spoilt awful?”

“It hasn’t been spoiled, but I’d sure welcome two or three sunny days in a row. I’m tired of wet shoes and stockings.”

“You get to go outside in the rain?” Donal turned to frown at his mother.

“Oh … I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.” Daisy quickly explained. “Spring head colds are miserable.”

Cara smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. She clearly adored her son. “Would you like me to send Sally up with some hot cocoa?”

“Had my tea already … I’m gonna work on my rocket some more.” With that, he turned back to his handiwork in progress.

Firmly closing the door, Cara said, “We should probably join the others. Are you ready?”

Daisy nodded. “He is exactly the kind of little boy I would like someday. Oh … what am I saying … I’ve reconciled myself to never marrying and then I tell you I want a son like your Donal. I do know a husband is a prerequisite to having children. For me, children would be a delight … but having a man around would be ‘iffy’ to say the least. I must seem a bit scatter-brained to you. ”

“Maybe it is that you fear the loss of your independence. Marriage can be managed, my dear, if points of contention are clearly understood, appreciated, and a compromise agreed upon before the nuptials take place.”

“I’d bet no man would agree to my points of contention.” Daisy smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I consider myself a ‘feminist’, you see. I read Simone de Beauvoir’s book ... The Second Sex. It was an incredible revelation.”

Cara whispered, “Yes, I do see. I haven’t read it myself but understand the controversy over the subject is quite volatile.” Opening the door to the lounge, she beamed, “I hope we haven’t keep you gentlemen waiting. I introduced Daisy to Donal. He is building a rocket to outer space, therefore is much too busy to join us.”

“Daisy”, Duff led her to a somber but nice-looking woman in her mid to late thirties pouring tea … “may I introduce my sister Margaret. She does her best to keep Father and me sorted out. Margaret, this is Miss Daisy Landis. She is a journalist and has graciously interviewed us this afternoon as regards the Veteran’s Foundation.”

“How do you do, Miss Landis. I hope you weren’t bored … they do carry on so about their fund raising projects. It is important, of course … would you care for sugar … milk … no?”

Alistair took Daisy’s arm. “Please sit here and make yourself comfortable, my dear. Richard tells us you did an article on Margaret Rose’s press conference for an American newspaper, but initially this was to be a holiday. Is that correct?”

“Yes … that is correct.”

“How soon do you have to return to the states.?”

“Pretty soon, I suppose. Been hoping the weather would turn nicer so I could do some sight-seeing and not drown in the process. Seen a lot of the BL … It’s warm, well lit … easy to curl up in a corner and read.”

“My father and I have been working on a manuscript this past year. It deals with the plight of veterans from the Crimean War to the present. The work is staggering … plowing through government statistics and searching old records as well as new. We need our current work edited, typed and put together in some kind of logical order”, explained Duff.

Alistair added, “Not only that, my dear. It is terribly boring. I can barely read it myself and stay awake. I doubt a publisher will have anything to do with the stuff. How does one make dry information interesting, Daisy?”

“Well, I’m not sure … personalizing it might help. You know … a soldier’s story with quotes … that kind of thing … a biography of selected veterans still living and the family’s stories of vets who have died. Use photographs … readers like pictures. Keep the really dry material for footnotes and addendums. Long-winded lectures should be avoided, too. Put it in a concise format people are willing to read.”

“You sound ‘sure’ enough to me, Daisy”, Duff commented. “What would you think about staying through the summer and working with us … helping us to energize our dreadfully dull copy? We’d pay you a salary and, to add a bonus, you will have free time to ‘sight see’ on fine days.”

Richard moved over to speak quietly to Alistair.

“And,” Alistair interjected quickly, “we have an empty guestroom with an attached bath for your convenience and all meals will be provided. Have we persuaded you to accept?”

Daisy felt overwhelmed. “The job sounds challenging to say the least. Whether or not I could fulfill your expectations is what worries me. I’m a teacher and journalist which does not qualify me as an editor or biographer.” She was also relieved. These men were not looking at her as a bride for Duff Gregor; they really wanted help with their book.

“But we have no writing skills at all. With your assistance we might have a least a chance of getting this much needed information into the hands of our leaden leaders and passive voters.” Duff paced between Daisy and Alistair. “As a Yank I know is wont to say, if we can ‘sweeten the pot’ a bit more, please let us know.”

“I’ve never been offered a ‘sweeter pot’ in my whole life. As Richard already knows, I’m committed to playing drums in an all girl orchestra this summer. We have been booked into concert halls, nightclubs and resorts on the Eastern Seaboard for June, July and August. I’ll have to call my agent and see if he can find a substitute to send in my place. If so … I’ll accept your offer. If not … I must return to fulfill my contract.”

