hands, raised her eyes again, looked directly, deeply, and with the most terrible appeal—terrible because she knew it was unanswerable?—at Daisy and murmured, with just the faintest smile, ‘Oh, I’m all right, Daisy, really,’ the old woman thought she would faint with joy.
Obviously the girl wasn’t all right; if she had been she would never have been tempted into that retreat into falsehood earlier. But at least she was aware of the danger that this not being all right put her into—the danger of banishing herself into the wilderness of lies—and just to be aware of it was the main thing; the one thing that would, if anything could, protect her and keep her safe.
Daisy nodded, put out her hand and squeezed Rachel’s, that was still lying on the counter, and said—putting into her words every promise of help, if help were possible, and every evidence of understanding of what would probably never be explained to her—‘I’m very glad, dear’; and then, since there was really nothing more she could do or say, went on to ask how Rachel was enjoying university, and how her studies were going, and was she planning on going abroad this summer …
Until she had, as it were, discovered Rachel Menon, the one great passion of Daisy’s life had been jewels; and in fact her love and aspirations for Rachel had in no wayaffected or abated this passion. Ever since the age of sixteen when, on her mother’s death, she had come as a thin ugly girl to work for her thin ugly father in this dark little shop on the High Street of an English country town, she had found in jewels all that other people found in husbands, lovers, children or whatever. And she had never felt—or almost never—that jewels were a substitute for any of these other things that people claimed to live for; on the contrary, she felt that they were a substitute for jewels, and the fact that she had never, even remotely, had the chance of having either husband or children was entirely due to the fact that she had never, even remotely, wanted either. Up to the age of sixteen she had been a poor, witless creature, to all intents and purposes deaf, dumb and blind, aware neither of the world, other people, nor of herself. But the second she had come to work in the shop—ah, suddenly she had found the path that led straight to the centre of the universe: a path that most people, she believed, threshed around looking for nearly all their lives and, aside from making themselves miserable in the attempt, hardly ever found. Yet she had found it at the age of sixteen, and for more than fifty years now had been walking directly down it. And as she had walked down that diamond-studded, pearl-studded, ruby-emerald-and sapphire-studded track, she had slowly (also by observing the changing landscape on either side, observing it for the most part through the windows of that dark little shop) learned the ways of the world; learned them, she was again convinced, more completely than most other people, who never knew where to look and were continually being sidetracked . Other people went to the theatre or read books; she gazed at her jewels. Other people went on holidays to exotic places; she (though she closed her shop for a weekevery September to stop people coming in and saying ‘Daisy dear, you know you must take a break’) gazed at her jewels. Other people went home in the evening to talk and laugh and have sex, or to sit alone and feel wretched. She went upstairs to the little flat over the shop, that had remained virtually unaltered since her father had died forty-three years ago; and, having eaten and done the housework, turned on the radio (to learn, in a very superficial manner, what was going on) and gazed—in order to know what was really going on—at her jewels; at those few special gems that had come into her hands during the years and with which she wouldn’t have parted for anything . Her jewels had made her literate, her jewels had made her joyful,
Obviously the girl wasn’t all right; if she had been she would never have been tempted into that retreat into falsehood earlier. But at least she was aware of the danger that this not being all right put her into—the danger of banishing herself into the wilderness of lies—and just to be aware of it was the main thing; the one thing that would, if anything could, protect her and keep her safe.
Daisy nodded, put out her hand and squeezed Rachel’s, that was still lying on the counter, and said—putting into her words every promise of help, if help were possible, and every evidence of understanding of what would probably never be explained to her—‘I’m very glad, dear’; and then, since there was really nothing more she could do or say, went on to ask how Rachel was enjoying university, and how her studies were going, and was she planning on going abroad this summer …
Until she had, as it were, discovered Rachel Menon, the one great passion of Daisy’s life had been jewels; and in fact her love and aspirations for Rachel had in no wayaffected or abated this passion. Ever since the age of sixteen when, on her mother’s death, she had come as a thin ugly girl to work for her thin ugly father in this dark little shop on the High Street of an English country town, she had found in jewels all that other people found in husbands, lovers, children or whatever. And she had never felt—or almost never—that jewels were a substitute for any of these other things that people claimed to live for; on the contrary, she felt that they were a substitute for jewels, and the fact that she had never, even remotely, had the chance of having either husband or children was entirely due to the fact that she had never, even remotely, wanted either. Up to the age of sixteen she had been a poor, witless creature, to all intents and purposes deaf, dumb and blind, aware neither of the world, other people, nor of herself. But the second she had come to work in the shop—ah, suddenly she had found the path that led straight to the centre of the universe: a path that most people, she believed, threshed around looking for nearly all their lives and, aside from making themselves miserable in the attempt, hardly ever found. Yet she had found it at the age of sixteen, and for more than fifty years now had been walking directly down it. And as she had walked down that diamond-studded, pearl-studded, ruby-emerald-and sapphire-studded track, she had slowly (also by observing the changing landscape on either side, observing it for the most part through the windows of that dark little shop) learned the ways of the world; learned them, she was again convinced, more completely than most other people, who never knew where to look and were continually being sidetracked . Other people went to the theatre or read books; she gazed at her jewels. Other people went on holidays to exotic places; she (though she closed her shop for a weekevery September to stop people coming in and saying ‘Daisy dear, you know you must take a break’) gazed at her jewels. Other people went home in the evening to talk and laugh and have sex, or to sit alone and feel wretched. She went upstairs to the little flat over the shop, that had remained virtually unaltered since her father had died forty-three years ago; and, having eaten and done the housework, turned on the radio (to learn, in a very superficial manner, what was going on) and gazed—in order to know what was really going on—at her jewels; at those few special gems that had come into her hands during the years and with which she wouldn’t have parted for anything . Her jewels had made her literate, her jewels had made her joyful,
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