Daisy Darker(12)

‘It’s really tough to find work at the moment,’ she says, using a wine glass as an ashtray.

‘It’s always harder to find things if you don’t look,’ Dad mutters, and everyone stares at him, including Lily.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, getting up from the table and leaving the room, presumably to check on Trixie, but also to have a little sulk upstairs, no doubt. My sister has always had chips on both shoulders and throws more tantrums than a toddler. I’m expecting Nana to ask whether I am still volunteering at the care home – it might not be exciting or earn money, but being kind has its own rewards, and I am proud of what I do. But my mother launches a new attack on my father before the conversation turns to me.

‘Why must you always be so hard on Lily? Bringing up children on your own isn’t easy, I should know,’ Nancy says, as soon as her favourite daughter is out of earshot. If looks could kill, my father would have been in the morgue some time ago. I’ve often wondered why my mother loves Lily the most. Perhaps because she sees herself when she looks at her – like a walking, talking mirror of youth, showing her who she used to be.

Dad tries not to take the bait, but bad habits are hard to break when you’ve got over thirty years of practice.

‘She’s not a child anymore, Nancy. She has a daughter of her own, though it’s no wonder she forgets so often when you have taken on the role of being mother to them both.’

‘Well, someone has to help our children. If we’d all gone off gallivanting around the world to follow our dreams, then—’

‘Help her? You smother her, always have. It’s no wonder she never learned to stand on her own two feet. She is what she is because of you.’

‘And what is that exactly?’

‘An entitled, spoilt, selfish, lazy, brain-dead bore of a woman, who still behaves like a child because you never stopped treating her like one. She cares more about her looks than her own daughter. And she’s still completely irresponsible with money that isn’t her own, because she has never lifted one of her manicured fingers to earn any.’

Lily appears in the doorway.

She clearly heard every word.

Nobody knows what to say.

The silence that follows isn’t just awkward, it’s painful. We all watch as Lily walks past the kitchen table towards the fridge, then opens the door as though searching inside for answers. When she can’t find any, she opens another bottle of white wine instead.

All families experience conflict. Whether it is between husbands and wives, parents and children, or siblings, it’s as normal as day turning into night. But unresolved conflict spreads like a cancer in human relationships, and sometimes there’s no cure. Despite everything, I still have some happy memories of us all together, tucked away inside the folds and creases that forced us apart. We weren’t always the us we are now. It’s Nana who I feel most sorry for. She’s made such an effort to create a lovely evening for everyone and, as usual, my family has found a way to ruin it. ‘Who would like some early birthday cake and champagne?’ she asks, with a weak smile.

‘Me!’ I say, raising my hand and trying to defuse the tension, for now at least.

I notice that Rose has barely said a word all night. She speaks when spoken to, but only offers short, succinct replies. I might have been the baby of the family once upon a time, but I find myself frequently worrying about my eldest sister. It’s a special kind of love that holds families together, even dysfunctional ones. Our love is like an intrinsically woven net made from a million memories and shared moments. The knots in the net are tight, but there are holes, just big enough for all of us to slip through if caught the wrong way.

The weather outside has worsened, providing a soundtrack of rain tapping at the windows, and the candles sometimes flicker when the wind howls. My mother and Rose help to clear the table, before Nana reveals one of her famous homemade chocolate cakes, and takes her favourite champagne saucers out of the cupboard. They look like they’re from the 1920s, because they are. Dad does the honours, expertly opening the bottle as though he does it every day, and Nana stands up, holding her glass and looking like she might make one of her speeches.

‘I just want to thank you all for coming to Seaglass to help celebrate my birthday tomorrow. It means the world to me to have the whole family here together, and you’ve made an old woman very happy. Eighty is going to be a big birthday for me, and if the palm reader in Land’s End was right, it might be my last! You are the only people I wanted to spend it with. Here’s to the Darker family,’ she says, raising her glass.

‘The Darker family,’ everyone repeats, almost in unison, before Nana continues.

‘I also want to thank Amy and Ada, for providing us with a delicious dinner tonight.’

‘Who the hell are Amy and Ada? I thought she cooked the meal,’ Dad whispers to Rose, taking another sip of champagne.

‘The chickens,’ Rose whispers back. ‘She named them after Amy Johnson and Ada Lovelace, two of her favourite inspirational women, remember?’

Frank almost chokes as Nana continues.

‘Amy sadly passed away on Monday. And Ada died three days later. An act of widowhood if ever I saw it. That little chicken died of a broken heart . . .’ I feel as though the whole room stares in my direction again when she says that, and glance down at my hands.