The Snow Globe by Judith Kinghorn

“I shall have to tellMrs. Jessop to delay luncheon until one thirty . . . though she won’t be happy, and your father so hates meals to be late.”
    â€œWell, he’s not the bloody king!”
    Mabel shot her a look.
    â€œSorry.”
    Mabel moved over to the table, picked up the branch of holly and stared at it for a moment. Then she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped it over the table’s polished surface and left the room, taking Daisy’s holly with her.

    It was almost two o’clock by the time the newly swelled family assembled in the dining room and sat down to Mrs. Jessop’s rabbit fricassee with dumplings as hard as the ice outside. Looking down the long linen-covered table—newly festooned with arrangements of berried holly, eucalyptus and ivy, each one as evenly spaced as the three candelabra—Mabel apologized for the
unavoidable delay
. Howard sighed, pushing the hardened lumps to one side of his plate. And Noonie said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mabel. I’ve decided to stop eating meat . . . because of my
teeth
,” she added in a loud whisper, and offering her daughter a clenched smile, she revealed her new false teeth.
    Miles, as usual, monopolized the conversation, his booming voice louder than ever as he went on and on about his work at the bank and interest rates and the likelihood of a promotion: January, he thought. How Lily put up with him Daisy did not know, but Lily had always wanted to marry a banker, as though they had unlimited access to the vaults. Their wedding present from Howard had beena three-bedroom house in Putney, from which Miles could easily commute by train into the city. Lily’s life was made up of tennis and bridge, shopping, afternoon calls and at homes, emulating—albeit on a different scale—something of her mother’s and grandmother’s lives. She simply lacked the imagination for anything else, Daisy thought.
    They would have a typically suburban life, Iris had said, and she’d predicted that Miles would probably one day keep a mistress in some shabby part of town. “It’s the sort of thing bankers do,” she’d added.
    â€œAre you still a socialist, Dosia?” asked Miles now.
    She must get so bored of that question, Daisy thought. But before Dosia could reply, Howard intervened. “Miles . . . please. No politics at luncheon.”
    There then followed some discussion about Daisy’s pallor, initiated by Mabel, who said, “You really are awfully pale, dear . . . are you still feeling under the weather?”
    â€œNo, I am not feeling
under the weather
,” Daisy replied, unintentionally sharp—and glancing over at Ben Gifford.
    â€œShe’s certainly taken on the hue of the weather,” Iris suggested.
    â€œOr the hue of the Christmas tree,” added Lily, smiling at Miles.
    â€œGreen!” said Noonie. “The girl’s quite green, Mabel.”
    â€œFresh air’s what’s needed,” declared Dosia, standing up to reach over and fork Howard’s dumplings. “Young girls these days don’t get enough of it. Of course, I’ve always slept with my window wide open, even in winter, and have never had a problem with my cycle.”
    â€œDoes Dosia keep a bicycle in her bedroom at London?” Noonie quietly asked Mabel.
    Daisy tried to smile. She pushed her food about—arranging and rearranging it in different locations on the patterned Crown Derby, lifting only the tiniest of morsels to her mouth. It was the smell, she thought, that made her feel so nauseous. But her head continued to pound, and in truth, she felt worse than ever.
    When pudding arrived, a hitherto silent Howard raised a hand and declined peach melba, but Noonie took his
and
hers, saying, “Peaches! I could live for all eternity on tinned peaches!” Howard then pushed back his chair and rose to