Page 14 of Dear Daisy

‘Well, I’m sure Scarlet and I will have a lovely day tomorrow.’ I tried to ease my way further along the path. ‘I won’t bring her back too late.’ Because I’ll probably be deaf by lunchtime.

‘I’m sure you understand . . .’ — Margaret closed the gap between us again. ‘. . . how much Alex trusts you with her. He’s very . . . he’s quite an unhappy young man. He was so different before Ellen died, so carefree and, well, although I shouldn’t say it, he was a bit of a hit with the ladies, oh, they were practically queueing up for him in those days! But since then he’s been so serious. Has trouble meeting people, if you see what I mean, of course everyone around here knows everyone else and is related to everyone else, so much so that every time we have a wedding we all have to check it’s not incest, but not people from outside.’

I wanted to say that all the women must be blind if they were letting something like his stammer get in the way of getting their hands on that spectacular body, but it wasn’t really something you said to the mother of the object in question, so I just nodded. ‘You’d better get on. Ewan McGregor’s willy will be getting cold.’

She bobbed her head a couple of times. ‘Nights are the worst, you know,’ she said, quietly. ‘Everyone remembers more at night.’ And then she was gone, neat heels, which looked grey in this half-illuminated darkness but were almost certainly pink, clicking along the stone path like a dog’s claws on lino.

‘Of course they do.’ I shrugged myself deeper into the anorak. I’d bought it at the Agricultural Merchants earlier in the day, having nothing in my London suitcase that even halfway suited the way the temperature oscillated up and down the scale this far north. Down south we’d still be sitting out in our gardens or on balconies at this time of night, drinking wine and chatting. Here the theme from Coronation Street sounded like a klaxon warning everyone to don their duvet.

The dark brings out memories in the same way as it brings out the rats.

* * *

‘You could read a book.’ Daisy’s advice wasn’t up to much tonight.

‘I’ve told you, the only things in here with me are spies, and whatever Jeffrey Archer writes about. I didn’t bring my Kindle with me.’ I stared at my laptop. ‘And I’m too twitchy to read.’

A sigh. ‘Winnie, you can’t use me as a substitute for entertainment, you know.’

‘I’m bored.’

‘You’re lonely.’

I thought about it. Was she right? I was used to spending a lot of time alone, writing books about dead people didn’t involve a lot of circulating with crowds, but then I’d always had company to fall back on. People I could phone to go out for a drink, Daisy to chat to. ‘Maybe. It is rather just me and the doll’s house TV here. Honestly, Daze, it’s like something that should be on display somewhere rather than a house, everything is three-quarter size! I feel bloody enormous.’

‘Look. If you’re really serious about having a bit of a “thing” for Alex—’

‘I couldn’t be more serious if I made a documentary about it.’

‘All right. But you don’t have to be serious serious, do you? Why not just be a bit light-hearted about it? Have fun. Just because you’ve met a guy who’s luscious and everything—’

‘With an arse to die for,’ I couldn’t help putting in, because she did seem to be underplaying the godlike nature of Alex.

‘Still not convincing me, Winnie, it doesn’t mean you have to launch yourself at him.’

‘I don’t “launch myself” at men!’ I bridled.

‘You did a bit at Dan, Win. Remember? As soon as you met him, when you went for drinks to go over the notes for the book edits, Dan was all you could talk about. And you carried on about him pretty much like you’re doing over Alex.’

That first meeting. We’d talked on the phone, emailed, then decided that, since the offices were shut for the Bank Holiday, and he wasn’t far away, we’d meet up in the pub and talk over a tricky issue I had. I’d seen him sitting there as soon as I walked in, almost as though my eyes had been looking for him without realising. Slim and dark, hunched over a pint, legs up on the seat opposite. Black jeans, big boots and a T-shirt with a picture of the galaxy on. Hair that spiked and fell around his ears as though he’d just got up and a face like an angel that’s lost a bet with Hell. And Daisy was wrong, I hadn’t launched myself, I’d fallen.

Chapter Eight

‘Outside a little chapel in the north of the moors is a fabulous example of sarcasm — I can only imagine what this lady must have done to the man who carved her stone. Whatever it was, he bore that grudge until she died. The lady in question, one Jennet Hartley, seems to have been one for lying about her age, because her stone, carved in beautiful, easy-to-read classical style, reads: “Here lies Jennet Hartley Born 1819 Died 1876 Aged Forty-Three Years”. I had the feeling that someone must have pried the chisel from the carver’s hand, otherwise it would have been followed by the Victorian equivalent of the smiley-face.’ — BOOK OF THE DEAD 2

* * *

York with an eight-year-old came outside any reasonable experience I could have been expected to have had. Scarlet behaved like a child who’s spent the last eight years tied to a table leg and wanted to go in every clothes shop, every Claire’s Accessories and every bookshop we came across, and, while she was perfectly polite and reasonable in her requests, she had more energy and enthusiasm than anyone I’d ever met who wasn’t on hardcore drugs.

In fact, as we went into the fourth ‘cheap earrings and lip gloss’ establishment that morning, hardcore drugs were beginning to look like a viable option to get through the rest of the day. I could only muster so much interest in make-up designed for tweenagers and stick on tattoos, so when Scarlet showed signs of flagging and gave in to my request to go for coffee and a bun, my relief made me cheerful.

‘There can’t be many books on pony care left in the shops, we seem to have done a good job of making it look like we’re a pair of clueless horse owners.’

Scarlet wriggled up onto the stool and hauled her plastic carrier up alongside her. It thumped onto the tabletop, weighted down with the aforementioned pony books, but then, as I’d told Scarlet, money spent on books is never wasted. ‘Can I have a milkshake, please?’

‘Okay. You sit there and I’ll go and order our drinks.’ I left her slumping forward, resting her head on the bag. She was tired now, and I gazed along the counter where the cakes sat, thinking that a sugar boost would be what we both needed, running my eye along the polished glass, looking for something suitably sticky and gooey.

A reflection. Just a brief glimpse of someone walking past the shop, but even that glimpse made my head spin and my hands contract into fists. Dan?

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