Daisy Darker(49)

‘Stay there, both of you,’ Nancy ordered.

She got out of the spotlessly clean Mini and tutted at the state of Conor’s dad’s blue Volvo. It was so dirty, I couldn’t read the number plate, even though we were parked right behind it.

‘He’s going to kill someone driving drunk along that cliff road one day,’ she muttered, and I watched, with my face pressed against our car window, as Nancy marched up to Conor’s house. I started whispering under my breath, waiting for my mother to strike like lightning.

One Mississippi . . . Two Mississippi . . . Three Mississippi . . .

I didn’t have long to wait.

‘Open this door,’ Nancy yelled, banging her fist on it. ‘My mother-in-law might have been taken in by you, but I know people like you never change. You are a disgrace of a man. Your son is sitting in my car looking broken, and I thought you might want to say goodbye before I take him back to Seaglass and make sure you never see him or hurt him again.’

Nancy had fallen for Conor by then, just like the rest of the women in the Darker family. We all wanted to protect him. It was instinct. Not something any of us thought to question, or knew how to explain. Like if you found an abandoned puppy: you couldn’t help wanting to protect him and give him a home.

I looked at Conor but he just stared at the floor of the car, his hands forming two little fists in his lap. The cottage door opened, and I could feel my heart beating so fast I thought it might burst right out of my chest. Then a man I didn’t recognize appeared in the doorway.

He looked like Conor’s dad, but at the same time, he didn’t. The man I had seen before was all too often a skinny, smelly, dirty man with torn clothes, a beard and long hair. This man stood tall with his head held high. His hair was neatly cut, his face was cleanly shaved. He’d put on weight, looked as though he’d been working out, and was dressed in clean clothes. I remember that his trousers and shirt seemed to have a ridiculous number of pockets and I wondered what he kept in them all. He folded his tanned arms and smiled. The world seemed topsy-turvy, as my mother – who thought she was the hero of this particular story – appeared to be in the wrong, while the baddie had become a calm, well-mannered, good-looking man.

‘Hello, Mrs Darker,’ he said, before inviting us all inside.

It turned out that Conor’s dad hadn’t started drinking again. Or hitting his son. I watched while he very slowly made some tea. He looked like a man who had never been in a hurry to do anything or get anywhere his whole life. Despite the slow motion, Mr Kennedy had very much got his life back on track, and was working as head gardener at a National Trust property a few miles away. That sounded good to me, but Conor said his dad was always careless with jobs and often lost them. Even before his mother died.

It turned out that Conor had been a little bit careless himself. He was getting into trouble at school, and was in a fight with a boy three years older than him that day. I found out later that the boy had been spreading rumours about Lily and Rose, and Conor was defending them. Lily – who loved Easter because of all the chocolate – had promised to give some of the local boys a peek inside her panties in exchange for an egg. The bigger the egg, the longer they got to look. She was eleven years old. That was just the start of my sister getting a name for herself for all the wrong reasons in Blacksand Bay. My mother, thankfully, never found out the truth.

Conor’s dad opened a first-aid kit, cleaned up his son’s face, then served us all tea and biscuits in the kitchen. The house was just as clean and tidy as the man who owned it, and it was a surreal experience to see my mother lost for words. Even stranger to hear her apologize.

‘I’m so sorry, I just thought that—’

‘It’s okay, I would have thought the same thing,’ Mr Kennedy said with a polite smile. ‘I was broken after my wife passed away, and I’m sorry for all the things your family had to see. That wasn’t me, at least not the real me. I’m still grieving, but I feel more like myself again now. I’m so grateful for everything that your mother-in-law did for me – and my son – when times were tough. I’ve even started writing about it.’

‘A book?’

‘Maybe. I haven’t decided and I don’t know if it’s good enough yet, but writing about it – the overwhelming grief, the drink, all of it – helps me to process what I became. And if sharing that experience – as awful as it was – might help others to not take the same path, or find a way back if they already have, then maybe . . .’ He turned to Conor. ‘I hope you thanked Mrs Darker for bringing you home?’

‘It’s fine, and I’ve told him to call me Nancy, so you should do the same.’

‘I’ve always liked the name Nancy. Perhaps we could start over? I’m Bradley, it’s good to meet you.’ He held out his hand, and my mother blushed when she shook it.

‘I didn’t know you were a gardener,’ she said, taking a sip of tea, anything to keep her hands busy and out of reach. ‘Maybe you could give me some advice for the little patch of land at the back of Seaglass?’

‘I’d be happy to.’

She blushed again. ‘My mother-in-law was going to invite Conor to visit us on Easter Sunday. My older girls are home from school, and it’s nice for them to spend time with someone their own age. Maybe you could join us too . . . if you’re free?’