The Beast by Hugh Fleetwood Page B

apparently no more than comfortably off, and certainly not as wealthy as some of the red and cheerful local farmers’ wives—nor even, possibly, as wealthy as Daisy herself. It wasn’t that she had travelled so much and had all that mixture of foreign blood in her veins; Daisy in her way had travelled quite a bit, and had always enjoyed meeting foreigners and comparing, as it were, notes with them. It wasn’t even that the diamond on her finger was perhaps—though Daisy couldn’t be certain, never havinghad the chance to examine it closely, and not being able to ask—the one perfect gem she had always dreamed of seeing. No, it wasn’t any of these things.
    And yet, and yet … Whenever Mrs Menon came into the shop there was just something about her, something indefinable, but something that seemed to proclaim, with unbearable smugness: ‘Of course I’ve made compromises, of course I’m not perfect, and of course, if you like, I’m false to the tips of my fingers; but the world being what it is, and life being what it is, I’ve done the best I can, and had the best there is, and I’ve enjoyed myself and would do it all again if I could’, which so upset and crushed Daisy that, convinced though she was the woman was wrong—was utterly and wickedly wrong—she couldn’t help but feel that a poisonous little animal had slithered into her brain, and was hissing at her, and whispering to her of waste …
    ‘It’s about Rachel. She told me she’d come in to see you the other day.’
    ‘Yes. She did. She often does.’
    Mrs Menon ignored that; she clearly had no time to spare.
    ‘Did she come to see you on purpose?’
    ‘She didn’t come by accident.’
    Mrs Menon just suppressed a sigh. ‘The thing is that Rachel has a few rings and trinkets of her own. Not many, and not particularly good. In fact they’re pretty cheap. But I have a feeling she might be trying to sell them, and when she said she’d been to see you, I wondered if she’d offered them to you. You would, I suppose, be the logical person to come to.’
    Daisy’s first reaction was not to reply to this; but since the woman was obviously not going to move until she did,and Daisy wanted to get her out of the shop as quickly as possible, she eventually said, as firmly as possible, ‘She offered me nothing.’
    ‘Well if she does, don’t buy anything.’ Mrs Menon hesitated, as if uncertain whether to add more. But then, as if she had forgotten Daisy’s presence altogether, and simply wanted to speak her thoughts aloud, she went on ‘She’s fallen in love with some damned South American refugee. He’s an anarchist or a communist or something, and is both unstable and, I suspect, dangerous. He writes poetry, and tells Rachel that I’m the ultimate bourgeois monster, or some such rubbish. Well, I don’t give a damn about that, but I do care that he’s trying to persuade Rachel to leave university and go away with him somewhere . Hence her attempts to raise money. So if she does come in—just tell her no, and get in touch with me please.’ Mrs Menon stared at Daisy. ‘My God, I’d never have believed a child of mine could be an idiot. But I expect it’ll blow over soon, and—oh well, take care of yourself Daisy.’
    She left as abruptly as she had come.
    Daisy watched her disappear down the street; and as she did so the old woman realized she was trembling. So that was what was wrong! Oh, it was wonderful! She didn’t know anything about South American communists or anarchists—that was Mrs Menon exaggerating, she suspected—but she did know something about Rachel. And if Rachel, to save herself, had to leave university and run away with a poet—well then, let her run. Let her run, Daisy wanted to shriek—and if she could do anything to help—oh, she prayed that she could. She prayed that she could …
    She could, and she did. Two weeks later, early one morning, she was still upstairs when she heard her doorbell ring. And when