Free After Such Kindness by Gaynor Arnold

me when I went down to the drawing room in the afternoons, or when we were out visiting or going to church. Nettie had done everything else, yet she had been dismissed on the instant.
    The more I tried to make sense of it all, the more nonsensical it seemed. The rules of life seemed arbitrary and cruel. It seemed that Mama and Papa had to be obeyed and honoured whatever they said or did, just as God had to be obeyed and honoured even when He allowed bad things to happen. I could not help feeling that it was a topsy-turvy arrangement, and that if I had charge of the world, I would make sure children would be listened to, and people like Nettie treated as they deserved. But of course I did not have charge of the world. I hardly had charge of myself.

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‌ JOHN JAMESON
    I feel that events are conspiring distinctly to my advantage. I am persona very definitely grata in the Baxter household since my adventure in the watery mud of the Cherwell. In fact, I can do no wrong. Even the supercilious Mrs Baxter cannot thank me enough. Not only did she send a note (rather over-scented with lavender) in her own hand to express her lifelong gratitude, but she also sent a gold propelling pencil engraved with my initials, and a brace of wood pigeon, which was deposited at the lodge with the porter and conveyed thence to the college kitchens to be prepared for a small supper in my rooms. It would have been bliss to share the repast with Daisy, and to see her delicate little face and grey eyes looking at me from across the table; but that is a bridge too far. Instead I sent an invitation to Smith-Jephcott (who occupies the rooms below me), and we passed a pleasant enough evening picking at the bones. After dinner, I showed him my new photographs and he was very complimentary. He said he particularly liked the one of Mrs Baxter reclining on the ground, and remarked that she seemed to be something of a sweet little pigeon herself – a comment which sickened me. I hardly felt inclined to show him the study of Daisy and her friends after that, but I was so proud of it I could not resist. He glanced at it rather carelessly, then passed over it without a word, giving his attention to the family group instead, and showing especial interest in Daisy’s sisters. ‘This may be your chance, Jameson,’ he said. ‘In a few years the eldest will be seriously marriageable.’ The man is an idiot, and a crass one. If it had been in my power, I would have turned him upside-down and shaken every scrap of pigeon out of him before kicking him downstairs.
    But even Smith-Jephcott’s coarseness cannot damp my good humour. I know it is not right to exult at the near-drowning of a little child, but I cannot help feeling it is Fate that I was on the spot when the nursemaid’s vigilance failed, and that my quick actions have endeared myself to the family in a way I could not otherwise have brought about. In addition, I find my dear child much more at liberty than formerly. The nursemaid has been sent away and no other has as yet replaced her, so the Baxters are only too grateful to me for entertaining her when I visit, which I now do every day. Daisy is still reserved with me, which is to be expected, but I know that I can win her round, and that it will not be too long before I see again that immediate and natural delight which flashed across her face when she unwrapped the parasol. That was an exquisite moment for me; a proof that I understood the things that made her happy. Which is more than her parents seem to do. I cannot help wondering what on earth possessed the Baxters to give their daughter such a dull and worthy present for her birthday. Daisy is far too young to be cultivating the heavy art of introspection by committing her daily doings to paper. She has only just ceased to be ten; she has no need of the discipline of self-examination. She needs to be free, to play and wander at will, and to read and listen to amusing stories – ones that will