Page 8 of Dear Daisy

‘When did she die?’ I sipped. The bitter, burned taste of fresh coffee swung me back to meetings at Shy Owl, me pitching ideas, Dan picking them up and running with them; laughing and jotting notes, throwing speculative titles at one another, coffee falling into drinks, a meal, a kiss in a parked car and then—

‘Are y-you all right?’ Alex was frowning at me. ‘Y-you went all b-blurry.’

‘Sorry. Flashbacks.’ I swallowed. The coffee seemed to have solidified in my mouth. His expression was now a mixture of carefully reined in curiosity tinged with a sadness that made me say more than I should have done. ‘Ex-boyfriend. My editor. Oh, that makes it sound as though they are two separate people in a fist fight, but they’re not. Daniel, he . . . there was . . .’ Careful, Winter. ‘He never understood. I have a twin, you see, Daisy. Dan . . . he thought I relied on her too much. She moved to Australia, so I spend a lot of time talking to her, to make up for not being able to . . .’ That was as far as I could go. As much as I could vocalise about what had happened. ‘I’ve never really told her what happened, she just knows we split up, I mean, none of it was her fault but I can never forgive him. Never,’ and I surprised myself with how vicious I sounded. If I’d been Alex I’d have been hiding all the sharp objects, or at least covering the steam spout from the coffee maker.

‘Y-yes, I kn-know the feeling. I was d-dating s-someone when El — when it all h-happened. We b-broke up b-because I c-couldn’t h-handle . . .’ He stopped speaking and wrinkled his nose into his mug. ‘Only d-difference is th-that I c-can’t forgive m-m-myself. Well, th-this is turning into a b-bit of a th-therapy session for b-both of us, isn’t it?’ He leaned forwards and gave my knee a quick rub.

I felt the weight of his hand, the heat of it and, although I knew the intent had been an expression of sympathy I couldn’t stop the blush from rising to my face and dropped my mouth back into the mug to try to conceal it.

‘And El-Ellen died three years ago. S-Scarlet was five. Long enough, you’d th-think. A l-lifetime for a l-little girl.’ And then a direct, cool stare. ‘I do my b-best.’

And you’re worried it isn’t enough. You’re trying to do all this, renovate the mill and get a business up and running and still give enough time to that child, and it isn’t really working, hence today when the childcare arrangements fell apart and you’d have had to what? Find someone at short notice, or rearrange the delivery? You’ve had guilt fitted as standard.

‘I actually do want to talk about stone carving though.’ I finally remembered, dazed as I was by all the turmoil and the dimples and everything, why I’d come in the first place.

‘You m-mean it w-wasn’t a p-ploy? Now I’m d-disappointed.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, sunshine.’

I hardly know this man. Okay, he’s cute, has the requisite amount of deep feelings and an incredibly nice chest, but that means nothing. Even Dan had deep feelings and a good body. Didn’t make him a nice guy though, did it? And yet, I’ve told Alex more about what happened with Dan and Daisy than I’ve said to almost anyone else, except my mother. All anyone else knows is that we’re no longer a couple. He’s still my editor, for now, but that’s only a matter of time.

‘Like I s-said, I have this d-delivery d-due, that’s g-going to hold me up for th-the rest of the d-day so I c-can’t really chat much n-now. I’ve g-got some b-books though. I’ll sh-show you when you b-bring Scarlet b-back.’

‘And Light Bulb.’

‘Ob-viously.’

I drank the rest of the coffee slowly. Alex got called to some on-site problem and left me with a grin and a flipped hand in the company of the evil coffee dispenser, which growled threateningly at me and refused me a refill. Between that and the hobby horse, I was beginning to think that Great Leys was run entirely by inanimate objects.

Chapter Five

‘The Wilkinson family seem to have had a particularly eventful life. Miles Wilkinson (1738–1800, when he probably died just for a rest) married no less than five times, with each marriage producing seven children. The eldest offspring from each of the various marriages was named after Miles, so for anyone tracing their family tree and finding a Miles Wilkinson on one of the branches — the very best of luck to you.’ — BOOK OF THE DEAD 2

* * *

Both Alex and his mother had forgotten to give me directions to the primary school, but it wasn’t too hard to find; I just waited until half past three and then followed the screaming. Scarlet was waiting inside the gate, holding the hand of a woman wearing what Daisy would no doubt have had trendy words for, but I could only call a smock. In the other hand she held Light Bulb.

Scarlet’s face lit up when she saw me, and the thumb she’d been sucking slid out of her mouth. ‘Winter!’

‘I’ve come to get you, your uncle has a delivery and your grandma, well, I’m not quite sure what’s going on there but it seems to involve quite a lot of widdle.’

The woman holding Scarlet frowned at me. ‘I’m afraid I can’t let this young lady go anywhere with you without parental permission.’ She couldn’t have been much older than me, or possibly younger but with the slightly tense look that some primary teachers tend towards giving her a prematurely crinkled forehead. ‘Which we don’t have.’

‘But it’s Winter,’ Scarlet said, baffled. ‘And Alex must have told her to come and get me, otherwise how would she know where to come?’

The woman crouched down. ‘Sweetie, you know we can’t just let you go with anyone, can we? Remember the talk we had last term? About keeping safe?’

Scarlet looked as nonplussed as was possible for an eight-year-old. ‘I’ve got Light Bulb. No one can hurt me while I’ve got him,’ and she patted the stick in much the same way as I imagine a ninja would stroke his nunchuk.

‘But what if someone wanted to take Light Bulb away and hurt him?’ There was a patience in this young woman that impressed me. She genuinely seemed fond of Scarlet, and anybody who could treat that cloth and broom handle as a sentient being was either eight, insane or born to childcare.

Scarlet made an illustrative face, ninety per cent teeth, and with fingers held up like claws. I didn’t know about anyone wanting to hurt Light Bulb, but I wouldn’t have tackled her.

‘Could you not go and telephone Alex, perhaps?’ I suggested.

When I used Alex’s name the woman straightened and looked me up and down in a kind of half-assessing, half-cautious way. Oh. I see. That’s how the land lies, is it? But then, I shouldn’t think eligible single men come on the market all that often in a place this size — Alex must be the local equivalent of El Dorado. The proper one, obviously, not the rubbish TV programme.

‘Alex doesn’t do phones. ’Cos of his stammer,’ Scarlet supplied. ‘You can phone Granny, I s’pose, on her mobile.’

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