Daisy Darker(2)
Sometimes people think I’m younger than my years. I’ve been accused of still dressing like a child on more than one occasion – my mother has never approved of my choice in clothes – but I like wearing dungaree dresses and retro T-shirts. I’d rather wear my long black hair in intricate braids than get it cut, and I’m clueless when it comes to make-up. I think I look good, considering all the bad things that have happened to me. The only visual proof of my condition is carved down the middle of my chest in the form of a faded pink scar. People used to stare if I wore something that revealed it: bathing suits, V-neck sweaters or summer dresses. I never blamed them. I stare at it too sometimes; the mechanics of my prolonged existence fascinate me. That pink line is the only external evidence that I was born a little bit broken. Every couple of years during my slightly dysfunctional childhood, doctors would take it in turns to open me up again, have a look inside, and do a few repairs. I’m like an old car that probably shouldn’t still be on the road, but has been well looked after. Though not always and not by everyone.
Families are like fingerprints: no two are the same and they tend to leave their mark. The tapestry of my family has always had a few too many loose threads. It was a little frayed around the edges long before I arrived, and if you look closely enough, you might even spot a few holes. Some people aren’t capable of seeing the beauty in imperfection, but I always loved my nana, my parents and my sisters. Regardless of how they felt about me, and despite what happened.
My nana is the only person in my family who loved me unconditionally. So much so, she wrote a book about me, or at least about a little girl with the same name. If mine sounds familiar, that is why. Daisy Darker’s Little Secret is a bestselling children’s book, which my nana wrote and illustrated. It can be found in almost every bookstore around the world, often nestled between The Gruffalo and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Nana said she chose to borrow my name for the story so that – one way or another – I could live forever. It was a kind thing to do, even if my parents and sisters didn’t think so at the time. I suspect they wanted to live forever too, but they settled for living off the book’s royalties instead.
Nana had more money than she knew what to do with after writing that book, not that you’d know it to look at her. She has always been a generous woman when it comes to charity and strangers, but not with herself or her family. She believes that having too much makes people want too little, and has always hesitated when asked for handouts. But that might be about to change. Many years ago, long before I was born, a palm reader at a fair in Land’s End told my nana that she wouldn’t live beyond the age of eighty. She’s never forgotten it. Even her agent knows not to expect any more books. So tomorrow isn’t just Halloween, or Nana’s eightieth birthday. She thinks it’s her last, and they think they might finally get their hands on her money. My family haven’t all been in the same place at the same time for over a decade, not even for my sister’s wedding, but when Nana invited them to Seaglass one last time, they all agreed to come.
Her home on the Cornish coast was the setting for my happiest childhood memories. And my saddest. It was where my sisters and I spent every Christmas and Easter, as well as the long summer holidays after my parents got divorced. I’m not the only one with a broken heart in my family. I don’t know whether my parents, or my sisters, or even Nana’s agent take the palm reading about her imminent death seriously, but I do. Because sometimes the strangest things can predict a person’s future. Take me and my name, for example. A children’s book called Daisy Darker’s Little Secret changed my family forever and was a premonition of sorts. Because I do have a secret, and I think it’s time I shared it.
Two
30 October 2004 – 4 p.m.
Seeing Seaglass again steals my breath away.
It normally takes at least five hours to drive from London to Cornwall, slightly less by train. But I always enjoyed swapping the hustle and bustle of the city for a network of twisted memories and country lanes. I prefer a simpler, slower, quieter way of living, and London is inherently loud. Navigating my way back here has often felt like time travel, but my journey today has been quicker than expected and relatively pain free. Which is good, because I wanted to get here first. Before the others.
I’m pleased to see that nothing much has changed since my last visit. The stone Victorian house with its gothic turrets and turquoise tiled roof appears to have been built from the same granite rocks it sits on. Pieces of blue-green glass still decorate some of the exterior walls, sparkling in the sunlight and gifting Seaglass its name. The mini mansion rises out of the crashing waves that surround it, perched upon its own tiny private island, just off the Cornish coast. Like a lot of things in life, it’s hard to find if you don’t know where to look. Hidden by crumbling cliffs and unmarked footpaths, in a small cove known locally as Blacksand Bay, it’s very much off the beaten track. This is not the Cornwall you see on postcards. But aside from the access issues, there are plenty of other reasons why people tend to stay away.
My nana inherited Seaglass from her mother – who allegedly won it from a drunken duke in a card game. The story goes that he was an infamous bon viveur, who built the eccentric building in the 1800s to entertain his wealthy friends. But he couldn’t hold his liquor, and after losing his ‘summer palace’ to a woman, he drowned his sorrows and himself in the ocean. Regardless of its tragic past, this place is as much a part of our family as I am. Nana has lived here since she was born. But despite never wanting to live anywhere else, and making a small fortune writing children’s books, she has never invested much in home improvements. As a result, Seaglass is literally falling into the sea and, like me, it probably won’t be around much longer.