Chapter 68

Daisy

The chill bites against my ten-denier-clad legs as I yank the lever of the garage door. I don't usually show potential tenants the garage. It's my space. But Fiona, or Ona, as she insists on being called, asked about storage for her kids' bikes. I could see you were about to tell her she'd had to leave them in the hallway, Bella, but I also sensed a hint of anxiety in your deportment. Call it telepathy. A bond between sisters. I can't allow you to suffer any discomfort. Linda ushers us all back inside.

‘It's very clean and spacious.' Fiona gazes around the open-plan kitchen, with its navy matt cabinets, shiny cream granite worktops and skylights. ‘You've got a lovely home, Daisy.'

I thank her, explain that it's not my doing, the previous owners did a great job, and you jump in, say I'm being modest – the house is spotless – the interior and furnishings are my own vision.

‘Is that an Irish accent?' Fiona folds her bony arms against her chest. She's not what I expected, with her long leather-clad legs and blonde waist-length hair – salon styled, you don't get results like that out of a bottle.

‘It is Irish.' I toss a glance at you, but you're busy talking to Linda now who is showing you something on her iPad. ‘I'm from Dublin.' I study Fiona's face – smooth and tanned without a wrinkle in sight. Botox, obviously, at her age. Hardly the grieving widow. How can she afford all that if she's on the breadline? You do realise I could get a grand more for this place if I rented it to someone else, Bella, don't you? Still, no matter, you want me to rent it to her and I will. I'd do anything for you. Anything.

‘Wait…I'm slightly confused,' Fiona says. ‘How comes you were brought up in Ireland?' I inwardly roll my eyes. I fecking knew it.

Your head snaps up at Fiona. You are listening, after all. ‘Daisy was adopted,' you say, your expression set in defence mode. ‘We've only just connected.'

I love you for it, Bella but you really don't need to fight my battles. I'm a big girl. I can handle myself. Trust me.

‘Oh, how lovely.' Fiona turns to me. ‘So, you've got two families.'

I think you were right about her, Bella, she's already annoying me. ‘Three, actually. Biological mum, dad, and two adoptive brothers. My adoptive parents have passed.' Thank God. A phone rings. I hope it's hers, because I really need her to feck off now.

‘I'm sorry to hear about your adoptive parents,' Fiona says, sounding sincere. Really? I'm bloody delighted. What's with all this empathy anyway? I don't care what she thinks. This is strictly a business transaction. You walk over to us. Linda glances at you, phone pressed to her ear.

‘Can you try ringing the vendor again?' Linda huffs into her handset. She must be talking to Maggie, your PA. It was good of you to give Maggie a job at your agency, Bella. The increased salary will help now she's got a nipper, especially with the cost of living these days.

‘Her adoptive parents were Irish,' you say tightly, and I can tell you're trying to protect me from Fiona the empress of nosey-buggers.

‘Your mum was quite young when she died, wasn't she?' Linda asks, joining us in a waft of Fiona's pungent perfume. Feck's sake, now they want my life story. Well, I suppose I'd better get it out of the way. I'm surprised you all waited this long before quizzing me.

‘Mid-fifties,' I explain and you all gawp at me as if I'm orphan Annie. ‘I was sixteen. Mammy drowned.' Your frowns grow deeper. Apart from Fiona's, which is paralysed. Fiona gasps, tells me she can't swim either, a piece of information which I file in my brain for future reference. ‘Mammy was an excellent swimmer. It was an accident in the bathtub – slipped and drowned.' My mother stood up and lunged at me in a rage for daring to answer her back. Reflexively, I took a step back and she skidded. Water gushed everywhere. It was like a tsunami. I watched in a stupor as she started splashing manically between gulps, begging me to help. She tried to get up but kept sliding back under the water, as if she'd lost total control of her limbs, and then she was still.

‘Mammy had been drinking,' I explain. She was three sheets to the wind, as per. ‘They had to break the door down to get in. It was locked.' After I watched her die, I climbed out of the window, the bathroom was located on the ground floor, and quietly slipped out the back gate that led into the woods. It was late, dark, no one saw me.

Fiona gasps, ‘I'm never locking my bathroom door again.'

‘What a traumatic experience for you,' Linda says, and you agree, come over to me, rub my back tenderly. ‘Rotten luck that she was in the house alone. I've never heard of anyone dying in a bathtub before.'

‘Nor me,' Fiona says, ‘wouldn't the water wake you up?'

‘It is extremely rare. The coroner said she might've fallen asleep or had some sort of seizure – neither of which could've been proven. A verdict of death by accident was returned after the post-mortem.'

