rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_5559f97c-3ed2-5eb9-9034-86a0aefec4bb">CHAPTER THREE
Mum was always the biggest champion of my writing. My most adoring (and my only) fan.
She kept pressing me to finish writing my book but I always considered it pie in the sky, the idea that I could make it as an author. It just didn’t happen to ordinary mortals. Publishing was such a competitive industry. You had to be super-talented to be in with a chance. I couldn’t imagine something so miraculous as a book deal ever happening to me, so why would I waste my time trying, when the inevitable result would be crushing disappointment?
But one day, about six months after we received the devastating news of her cancer, I arrived at the house and she waved a magazine at me with an excited little smile.
‘A short story competition,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think you should enter.’
I started to shake my head but she got quite stroppy, which was unusual for her. She was normally so easy-going about everything.
‘You need to stop prevaricating and just do it, Daisy! If I had my time over again, there’s lots of things I’d do. I’d train to be an optician for a start!’
‘Really?’ I stared at her in astonishment. Why hadn’t I known this?
‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the way eyes work and it seems like a good, steady job. But what I’m saying is: stop pussyfooting around and do what you love! For me! Because life is much too short!’
We stared at each other through a blur of tears. And then, silently, I took the magazine, folded it up and put it in my bag.
I went home and stayed up late into the night, turning over ideas in my head. And then by morning, I had my plot. The advice was always: Write what you know! So I decided I’d make my lead female character a high-flying magazine editor, like Rachel. Unlike Rachel, however, my heroine had sworn off love after one disappointment too many (I knew enough about that to write all too convincingly) – until the new and charismatic head of marketing arrived and made her rethink everything …
It took me a week to write it.
During that time Mum suffered a chest infection that hit her really badly and she ended up in hospital. I was frantic with worry, but it helped me cope, having the short story competition to focus on and being able to tell Mum about my progress.
Once the story was written, I spent two weeks rewriting and agonising over whether it was good enough to send, during which time Mum was allowed home but then readmitted to hospital a few days later. The infection had apparently returned with a vengeance.
I told myself she was strong and would triumph over this latest setback. But the night after she was readmitted, I finally stopped prevaricating, closed my eyes and hit ‘send’. My story flew off into the unknown and I sat back, feeling exhausted. There was nothing more I could do. If the story was bad, it didn’t really matter. At least Mum would know that I’d tried …
A few days later, the house phone rang early one evening and Rachel knocked on my bedroom door, saying it was for me.
My heart leaped into my mouth and, for one wild moment, I dreamed it was the magazine phoning to say I’d made the shortlist.
But it wasn’t the magazine.
It was the hospital.
Mum, who was already very weak, had now succumbed to pneumonia. She was slipping in and out of consciousness and I was quietly advised that time was running out.
I drove to the hospital in a state of shock.
How could this have happened? The doctor had said she thought Mum had months to live. Possibly even a year. And we’d been planning all sorts of lovely things to do together that didn’t involve too much strength on Mum’s part. So to suddenly find she might not even have days …?
Joan! What about Joan?
My heart was in my throat.
Joan was Mum’s best friend but she lived down in Surrey, my home until I was four, a long train journey away. Even if Joan got on a train now, she might not make it in time. But she’d made me promise I’d tell her immediately if Mum’s condition worsened …
Running from the car park to the hospital entrance, I made a breathless call. Joan seemed to understand the urgency immediately – probably from the stark fear in my voice – and she told me to be strong and that she’d see me and Mum soon.
‘Tell Maureen I’m on my way with a bag of sour apples,’ she said before she rang off.
I smiled to myself as I rode the lift to Mum’s floor. ‘Sour apples’ were Mum and Auntie Joan’s favourite sweets when they were schoolgirls together in Surrey. It was sure to give Mum a boost to hear that Joan was travelling up …
When I entered the ward, the curtains were pulled around Mum’s bed and a nurse was emerging. Her eyes softened when she saw me. I walked over to her, my heart banging uneasily.
‘We’ve made your mum comfortable,’ she murmured, touching my forearm. ‘She’s in no pain although she’s drifting in and out. Go in and let her hear your voice.’
I nodded, suddenly terrified of the responsibility. It had only ever really been Mum and me after Dad died. I was all she had. I had to do this right …
But how did you stay strong enough to say a final goodbye to the person who meant the whole world to you?
In the end, I couldn’t hold back the tears. But it felt peaceful and absolutely right that I was there, holding her hand, telling her that she was the most wonderful mum in the world and that I would always love her.
Her hand tightened a little on mine when I said that, so I knew she could hear me. I leaned closer and whispered, ‘I sent the short story off. If it turns out I’m the next Jane Austen, it will all be down to you.’
She opened her eyes and her lips moved, and I realised she was trying to tell me something, so I leaned closer.
Her voice was so faint, I couldn’t make out what she was whispering at first. But then I realised. ‘Wuthering Heights.’ She was murmuring the name of her all-time favourite book.
My eyes filled with tears and I nodded and kissed her hand. ‘I’ll bring the book in later and read it to you,’ I promised her.
She looked straight at me for a moment, her eyes shining with love.
And then she was gone.
*
A month later, when I got the call saying I was one of three runners-up in the short story competition, I could hardly believe it.
I’d won a thousand pounds. But better than that by far, my story was actually going to be published in a future edition of the magazine!
When I imagined all the people – perfect strangers – who would read the words I’d written, it gave me such a jolt of disbelief and happiness.
My triumph was tinged with pain, though.
The one person who would have joined wholeheartedly in my silly dance of delight around the house was no longer here to share my joy.
I swallowed hard, steering my mind away from the memories.
Rachel would whoop with glee when she heard, though. And Toby would be amazed. He might finally see that I was serious in my ambitions to be an author! I couldn’t wait to tell him …
It seemed such a momentous thing to have happened in my life that I decided a celebration was definitely in order. So I booked a table at our favourite restaurant and phoned Toby at work to break the news.
‘I heard from the magazine. I was a runner-up,’ I squeaked, as soon as I got through. ‘So I’ve booked a table for dinner tonight. My treat!’
‘Dinner