Daisy Darker(21)

The image of my past wobbles as my father puts the camera down on the table, so that he can be in shot. He comes to stand next to my mother as she lays me in an old-fashioned baby crib, before rocking me back and forth. Dad has long, slightly shocking 1970s hair, and is wearing what looks like a comedy moustache and flared jeans. The other thing that is noticeably different from the man we know today is that he looks . . . happy. They both do.

I watch, transfixed, just like everyone else, as five-year-old Rose and four-year-old Lily are led into the room, each holding one of Nana’s hands. They are wearing matching yellow dresses covered in a pretty lemon print. I remember wearing the same dress myself a few years later, when it had faded from being washed so many times. My clothes were rarely new when I was a little girl; I only ever got to wear what Rose and Lily had grown out of. Rose’s hair is tied back in a high ponytail on the TV screen – almost exactly like the one she has now, with the same chunky fringe – while Lily has pigtails tied with yellow ribbons. My mother often dressed them like twins; there was only a ten-month age gap, so it wasn’t surprising. My sisters take it in turns to peer inside the crib and – unlike now – we really do look like a happy family.

‘This is all very sweet. But what are we going to do about the situation in the kitchen?’ asks Conor, interrupting the moment.

My father stares at him, as though he had forgotten Conor was here, then helps himself to a glass of whisky from the drinks trolley in the corner of the room. ‘What do you suggest we do about the situation?’ he asks Conor, before taking a large gulp.

‘Call the police.’

‘Here we go again,’ says Lily.

‘Why would we call the police? She was eighty,’ says Nancy.

Conor folds his arms. ‘Because I’m not convinced she died of natural causes.’

Dad laughs. ‘You think one of us did her in?’

‘Would you mind not suggesting such hateful things in front of Trixie,’ says Lily, opening a packet of cigarettes and lighting one. The things she says and does to protect her child are almost always outweighed by the things she says and does to hurt her. I notice that Lily’s fingers are trembling and wonder if it is the cold, or the need for nicotine, or something else causing it. Trixie seems not to have heard a thing, and is still staring at the home movie on the TV screen. ‘Besides, the landline doesn’t work and neither does my mobile. The tide won’t go back out for a few hours yet. So calling the coroner, the police, or anyone else will have to wait a while.’

‘I could take the boat, go and get help?’ Conor suggests.

‘No,’ says my father. ‘This is a family matter, and needs to be dealt with in a sensitive, private way.’

‘Conor might be right,’ says Rose, and everyone turns to stare at her. ‘It’s at least five hours until the tide goes out. We ought to report what has happened here tonight. I could go with him,’ she suggests, before turning to Conor. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ says Frank, playing the protective father card I never knew he’d been dealt. Nobody asks why.

‘Then maybe I could go alone?’ Rose suggests. ‘It might look a little bit strange if we don’t try to get help. It shouldn’t take me too long. If you don’t mind me borrowing the boat, Conor?’ He shrugs in agreement. My father nods at Rose and the matter is settled surprisingly quickly . . . almost as if they had rehearsed this whole exchange.

‘Why do you get to leave?’ Lily asks, taking another drag on her cigarette.

‘Because she’s barely touched a drink all night – unlike the rest of us – and Rose has always been the most sensible one in the family,’ Dad replies, without a second or third thought for anyone else in the room.

Lily rolls her eyes. ‘Thanks!’

‘Besides, you can’t row to save your life,’ adds Rose, looking at our sulking sister. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ she says before leaving the room.

‘She barely touched her food earlier,’ says my mother, when Rose is gone. ‘Has anyone else noticed how thin she has got? She hardly said anything to anyone all night, and she keeps looking at her watch—’

‘I expect she can’t wait to leave,’ Dad interrupts.

‘I know the feeling,’ says Nancy, as I sit down beside her on the sofa. She’s still watching the TV, hasn’t taken her eyes off it the entire time, and I see that my 1970s family are no longer on the screen. It’s just baby me, alone in my crib. My father must have forgotten to turn off the camera when this was filmed all those years ago.

‘Shall we stop watching this?’ asks Lily, reaching for the remote.

‘No, wait,’ I whisper as five-year-old Rose reappears in shot.

She looks over her shoulder, then creeps nearer to the crib. We all seem to lean closer to the TV, as little Rose leans down over the baby, before checking over her shoulder one last time. We hang off her every word as she sings a sweet-sounding lullaby.

‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,

Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

And if that diamond ring turns brass,

Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass.