The Daughter's Choice

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘Hmm,’ I replied, assuming this meant he didn’t already know about my father being a fairly famous author. Mind you, Dad’s star had waned considerably in the years since my first day at primary school, when he was still getting recognised. Withdrawing from the public eye and not publishing anything else for so long had seen to that, although it was quite possible that Kelly might be aware of him, being a keen reader. ‘I’m with your mum, Ryan,’ I told him. ‘I enjoy reading. I think there are books out there to suit everyone. It could be you’ve just not picked up the right ones so far.’

  He screwed up his nose. ‘If you say so. You’re in set one for English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything?’ I was in set one for all subjects apart from maths – our shared set two class. I wasn’t sure if Ryan was aware of this, although I knew he was mainly in sets three and four. I had no issue with that being the case. Why would I? And yet, in light of his question, I feared that me being a ‘swot’ might put him off me. Hence the defensive reply.

  ‘I’m in the bottom set,’ he said. ‘It’s one of my worst subjects.’

  ‘And? Let’s keep things in context here. You’re a Riverside Grammar pupil. You passed the entrance exam just like I did. Don’t try and make out you’re some kind of dummy. I sit next to you in maths, remember? You’re usually the one helping me.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s maths.’ He grinned. ‘It’s probably my best subject.’

  And my worst, I thought. Opposites attract?

  ‘Anyway,’ I added. ‘Let’s change the subject. How come we never ran into each other before this year at school?’

  Not the best choice of moving-on question, as it turned out.

  ‘I knew it!’ he said in a loud voice, jumping to his feet and shaking his arms in the air.

  I didn’t know what was going on. ‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

  An energised Ryan did a strange kind of jig around the bed. ‘I’ve been wondering this the whole time since we got put next to each other in maths, but I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure, so I kept shtum. I knew it!’

  ‘You knew what? Ryan, please explain, because I’m totally lost.’

  ‘That you didn’t remember me. We met before, Rose. Right back at the start of year seven. I knew you’d forgotten.’

  ‘Um.’ I was lost for words as I racked my brains for some hint of what he was talking about; nothing came. ‘Is this a wind-up?’ I said eventually, clutching at straws.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Still nothing? Wow. Good to know I made such a lasting impression. At least it explains why you blanked me in the corridor when I smiled at you all those times afterwards.’

  ‘I did?’

  The awkwardness I was feeling must have shown in my face, as Ryan took his foot off the pedal. ‘Okay, it wasn’t that many times. Only a couple really. I stopped after that. It, er, was only a brief encounter when there were so many new things and people to get to know. I feel a bit stupid now, to be honest, for making something out of nothing. It’s just, what you said – what you did – really stuck in my mind. You were kind to me. I—’

  ‘Please put me out of my misery, Ryan.’

  ‘It’s embarrassing. I wish I’d not said anything.’

  I threw him my best no-nonsense glare.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So, yeah, it was right at the start of our first term at school. The second or third week, probably, when we were all still very green. Getting used to being small fish in a big pond again.’

  ‘And?’

  He let out a long sigh. ‘These two older lads I knew from primary school, who didn’t like me much, decided to play a prank on me. One of them held me down while the other pulled my shoes and socks off. Then they—’

  ‘Threw them up on the roof,’ I said, finishing his sentence with a barely concealed gasp. ‘Oh my God, I do remember. That was you? I’d never have guessed. You looked so different. The boy I remember helping was so—’

  ‘Short and fat?’ Ryan said. ‘Wimpy?’

  ‘No, that’s not how I’d put it, but you’ve definitely grown up a lot. That was really you?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And I ignored you in the corridor afterwards? That wasn’t deliberate, I promise.’

  Ryan, sitting down on the bed again now, squirmed, his hands kneading the quilt. ‘Yeah, that was a bit of a misrepresentation. It was quite a bit later. Year eight, probably. I’d already shot up a bit by then and shed some of my puppy fat. I can’t believe I brought this up. I should have kept quiet.’

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘I feel awful for not having made the connection.’