Margaret Gregor looked appalled. “Miss Landis … you, a teacher … play drums on a stage … in nightclubs?”

“Yes, Maam, with Twila Weber’s orchestra … I started in college and have done it every summer since. Jazz, pop, as well as classical music, are very popular in the states.”

“But, my dear!”

Alistair intervened smoothly. “Yes, yes … Daisy is a very gifted young woman but we mustn’t be envious. We are all special in our own way.”

Richard asked, “Do you have your agent’s number in that huge handbag of yours?”

“I do … what time is it in New York?”

“Hold on a tick.” Richard checked his watch and did a quick calculation. “A bit before noon eastern time, I think.”

“I’ll call him at his office if you don’t mind taking me to the closest public telephone.”

“Daisy”, chided Duff mildly, “we have three telephones about the house. Please use the one in the library. We are anxious to learn our fate, as you can see.”

----

Marcus Lowenstein picked up on the fifth ring. “Yeh … Lowenstein here. Who? Twila’s summer drummer … I remember … what’s that? … hummm … hold on a minute gotta grab my book … let’s see … oh, yeh … a Betty Burton from Hoboken subbed for Joyce Autrey on New Years Eve at the Hilton … did a good job, too … yeh, she’ll be glad for the work … I’ll call Twila with the change … hey … thanks for not leaving us high and dry … so long, kid.”

Daisy hung up the phone and took a deep breath.

Well, you’ve jumped in with both feet, Daisy Claire … go tell ‘em.

----

Cara spoke to a distracted Margaret and offered to arrange with Mrs. Wilkin about readying the guestroom; Duff said he would drive the Bentley and Daisy to her rooming house and collect her things; Richard said he would take her in his car, there was plenty of room; Duff said you couldn’t pack a gnat’s ass in his old buggy; Richard retorted that he doubted that Daisy had a gnat’s ass to worry about and his car was a classic, not an old buggy.

Alistair stepped in. “Daisy, will your belongings fit in the boot and second seat of Richard’s Topo?”

Being unable to suppress a giggle, she said, “Yes, it won’t be a problem. I don’t have that much stuff.”

“Then … see to it, Richard … bring her back in good time… no piddling about.”

Margaret Gregor watched the goings on in dismayed silence. She was thinking what Rosemary’s reaction to this outrageous affair would be when she telephoned this evening.

Rosemary will die … just die when she hears about this. A blond American who plays the drums … she’ll just lie down and die! And, she’ll blame me … she’ll say it was entirely my fault. “What if he marries her, a nightclub hussy, imagine the talk! His children would be half-breeds … not truly British at all … and having her to stay at the Manse … it’s indecent!” That’s what Rosemary will say.

Margaret thought all these things but wisely kept her mouth shut. Her father and brother paid no mind to propriety, especially her sister’s kind of propriety. Rosemary’s so called wisdom and good sense would once more be virtually ignored.

----

“Oh, lordy, Richard, what have I done?” Daisy shifted on the seat to better see him as he changed gears going down the drive. Since morning it had been drizzling on and off and as soon as they got in the car it began again. The stiff rubber wipers screeched and thumped as they arched a clear patch over the windshield. “Ordinarily I’m not an impulsive person. I like plenty of time to make up my mind. But, they needed someone right now … I felt I had to help.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, my girl. I’m very pleased that you’re staying. There’s an empty box in the boot if you need it. Do you pay for your room weekly or by the month?”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me. I pay by the week … I’ll stop in at Mrs. Bumstead’s, she’s the landlady, and tell her I’m leaving.”

It took less than forty-five minutes to gather up her clothes, books and whatnot and they were, again, splashing their way through the wet late spring evening.

While most of his attention was focused on the road trying to jockey the Topo into a busy traffic lane, Richard remembered to ask, “Do you mind if I take you by Mother’s before going back to the Manse? Don’t mind Alistair. I’ll call him and explain. She enjoyed your company yesterday and insisted I bring you by for a visit today.”

“I’d love to see your mother … just be sure you do call; I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”

“My dear girl … don’t you realize you hold the reins in this situation?”

“I would hardly say that, Richard. Miss Gregor was obviously shocked by my seemingly bohemian life-style. She may tell them I am unsuitable and shouldn’t be allowed to sully their work much less stay in their home.”

