Daisy Darker(53)

Trixie shivers. ‘Why is it always so cold here?’

‘I’ll put another log on the fire,’ says Lily, standing up and crossing the room. She stares down at the log basket, and I wonder whether she is scared of breaking one of her manicured nails. ‘There’s another one,’ she whispers, not moving.

‘Another what?’ asks Conor, coming to stand by her side. He slowly bends down, reaches inside the basket and takes out a VHS tape. ‘This wasn’t here before, I’d have seen it,’ he says, looking around the room at each of us.

‘What does it say?’ asks Rose.

Conor holds the tape up so we can all see the Scrabble letters stuck to its cover:

NOTICE ME.

‘I vote we burn it—’ Lily says.

‘No!’ Rose interrupts. ‘What if this tape reveals what is really going on? What if we never find out the truth if we don’t watch it?’

‘You said that last time,’ Lily replies. ‘Don’t you get it? Someone is trying to mess with our heads, and by going along with it, we’re just making things worse.’

‘I’d like to watch it. It’s fun seeing you all when you were younger,’ says Trixie.

‘I said no!’ Lily snaps and Trixie stares at her.

‘It’s not her fault,’ I say.

‘I think we should watch it too,’ says Rose. ‘I want to understand what is happening, and what else are we going to do?’

Lily looks around the room, waiting for someone to take her side, but none of us do. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Do what you want, you will anyway.’

Conor slots the tape into the machine, then picks up the remote control before sitting down next to Rose at the back of the room. I sit on the floor, next to Poppins, just like I did when she was still a puppy. Dogs are much more comforting to be around than humans.

The home movie starts with a shot of Nancy’s garden at the back of Seaglass. It looks like summer, and the flowers are more spectacular than I remember them being. I subtly look over my shoulder, and see that Trixie and Lily are staring at the screen. But Rose and Conor are now sitting very close together. They are whispering – for Trixie’s benefit, I suppose – but I can just about make out their words.

‘If this were a murder mystery, then the killer would be the least likely suspect,’ Conor says.

I look back at the TV, pretend I can’t hear them.

‘You don’t think that Daisy . . .’ Rose whispers.

‘No. That’s crazy,’ Conor replies, and I feel a strange sense of relief, followed by a rush of anger. The sound of waves crashing on the rocks outside seems to get louder in my head, along with the ticking clocks in the hallway. Having a broken heart doesn’t mean I am incapable of breaking someone else’s.





Twenty-seven



SEAGLASS – 1984

The weather at Seaglass is always a bit hit-and-miss, especially in summer. Blacksand Bay seems to have its own microclimate, blissfully unaware of the seasons. But my family were very good at being very British, come rain or shine. If the calendar said that it was summer, we would all play outside wearing shorts and T-shirts, even if it was snowing.

The home movie on the ancient TV now proves that the sun did sometimes shine at Seaglass. The wobbly shot reveals a blue sky over a lush garden, a makeshift stage consisting of a navy upside-down rowing boat, and some chairs on the lawn. Nancy appears in the doorway at the back of the house, looking stunning in a white blouse, belted skirt and silk scarf, just like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. She’s smiling. A lot. It’s surreal to see. The camera moves closer, then ducks behind a large plant. Whoever filmed this was spying on our mother.

A man appears beside her on the terrace. He’s smiling too. At first, I think it’s my dad. But as the camera zooms in, I realize it isn’t. It’s Conor’s. Mr Kennedy helped Nancy to completely redesign the garden at the back of Seaglass, landscaping what was already there, as well as planting new flowers and a pretty magnolia tree. She loved that tree and would often sit on the bench beneath it. Nana said it was a symbol of what friendship and hope can achieve, and how helping to make others happy can make you happy too. Nancy and Conor’s dad sit down side by side, moving their chairs a little closer together on the lawn. I think they had been ‘friends’ for about a year by then.

My sisters and I were putting on a play, just like we did most summers at Seaglass, and the empty chairs for the ‘audience’ were filled with teddy bears and dolls. I don’t remember how or when the annual Darker family plays started. Like most family traditions, it became something we always did simply because it was something we had always done.

Dad’s piano had been wheeled out onto the lawn, with some considerable team effort. That would have made him cross, which is perhaps why my mother let us do it. She loved to see us singing, or dancing or acting. Nothing seemed to bring her more joy. Nancy loved all things theatrical. She always helped with the costumes and the choreography, and was our most enthusiastic member of the audience, whooping and cheering while Nana and Mr Kennedy just clapped. I remember that was the first year my sisters allowed me to have a speaking role. Rose and Conor were fourteen, Lily was thirteen, and I was nine.

The fabric of the relationship with my sisters has been repeatedly stretched, torn and restitched over the years. A patchwork quilt of antiquated love and lies, born out of duty and expectation. We are supposed to love our family. It’s an unspoken rule. Whenever I see pictures of other families, their happy faces all covered in matching smiles, I find myself wondering whether it is real. Or if the happiness they’re portraying is simply a mask worn for the sake of others. Surely all families have fights, and disagreements and conflict . . . maybe the way we were with one another was more normal than I thought. We all have our own version of the truth, and it is rarely whole.