‘Wow,' you say, ‘you must've been so terrified.'

I shrug, mouth drying. ‘It was horrific. We were all shattered,' I lie, putting on my best devastated face. ‘Dad was much older when he passed.' Clearing my throat, I slide the bifold doors open a fraction and breathe in some fresh air. ‘He had a good, long life.'

I shepherd you all towards the lounge area. ‘I was his carer until he died last year,' I continue, and you all ooh and ahh. Linda calls me a saint. I suppose I was a bit of a saint, cleaning and cooking and caring for him all those years, while his good-for-nothing sons strutted around Dublin, with their flashy cars and big houses. I'd gag when I loaded his piss-stained bedding into the washing machine. The shit stains on his pants wouldn't shift, not even on a 60-degree cycle.

‘Father had a fall,' I say quietly. ‘A heart attack.' I'd packed my bags to leave that day. We'd had the biggest brawl ever. I was sick of my life. Sick of him. I lied to you about only finding out I was adopted after my parents died, Bella. I'd known for months. The idiot blurted it out during a row. I couldn't stop thinking about them after that. Where were they? What were they doing? Did I have any siblings? Would I have had a better life with them, or were they a couple of useless bastards who could barely look after themselves? Something made them dump me. What was it? I was desperate to find out.

I plucked up the courage and questioned Da, asked if he knew anything about them and do you know what he said? Do you, Bella? He told me that Stanley had got in touch. Once. The hospital gave him our number, although there's no record of this. Da told Stanley I was dead. Dead, Bella. Dead. I didn't believe him, not until Sandra confirmed it. So, your dad wasn't lying when he said he'd made that call. But I haven't told you that. Not yet. I might one day, but then I might not. I mean, he did dump me outside the fecking hospital in the middle of winter. I might've died. Sandra was weak, letting Stanley give me away like that. I think I'll let her squirm for a bit longer. Guilt is quite pleasurable to watch. A bit like squeezing lemon juice on a laceration. Besides, I relish you all hating on your father - putting me before him – refusing his calls – his pleas. It makes me feel special. Wanted. Loved.

Anyway, I divert, Bella. Da telling Stanley I'd died was the last straw. A rage I'd never felt before tore through me. I'd had enough of being his servant. Needless to say, he didn't take it well. Who else would be his skivvy? Certainly not his stuck-up daughters-in-law, or precious granddaughters. He threatened to cut me off dry if I abandoned him – he'd left me the house in his will. All six-bedrooms of it. Old and dark and creepy. Worth a fortune.

But my freedom was worth more than that. I shoved past him, told him to do whatever he wanted, he always did. In his haste to stop me, he stumbled. I tried to help him, Bella, honestly. But he shook me off, said he could manage, thank you very much, in that brisk, self-righteous tone of his. Only he didn't manage because my foot came out – he tripped over it and collapsed onto the marble tiles, hitting his head. He was spark out. I don't know why I did it. Maybe watching Mammy die, all those years ago, and not lifting a finger to help her made me bloodthirsty.

‘The paramedics did all they could,' I say now, ‘but he didn't regain consciousness.' I don't add that I gave it ten minutes before ringing them, just to make sure the old goat had snuffed it. When they arrived, I told them I was in the shower upstairs, came down and found him lying there unconscious. I want to cry now. Why has Fiona dragged up my wretched past?

‘Poor, love.' Fiona's mouth turns downwards, reminding me of a sad emojis. I'm not sure if you notice when I twist my lips to stop myself from laughing out loud. I can feel your eyes on me.

‘It's fine,' I say to my feet. ‘They weren't the best parents in the world.' Why should I protect them, or honour their memory? They were a pair of selfish arses.

You take a deep breath. ‘Anyway, she's got us now, haven't you, Daisy?'

‘I sure have,' I say, ‘and this place.' I saunter back into the kitchen, run a hand along my bespoke granite worktop. ‘I couldn't be happier.' Reflectively, I gaze out into the garden, and as I'm about to turn away I notice the garage door ajar in my peripheral. Perfect timing. I needed something to put an end to this morbid conversation. ‘Can I leave you to it, ladies, I didn't shut the garage door properly.'

‘I didn't expect the rooms to be so big,' Fiona trills, and Linda agrees. Their voices drown as I step outside, with you in my wake.

‘Wait up,' you yell. I hear the clatter of your heels hitting the concrete on the driveway. I inwardly roll my eyes. Is two minutes of alone time too much to ask?