slipped the hand on you years ago during hide and seek in our bedroom cupboard when he wasn’t looking and it all took off from there.”
He ran back towards the pillar-box door of his mother’s house and inwardly practised manly back-slapping and dirty talk in his head, reminding himself not to get carried away with talk of marriages or engagements.
But, he thought, as he turned the key in the front door, if it meant making his mother happy, he would get married to Daisy in the morning. He would go through it all. Meringue dresses, bridesmaids, tantrums, tiaras and the works. And then they’d be divorced, of course. Very, very soon afterwards, he thought, remembering how annoying Daisy could be when she was drunk. He let out a shiver, stuck out his chest and entered the hallway in a brave attempt to face the music like a man.
Home Is Where The Hurt Is
Daisy wasn’t sure whether to use her front-door key and walk on in unannounced, or knock on the green door of number 9, Ivy Cottages. She lifted the huge brassy doorknob and then set it back down easily so that it didn’t make a sound.
Knocking on the front door of her childhood home seemed a bit over the top, but the last thing she needed was her mother collapsing from the unexpected sight of her standing soaked in the hallway. Especially as she bore an uncanny resemblance to the Bride of Frankenstein right now. As she stood on the doorstep collecting her thoughts, she remembered fondly back to the time when she couldn’t reach the doorknob herself and would have to shout through the letterbox to announce her arrival home from school. She remembered when her dad would lift her up to let her knock it, even though he had a key. It was still hard coming home, knowing that he was no longer around. Daisy shook herself. She was determined not to get all mopey on this visit. She took a deep breath, knocked on the door twice and then turned the key.
“Mum,” she called. “Mum, it’s me. Are you in?”
The house smelled fresh and clean, with Maggie’s incense hanging in the air. Once a hippy, always a hippy, laughed Daisy and inhaled the familiar scent of her childhood.
“Daisy, is that you love?” Her mother’s shrill voice came from the converted second floor of the cottage. Daisy was sure she was hanging upside down from the rafters from the way her voice sounded. “This is a pleasant surprise. Is everything OK?”
“Yes, it’s me and I’m fine. Where are you? Are you doing handstands up there?” asked Daisy, running her hand along the pine dado rail and then wiping the fine layer of dust onto the leg of her wet jeans.
A huge thud came from the first floor and Daisy shuddered.
“Sort of,” answered Maggie. “I’ll be with you after I finish my mantra. Nearly done.”
Yoga. That’s right. How could Daisy forget? Her mother had lately developed an inexplicable obsession with Madonna. Anything the pop star could do, Maggie could do better. Daisy had vowed that she would address the issue once and for all if she ever saw her mum sporting a red stringy band around her wrist, bagging a toy boy and snogging women. Yoga was one thing, but changing her religion or messing with her sexuality to keep up with her idol would be taking things a step too far.
“Take your time, Mum. I’m not going anywhere.”
Daisy grabbed a towel from the hot press and dried off her sodden hair so that it frizzed up even more. Then she sank into the soft, brown leather armchair that faced out onto the small herb garden. It was like a mini jungle, full of lush countryside greenery, with huge flowered bobbles of pink and baby blue swaying in the light breeze. The patio doors were splashed with summer raindrops and a white metal summer seat sat on the patio waiting for the real summertime to come. Nothing quite beat lazy Sundays for fun-filled barbeques or quiet reads.
Outside, the faint smell of the sea was a reminder that the ocean was near, and when the sun came out, the sound of fishing boats mixed with the scent of flowers in full bloom meant that the family home was a little haven away from the world. The cottage was quieter now that she and her brother, Richard, had flown the nest, but there was still a delightful atmosphere you could almost touch.
Daisy thought of poor Isobel Eastwood, who had helped to plant the garden with her mother many years ago. Isobel had initially sniffed at Maggie’s choice of wild, overgrown shrubbery but soldiered on, adding minimal water features and decking.
She and Maggie were still great companions, which was perfectly understandable considering the circumstances that had gelled their friendship. However, two more opposite souls could never have met. While Maggie Anderson owned her own mobile phone, iPod and drove a black Volkswagen Beetle, Isobel Eastwood’s dearest accessory was her rosary beads. Jonathan and Eddie’s mother’s idea of a good night out would probably be a Missionary Mass followed by the Credit Union tea dance.
Despite such vastly differing tastes, the women propped each other up like two bookends and knew exactly when the other needed a time to laugh, a time to grieve or a time to shout out obscenities. But neither friend blamed the other for what happened that warm, tragic July night nearly eight years ago.
The two gardens, separated by a narrow brook, which led into the Atlantic Ocean on the mouth of Donegal’s finest fishing port, illustrated their differences perfectly. Isobel’s landscaped setting was immaculately groomed, while the Anderson household’s colourful blooms reflected the colour and life that bounded from Maggie and Daisy’s bubbly personalities.
“Hey, Dad. What do you think of all this?” whispered Daisy to the large portrait of her father that commanded the entire room. “Say a prayer for poor Isobel and her boys, won’t you?” Danny Anderson’s smiling eyes twinkled back at his daughter from above the high mahogany mantelpiece. Even now, Daisy could still hear his laughter in this very room. His smell still filled the air, diluted ever so slightly by a faint aroma of furniture polish. Very faint. Her mother wasn’t exactly known for being a domestic goddess. But Daisy was sure that if she listened hard enough, she would hear her dad mumbling to himself like he used to when he was trying to work out a cryptic crossword clue.
Could it really be eight years since the accident had happened? She remembered it like it was five minutes ago. She missed her father so much, as if she hadn’t seen him in eighty years. So why then had she came back to Killshannon on such a whim? Under normal circumstances, it would have taken a herd of highland cattle to drag her there. Funnily enough, something had urged to her follow Eddie’s crazy path back to the village this time. A village where she’d locked away all of her earlier memories, and in her mind, had virtually thrown away the key.
A drama course at Queen’s University in Belfast had supposedly been her ticket to freedom and she’d left vowing never to form a bond with Killshannon again. There was too much pain involved. Now, as she daydreamed, she realised her hand was automatically resting on her stomach as the memories flooded back. Her mother’s footsteps entering the cosy room interrupted her silent musings.
“Hello, my love,” said Maggie in a lively voice, her arms spreadeagled. Her face was make-up free and women ten years younger would have envied her complexion. “This really is a lovely surprise,” she added, beaming from ear to ear.
Daisy stopped staring at the painting of her Dad, dragged herself from the depths of the armchair and hugged her mother tight.
“Hi, Mum. How are things in this little neck of the woods?”
“Oh, Daisy, you’re damp right through,’ she fussed, handing her daughter a second towel. “I was going to phone you this evening. I’m afraid I have bad news about Isobel.”
“I know, Mum. I heard. Eddie told me…”
“Have you seen him? The poor boy thought he was coming home for Jonathan’s birthday party but walked into all of this. I can’t imagine what those poor lads are going through. How was he when you spoke