Daisy Darker(65)

They decided to cook together one night – a meal for the whole family – and chose to use one of Nana’s recipes for spaghetti bolognaise. I wasn’t allowed to help them at all, for reasons I didn’t understand, but I watched from the doorway. When Lily shouted at me for the tenth time to go away, I sulked in the garden. Rose did almost all of the cooking: chopping onions, carrots, garlic and chilli, adding all the herbs to the meat, tomatoes and stock. She grated cheese and – because this was one of Nana’s recipes – had a bowl of hundreds and thousands ready to sprinkle on top. All Lily did was open a packet of dried spaghetti and pour some boiling water over it in a saucepan.

We sat down in our individually painted chairs when dinner was served, but I didn’t take a bite. Instead I just waited. My mother put a fork full of spaghetti into her mouth and spat it out seconds later. My father swallowed his, but then drank an entire glass of water. Nobody took more than one bite. I’d helped with the meal after all, adding a full jar of hot chilli powder and a bottle of hot chilli sauce to the spaghetti. Lily blamed Rose, and Rose blamed Lily. I think only Nana guessed that it was me.

Apart from the occasional sibling-shaped squabble, we were happier than we had ever been before. But not everyone was pleased to see the Darker family reunited. It was the beginning of the end for Nancy and Mr Kennedy. He was furious about the new living arrangements and didn’t hide it well. He stayed away from Seaglass the entire time that my dad was there. Days turned into weeks, and weeks stretched into months. Nancy’s garden was neglected, the flowers faded, wilted and died. But she barely noticed.

During that time while my dad recovered, we were like a real family again. We spent time together playing board games (Cluedo was a firm favourite), went for walks along the coast, and watched old movies. Dad – unable to play his beloved piano – completed lots of jigsaw puzzles with just the one hand. And Nana cooked a lot of her ‘special chicken soup’. It was what she made whenever one of us was ill. The secret ingredient was mashed banana, and the soup was always served with home-made crusty bread slathered in Nutella.

We were a real happy family for a while, and I thought we might stay that way forever. Christmas in 1987 was very much a Darker family affair, and everyone was a little more grateful for what we all had. Not that the sentiment lasted . . . gratitude tends to go off quicker than milk in our house.





Thirty-three



31 October 3:30 a.m.

less than three hours until low tide

‘We need to get Nancy inside,’ says Conor. ‘We can’t leave her out here in the rain.’

I realize I have drifted back in time again. Life feels a bit like a movie at the moment. Maybe when the present is too painful, it’s only natural to disappear inside flashbacks of happier times. It reminds me of something Nana used to say: if you spend your present focusing on your past, you will never change your future.

‘Why is someone doing this to us?’ Lily asks again, and Rose is the only one to answer.

‘We need to keep it together for just a couple more hours until low tide. You and Trixie are going to be okay. Do you hear me?’ Lily looks more vacant than usual. ‘Lily, do you hear me?’ She still doesn’t answer. ‘Do me a favour and go inside. I want you to find your diabetic kit and check your blood sugar. We all need to be well enough to leave when the tide goes out.’

‘Okay,’ says Lily. She looks like a person who has had their plug pulled out, and is surviving on a dwindling battery. ‘Can you wait a couple of minutes before you bring Nancy indoors? I don’t want Trixie to see her like this – she’s already seen far more than she should have tonight – I’ll get her back into the lounge and keep her there while you do whatever you have to do.’

Rose nods and Lily walks towards the doorway, where Trixie is waiting. Then Rose stares down at the small bouquet tied to Nancy’s hand. ‘I sometimes think our mother named us all after flowers because that’s what she wished we were. Flowers are much easier to pick, and arrange, and cut down to size than daughters.’

I can tell I’m not the only one who thinks that was a strange thing to say given the circumstances. Conor looks equally puzzled.

‘We need to move her inside,’ he says again.

‘Are you sure we should?’ Rose asks, and Conor looks a little shocked. ‘Shouldn’t we be trying to preserve evidence for the police? Isn’t that what a crime correspondent would say next? You’re probably getting some kind of sick thrill out of all this. I bet you can’t wait to call the news desk. Maybe this will help your career?’

‘I know you’re upset, but none of this is my fault,’ he says.

‘Isn’t it?’ Rose asks. She looks at him for a long time, then shrugs. ‘Fine, let’s move her. She’s dead. We can’t really make matters any worse. Where do you suggest we move her to?’

They stare at each other, and I feel as though I’m intruding on something I don’t fully understand.

‘We could put her with the others?’ Conor suggests.

Rose doesn’t reply straight away. Apprehension is the mother of our mistakes, and tries to warn us before we make them, but we don’t always listen to our mothers.

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Rose says eventually, sounding as though she doesn’t really believe it. She’s quietly crying now. ‘We can keep them all together . . . but out of sight until the police come. I’ll take this end, you take the other,’ she says to Conor, and we all bow our heads against the rain as we make our way towards the house. Carrying my mother seems to slow Conor and Rose down more than it should, and they fall behind. I can hear the two of them whispering again, but the sound of the wind and waves in the distance steals their words from my ears.