  So I did remember meeting Ryan after all. I just hadn’t twigged that it was him. The stubby eleven-year-old boy I’d seen fighting back tears that day was far removed from the teenage hunk he’d sprouted into. The incident stood out in my memory but not the fine details. As Ryan had already pointed out, there was so much going on in those early days of settling into secondary school, new faces merged into one big blur; the ones that got remembered tended to belong to regular classmates, not kids from other forms.

  ‘What did I do that day that made you remember me?’ I asked. ‘I wasn’t the only one around. There were several of us.’

  ‘Yeah, but most were laughing and pointing, amused by my predicament. You came over to introduce yourself. You asked me my name and if I was all right; if there was anything you could do to help. “Ignore them,” you whispered into my ear. “They’re just idiots who’ll be laughing at someone else tomorrow.” I remember those words clearly.’

  I nodded, chewing on my lip, feeling awkward that I couldn’t recall anything so specific about the episode. ‘What happened in the end?’

  ‘A teacher came along and cleared everyone away. He got one of the caretakers to come out with a ladder to retrieve my shoes and socks from the roof.’

  ‘Did the boys who did it get in trouble?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I never said who it was. I pretended not to know them. I’d have been labelled a grass, otherwise, which was the last thing I needed. Anyway, now you know.’

  I was glad to have made this discovery. I was mad keen on him anyway, but what I’d learned made me like him even more. It gave him extra depth – a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before. Despite his earlier words about Kelly nagging him, I could also tell that Ryan had a close relationship with his mum. It was the easy way they’d spoken to each other when we got in from school; the fact he’d automatically made her a brew without her even asking for one. He hadn’t flinched when she’d greeted him with a hug and kiss in front of me.

  He was definitely boyfriend material, so when he formally asked me out – a couple of days after our lovely classroom smooch – I was delighted. ‘About time,’ I was tempted to reply.

  I didn’t say anything of the sort, obviously. Instead, I pretended to think about it, somehow managing to keep a straight face, before nodding and uttering a calm, simple ‘okay’.

  I didn’t want to look too keen at such an early stage. I knew, based on the experience of friends, how quickly boys could lose interest in the absence of a chase.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Clearly that wasn’t a problem,’ Cassie says.

  ‘Sorry?’ Rose takes a second to return from the pull of her memories. She blinks away the sweat running down her face, thanks to the heat of her present surroundings: the rustic barrel sauna. She and her new friend have this latest stop on the tranquillity tour to themselves for the moment. And boy, is it warm! The G&T they each drank before coming inside may have made it feel even more so.

  ‘Well, if you’re getting married now, Ryan obviously didn’t lose interest.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ Rose says. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Have you been together the whole time since then, Rose?’

  ‘Um, not the whole time, no.’ She fans her face with both hands, wondering if it’s as red as she fears. Cassie doesn’t look espe
cially flushed, which only makes her feel more paranoid. Maybe it’s not as hot as Rose thinks. Perhaps it’s more down to the fact she’s a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. She still can’t believe how much she managed to drink on her hen do. It was as if she’d been granted temporary boozing superpowers for the night.

  Cassie is looking at her expectantly from the wooden bench opposite, clearly wanting to know more about the not entirely smooth course of her and Ryan’s relationship. ‘We split up briefly a couple of times at school. You know how it goes when you’re young. Stupid arguments about nothing. But we never managed long without getting drawn back to each other.’ She pauses before saying anything else, weighing up how much she wants to reveal to Cassie, whose own background remains a mystery. ‘We also parted ways for a while when I was at university, but that didn’t take either. When you’re meant to be together, you’re meant to be together, right? Love’s a powerful thing.’

  ‘It is,’ Cassie says.

  ‘I’m guessing it was love that led to you settling in Ireland. Am I right?’

  Cassie raises an eyebrow and squeezes her lips into a tight smile. ‘You might be right, you might not. I will tell you, I promise, but not yet. That was our deal, remember.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Why else would you move there from New Zealand?’