Richard threw back his head and laughed then quickly switched his attention back again to the slippery roadway. “Don’t cause me to wreck us! Margaret Gregor is a fool if she objects to you on those grounds! Now, I know what you’re going to say … ‘that is unkind’. Nevertheless, it’s true. She is harmless only because she parrots her sister, Rosemary. No one takes her seriously.”

“How sad for her … to ‘not be taken seriously’. Is she very miserable?”

“I have no idea. But, Cara McNally seems friendly enough. An obviously intelligent, attractive woman who should be good company. Her boy running around the place ought to keep things hopping to a degree. And, I hope for your sake, the text on the vets isn’t as dull as the author’s profess.”

“I think it probably is.”

Daisy hesitated a moment then said, “Speaking of your mother … she seems a bit lonely.”

“You think so? Mum’s alright … Dora’s with her most everyday … has lunch with other ladies once-in-awhile … watches the telly … reads.”

“Richard!!”

“What? … What’s the matter?” he looked in vain for the lorry that must be sliding across the road seconds from smashing them to bits or a bus crushing them from behind… his blood surged through his body like a tsunami.

An annoyed Daisy said, “Just think about it. What if that was you instead of your mother. Would your life be fulfilled with Dora for company everyday … having lunch out once-in-awhile and watching television?”

Steadying himself with an effort, Richard said with a bit of an edgy tone, “I don’t mean to be unsympathetic … she’s likely bored out of her mind. But, what am I to do about it?”

“I’m butting in, Richard … I’m sorry ... it’s none of my business.” Daisy sat staring straight ahead with her hands folded on her lap, her lips pressed tightly together.

He sighed. “You’re not butting in … you care about her. So do I, Daisy. Her life with my father, I’m sorry to say, was lonely and humiliating … he’s gone now so she’s just lonely. Her life is boring, to be sure, and I suppose I could be home more often and take her places she would enjoy.”

Daisy’s posture softened and she looked over at him. “You’re not responsible for your mother’s happiness … she is. She has to figure out what will make her happy and do it.”

“Where does all that wisdom come from? He asked quietly.”

“I’m quoting from an Ann Landers column in the Chicago Sun-Times. A smart woman with some ‘feminist’ leanings, I should think.”

“Mum … Daisy’s here for a short visit.”

“Oh, my dear … I am so pleased to see you. Come sit by the fire. Take her coat, darling. Shall we have coffee, tea or something a bit stronger?”

“Tell you what, Mum … let me pour you and Daisy some of that French wine we keep in the pantry served in those treasured crystal goblets you save for special occasions. I’ll be sticking to coffee … the roads are nasty and my blood pressure is rather dodgy this evening.” Richard smiled at his mother and winked at Daisy. “I’ll also make that call.” He turned and went down the back stairs to the kitchen.

“My goodness … this must be a grand occasion … Richard playing the gentleman host. Do tell me how the interview went.”

Daisy had just finished telling Mrs. Hamblin about the remarkable events of the afternoon when Richard trollied the refreshments through the door. “Sorry I took so long … not used to perking my own brew and had a hell of a time finding a corkscrew. Here we are … Mum … Daisy. Here’s to Daisy, her new occupation and opulent guest accommodations. And … here’s to Mum and me and our pleasure at having her company this summer.”

“Thank you … your toast was eloquently framed. Did you know, sir … that you are quite gifted? I mean … as a writer … not just your ‘raising of the glass’ speech. I’ve read your sports commentaries … they are good. I realize you use sports as the vehicle to communicate with readers. It’s my guess that you could get the better of any subject that caught your fancy. I may have to ask for your help on this book project I’ve committed to.”

Richard was pleased with her praise. He didn’t know what to say without sounding as if he wanted more applause. He gave what she said a moment’s thought. “You said ‘sports’ was a vehicle I used to communicate. Exactly … what does that mean?”

His mother said, “Darling … even I know what she means. You are too modest to admit how very talented you are.”

Actually, Richard did know how talented he was and he wasn’t modest at all. He wanted Daisy to continue talking about him.

Daisy said, “Sports writing is the instrument, if you will, that you have been using as self-expression. I express myself by playing the drums , teaching and butting into other folks affairs. You write about games … the personality and performance of the players … how the fans react … whether it was it dull or fantastic … you describe the action on the field and the interaction of the players. Being able to grasp the lapels of your readers and transport them into the stands … allowing them to experience the thrill of the moment, by the use of words, is a gift. You have this gift.”

“Oh, bravo, Daisy … beautifully said. Say thank you, Richard.”

“Thank you. Now, we’d better be off. I told Alistair I would have Daisy back at Hill Manse by eight.”