Purple Daffodils is a book of treasures. Small, short stories that sing to your heart; vignettes that squeeze profound thoughts from a few words.Take the first story as an example, about a son forced to his mother's will - "What do you want me to do?" His smile was a weak attempt to hide understanding. He put the bowl down on the sill and fished for a cigarette in the pocket of his jacket. Instead he felt the postage-sized envelope again and delicately pulled it out between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the damp square of paper, rubbed the round edges of its contents, and bit his lip. His exhale was soft. He forced air from his lungs in a slow draining leak and then looked at her. She'd given him the envelope after she'd learned about the cancer. He'd never had the courage to look inside.Or another that dances on the edge of good and evil on the 18th century English coast-Mrs. Otter added the name of one of her daughters to each page and signed. "They don't know their good fortune, Mrs. Findlay. And a fair enough wage compared to the earnings in a quarter here about." She cleared her throat. "But I'm not pleased with having the house half sent after. It's not to see clouds of course, but I'd much rather you passed the house share to one of my men. I'll send one along with the girls, and he can accept it."Or another that examines the loyalty of old friends -"They're going to burn and dump him."Harry sidled around Corky to block Willing's view and pushed. "Get a grip, will ya'? Irish has Bill's rig. He musta' jobbed him."A small man with pale, withered features was waiting in the knot of idle bodies for the soup tub to arrive. Harry clamped a big fist around the back of the man's neck and pulled him from the line. Nearly lifting him from his feet, Harry led the way towards the urinal where he forced the man to his knees."You got Bill's rig, Irish?" Corky bent over to look the man in the eye.The man swallowed apprehensively. "What's the deal, for Chrissake?""You jobbed him then. I want the picture." Corky knocked the small man's forehead with his knuckle. "Give it up or start bleedin'."Or another that asks if a failed marriage is really flight to freedom -Peter opened his palms flat onto the expanse of polished oak as if he was preparing himself for Misha's momentous news. Perhaps subconsciously he was. Her state of trauma was obvious. Tears had dripped down her cheeks and were falling to the desk. He passed her a tissue. When she accepted it and dabbed her eyes, he tugged another from the box, and with it erased the wet trace of her that had fallen from flesh to wood between his table lamp and pen stand.Or another about love secretly held -By then, Vergie was a slight woman of eight-four. She kept her wispy, white hair long enough to twist and tuck into a gossamer-thin snood held by large bobby pins at her temples. The stern hairstyle accentuated her high forehead and her large ears, but Vergie was habitual. She wore her hair that way all her life, and she'd stopped noticing her ears or the pulsing veins at her hairline. In the morning, when she inspected her bun construction in the mirror, it was always the back she concentrated on. To her I guess it was more important to be pretty going than coming. Her wardrobe consisted of taffeta summer dresses. She had six of them sewn from the same fabric, a tapestry of large, colourful tropical flowers floating on a blue trellis. She liked the material because in summer, when it was hot and sticky, she could wear the taffeta without undergarments.