Daisy Darker(22)

Hush, little baby, don’t you cry,

Sometimes we live, sometimes we die.’

Five-year-old Rose reaches into her pocket and takes out what looks like a baby mouse. Baby mice are born hairless and pink. They are born blind and deaf and helpless. The creature squirms as Rose holds its tail between her fingers and dangles it over the crib, before dropping it. The child inside – which I remember is me – starts to cry.

My sister rocks the crib and smiles, before raising a finger to her lips. ‘Shh.’ Then Rose walks out of shot.

I feel as though everyone is staring at me, but I don’t know what to say. I’d just been born. It isn’t as though I can remember the incident, or what happened next.

The tape ends abruptly, ejecting itself from the VCR player, and the TV screen displays nothing except white noise. We all exchange glances and unspoken thoughts about what we just saw, but before anyone can say anything, we hear footsteps in the hall. The door to the lounge bursts open, and thirty-four-year-old Rose reappears in the doorway, as though we have just witnessed some twisted form of time travel. She looks wet and wild and angry, and we all stare at her.

‘The boat has gone,’ she says, sounding breathless. ‘The rope attaching it to the jetty looked like it had been deliberately cut. We’re all stuck here until the tide goes back out.’





Twelve



31 October 12:45 a.m.

less than six hours until low tide

Everyone stares at Rose.

‘Why are you all looking at me like that?’

Lily smiles. ‘You just got caught.’

Rose takes a step back towards the door. ‘What?’

‘Putting a baby mouse in Daisy’s crib the first day they brought her home!’

Rose exhales, shakes her head as though relieved.

‘Rose was just a child. Children do strange things sometimes. There’s no need to drag up the past or upset anyone now. We have enough to deal with,’ says Nancy.

‘Yes, like a missing bloody boat,’ says Conor, storming out.

I glance around the lounge and can see that everyone looks just as upset and exhausted as I feel. The fear and sadness in the room is like something solid and real, binding us together even though we might rather be apart. Our grief gives us something in common. They all had reasons to be upset with Nana, and not just because of the will – she could be a difficult woman to love sometimes. But I’m sure nobody in this family would have wished her dead.

‘Rose is right, the boat is gone. It wasn’t even mine,’ Conor says, reappearing in the doorway.

‘Maybe you didn’t tie it to the jetty properly,’ my dad says.

Conor glares at him. ‘I tied it just fine. You heard Rose, the rope looks as though it has been cut.’

Dad nods. ‘Well, looks can be deceiving. It’s been a terrible night for us all, everyone is tired. I don’t think we should let our imaginations scare us into thinking what happened here tonight is anything more than it is: a tragic accident and a missing boat.’ He stands, a little wobbly on his feet I notice. Then he walks back over to the drinks trolley and pours himself another glass of whisky. Liquid anaesthetic to numb the pain.

‘And you wonder why we got divorced?’ mutters my mother beneath her breath, before tutting, which is one of her most favourite things to do.

‘Because I like whisky?’ he asks.

‘No, because you’re selfish. It doesn’t even occur to you that someone else might like a drink.’

Dad holds up the decanter. ‘There’s plenty for everyone.’

‘They don’t want whisky. Why don’t I make us all some tea? Including you. Clear heads are what is required.’

She leaves the room without asking who wants what. My mother has always been of the belief that a cup of tea can solve almost anything. Bad day at the office? Have a cup of tea. Struggling to pay the bills? Have a cup of tea. Find out that your husband is cheating on you with a twenty-year-old harpist? Cup. Of. Tea. She forgot my birthday once, but my mother never forgets how a person takes their tea. It’s oddly important to her. Although in our family it is pretty easy to remember – she is the only one of us who takes sugar. As soon as she leaves the room, my dad takes another large gulp of his Scotch.

‘What?’ he says, to nobody in particular. ‘My mother just died. I’m supposed to be upset and I’m allowed to have a bloody drink if I want to.’

No one argues with my father; it’s never been a good use of time. Arrogance always translates his opinions into facts inside his head.

Nancy returns with a tray, after being gone longer than expected. I see that she’s swapped her black silk pyjamas for a black roll-neck, cropped trousers and ballet pumps, one of her classic Hepburn ensembles. She’s put on some make-up too – thick black eyeliner and a little blusher. I suppose everyone deals with grief differently. Her blue-veined hands are visibly trembling, and the tray rattles as she sets it down on the coffee table. Everyone takes their own cup. They have our names on them – hand-painted by Nana – even Conor has his own.

‘Mum,’ Trixie whispers, ignoring the cup of tea placed in front of her. My niece has been quieter than normal, and I wish I could have protected her from all of this.

‘Mmm hmm,’ Lily says, without looking up.