The Doll by Daphne du Maurier Page A

it was all so very long ago. Uncle John had been part of the household now for years. He was useful to Mummy in a hundred ways. It was Uncle John who answered letters for Mummy and argued with tradesmen when the bills were too heavy. It was Uncle John who saw to the tickets on journeys and booked rooms at hotels. Although he did not actually live in the house, he was nearly always in to meals, and when he was not there for lunch or dinner, it meant that he had taken Mummy to a restaurant or to the theatre. It was Uncle John who had made Mummy buy so many new cars at different times, but of course he was a very good driver.
    Yes, Uncle John was useful to Mummy, and rather a dear – quite old, though; well over forty. Poor old Uncle John! What was it that one of the girls at the pension had said about him when they had passed through Paris in the summer, on their way to Cannes? ‘That your mother’s tame cat?’ What a good expression! Tame cat. Perhaps Uncle John was rather like a cat, a dear, harmless old tabby tom-cat, purring quietly in a corner, never showing his claws, lapping away peacefully at his saucer of milk. Well, he would carry their coats for them and take them to the theatre and act partner at dances – they were going to be so happy, she and Mummy and Uncle John.
    And now she was getting almost too excited to sit still. The cold dark evening did not matter; the stuffy Pullman car did not matter. The train was drawing near to Victoria. Her heart was thumping, and a little pulse beat in her temple. The great, friendly roar of London, the rumble of buses, the yellow light of shops bursting with Christmas decorations – if this was being grown up, then she was younger than she had ever been in her life, young with a hope born of inexperience, a glow within her bright as the unseen paradise. Now was the supreme moment, never equalled and never surpassed, as the train drew into Victoria.
    She stepped out on to the platform, eager, flushed, her eyes very bright and blue, her velvet beret on the side of her head. ‘Mummy, Mummy, darling, I’m so happy, so terribly happy to be back!’ But something had happened; something was wrong. Mummy was looking at her in astonishment, almost in dismay, and then as though she were angry, were afraid.
    ‘Baby – what on earth . . .’ she began, but her voice trailed off uncertainly, and then she laughed, a little too brightly, a little too gay. ‘You’ve done something to yourself, haven’t you?’ and, changing abruptly to a hard, careless tone: ‘I suppose you’ve got a mass of luggage. Go and cope with it, John. I’m freezing. I’ll wait in the car.’
    The girl watched her go, a little sick feeling of disappointment in her heart, and turned to the man who waited beside her, his hat in his hand, his eye on her face.
    ‘Hullo, Uncle John!’ But why must he stare like that, the old sleepy expression gone and a new one in its place, alert, beady, queer ?
    It was being so different from what she had expected. The breathless feeling of anticipation had fled, and in its place had come a horrid sense of staleness, almost of boredom. She felt lonely and shut within herself. It was something to do with Mummy. Mummy was not well; ever since she had come back from school Mummy had been cold, easily irritated, snappy with her.
    And she herself had taken so much trouble to please Mummy. She had been extra careful about her appearance, worn the new dress that suited her, chatted and laughed with Mummy’s friends as though she had been ‘out’ for years. They were charming to her, and made much of her, inviting her to dances, to week-ends, to house-parties, all the gaieties she had hoped for in the train. But now everything was spoilt, because Mummy was not pleased.
    From the very beginning, Mummy had been cold to her. The first morning, when they had gone to buy the evening dress, Uncle John in attendance, as usual, and she had wanted the lovely peach velvet with the low