Daisy Darker(9)

I linger on the landing upstairs, peering out of the window that overlooks the back of the house, and the vast Atlantic Ocean. I see my mother walking between patches of moonlight and shadow. Nancy doesn’t have much of a garden in London, so she treats Nana’s as though it were her own. Her obsession with plants and flowers started when she was first living here at Seaglass, when she was pregnant with Rose. It was her choice to live with her new mother-in-law while Dad was away finishing his university degree. Nancy never talks about her own family. We knew she had one, but not much else about them. I’ve never met my grandparents on my mother’s side, none of us did; she wouldn’t even tell us their names. By all accounts, Nana was happy for my mother to stay here, but she was too busy creating children’s books to have time for company, or gardening, so that became Nancy’s hobby. Transforming the unloved land at the back of the house became a bit of an obsession over the years that followed. Sometimes I think it’s the garden she still comes to see, not Nana.

Dad gave Nancy a copy of The Observer’s Book of Wild Flowers when she was pregnant with Rose, and I suspect that might have inspired the names my mother gave us. It’s a tiny old green book which she still carries around wherever she goes, like a little Bible. We were never allowed to help Nancy when she disappeared outside for hours; the garden was her space. Rose said it was because our mother was secretly growing poisonous plants. Lily thought it might be because she was making marijuana. I always thought she just wanted to be left alone.

Nancy was very good at growing most things except for children. We never grew fast enough, or tall enough, or pretty enough in her opinion. So she planted seeds of fear as well as doubt all around this house and throughout our childhoods, little saplings rising up through the floorboards, creeping in through the cracks, to remind us what a disappointing crop we were.

The world outside the window is cold and dark now. The sea looks black at night, like a liquid sky reflecting the moon and stars. I can still make out the shape of my mother, alone in her garden, even though it must be freezing out there. She appears to be picking something, small flowers perhaps – I can’t tell from here. She looks up at the window then, as though sensing she is being watched, and I hurry back to my bedroom, unsure why I am so afraid of being seen.





Five



30 October 2004 – 8 p.m.

Once the bags and grudges are unpacked, the whole family settles into a familiar rhythm. Whenever I see my sisters, no matter how long it has been or how old they get, we always seem to regress to the versions of ourselves we were as children. I suspect everybody time travels when reunited with their family. We think we are old when we are still young, and we think we are still young when we have grown old. None of us are acting the way we normally do. Even my parents are doing their best version of best behaviour. Nobody wants to upset Nana on her birthday.

Trixie and I are playing Scrabble alone in the lounge when Lily comes to fetch us for dinner.

‘Stop that and let’s eat,’ my sister barks from the doorway.

‘But we haven’t finished playing,’ Trixie argues.

Lily crosses the room in three strides, then tips all the letters off the board and onto the floor.

‘You have now,’ she says, before briefly checking her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, then leaving the room.

I spend a lot of time with Trixie. Being a parent did not come naturally to my sister, but becoming an aunt was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Lily was eighteen when her daughter was born. She likes gadgets and gizmos more than babies, and soon discovered that motherhood did not come with a manual, and children don’t come with an off switch. As a result, I spend a couple of nights at their house every week, looking after Trixie to give Lily a break. Though I’m not sure what from, and she never thanks me for my time. Lily and I don’t really talk at all anymore. My sister still thinks of me as a child. She thinks I never grew up. I find that ironic given the way she behaves. Some people can’t see things how they are; they only see how they used to be. I don’t mind; I love spending time with my niece, and I find it rewarding. Watching her grow up to become such a wonderful human being has brought me more joy than anything else I have known.

Trixie and I find the rest of the family already in the large eclectic kitchen at the back of the house. The cupboards are all pale blue, and some of the white wall tiles have been hand-painted with animals or flowers. Nana always liked to illustrate her life as well as her children’s books. The entire back wall is a giant chalkboard, which she scribbles ideas and sketches on. Sometimes, if the thoughts inside her own head are not forthcoming, she’ll scribble an inspirational quote from a dead author on there. The dead often seem to know more about living than those still alive. Today, all I can spot is a recipe for chocolate brownies, a poem about falling, and an intricately drawn chalk bird. It looks like a robin. Nana has decorated the room for Halloween just like she does every year. There are black and orange paper chains hanging from the ceiling, a lot of candles and pumpkins, and what looks like a witch’s broom in the corner, but I think that might be here all the time.

The space doubles as a dining room, with a long, sturdy wooden table. It’s made of a single enormous piece of beech that is over five hundred years old and a real thing of beauty. The table is surrounded by eight different chairs, which Nana chose for each of us. My mother’s is white, tall and thin. It looks good, but makes people feel uncomfortable, not unlike the woman it was chosen for. Dad’s chair is older, wider, rounder, and black. Rose’s is elegant and red, while Lily’s is green and, I think, looks rather unpleasant. Mine is quite plain at first glance, but has daisies painted on the seat. Nana’s is pink and purple – her favourite colours – while Trixie’s seat is the newest, and smallest, and covered in silver stars. There is one spare chair, painted sky blue with little white clouds. Nana said she painted the chairs so that we would all know that we always had a home here. My mother said she did it so that we would all remember our place.