  ‘I never said I went straight from one to the other. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. And even if I did, it could have been for work. Or perhaps I simply fancied a change of scenery.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Rose says, ‘the Emerald Isle is absolutely lovely, but New Zealand looks so spectacular! I bet it’s an amazing place to live. Fine, I’ll admit that work is another possibility for the move. It’s such a long way, though. I’m convinced it was down to love. If you want to persuade me otherwise, you’ll have to actually tell me something. As for why you’re here in the Ribble Valley, I’ll admit that has me stumped for now, but it has to be linked to the past, one way or another. It can’t be a coincidence that you grew up in Lancashire, even if it was elsewhere in the county. A family matter, perhaps, or something to do with an old friend?’

  Cassie doesn’t respond straight away. She stares at Rose with a calm, impenetrable expression on her face. Finally, she says: ‘All in good time. But let’s stick to our agreement and continue with your story first. I’m really enjoying hearing all about you and your life. I’d love to hear some more.’

  ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘That’s up to you. It’s your story, Rose. There is one thing I’d like to you to tell me, though, if that’s okay: your mother’s name. I didn’t want to interrupt you when you were full flow, but I’m fairly sure you didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Oh, right. Didn’t I? Sorry. I guess that’s because I usually just think of her as my mum. Although it’s hard to think of her at all, considering I have no actual memories of her and so little to go on from my dad. Anyway, she was called Catherine, for what it’s worth. I’d tell you more, but—’

  ‘No, no. I quite understand. I just like to know a name. It’s easier to picture people in your mind that way, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I do have a picture of her in my mind, purely imaginary, and I suppose she looks like a Catherine. But in truth, I tend to imagine her as looking rather like me now, partly because she died so young. Is that weird?’

  ‘No, I think it’s perfectly understandable.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rose adds, shifting gear to conceal how self-conscious she suddenly feels. ‘Would you like to hear some more about me and Ryan or should I return to family stuff? There’s so much I could cover from the past. It’s hard to know where to focus.’

  Cassie nods, throwing a pensive look at the small sauna’s curved wooden ceiling, apparently weighing up the two options, before replying. ‘Fair enough. Let’s go with the latter. I’m particularly intrigued by your father, I must admit. It sounds like there’s a really strong bond between the two of you.’

  ‘There is,’ Rose replies. ‘He’s my only parent: the one constant I’ve always had in my life. The fact I’m now the age he was when I was born helps me to appreciate the sacrifices he must have made in his life to focus everything on me. Not that he’s ever said that; nor would he. But, of course, it goes through my head that maybe I’m to blame for the abrupt end to his literary career. If I hadn’t come along – if he hadn’t had to bring me up alone – would he have written loads more books by now? Had he written a novel a year, or even every two years, as many authors do, he’d have a huge body of work today. And he was good. Really talented. I’ve read his book and I’m not surprised it garnered so much praise and attention. It made me really proud. Imagine what else he might have gone on to write.’

  ‘You can’t think like that. It’s pure speculation. He may have only written the one book whatever happened, for all you know. What did he end up doing instead?’

  ‘Initially, he focused almost entirely on me. He was in a fortunate enough position to be able to do that on the back of the major success of A Child’s Scream, especially with it also becoming a movie.’

  ‘Right.’ Cassie nods.

  Rose has always tended to explain her father’s wealth this way. It is partly true – and people are always willing to believe that authors are loaded, even though it’s rarely the case these days, from what she’s heard. However, it’s most certainly not the whole truth, especially now, so many years after the success of his one novel. No, there’s family money at play too.

  Stephen, Rose’s grandad, was a man of means. He once set up and ran a large frozen foods business, which he sold for a huge sum, investing that money wisely and building up a healthy portfolio of stocks, shares and property. When he died, his family were all well taken care of, more than making up for Dave’s dwindling literary earnings.

  This is not something Rose’s father has ever spoken much about. She’s thankful for the money, though, knowing it allowed her to grow up in comfort and with her father around all the time, rather than out at work.

  ‘He was a stay-at-home dad until I started at primary school. Then he converted an outhouse in our garden into a workshop and started his own business.’

  ‘Really?’ Cassie asks. ‘Doing what? Something related to his writing?’

  ‘No, totally different. Still creative, but in another way: he builds furniture.’

  ‘Wow. That is quite different. What kind of things? How did he get into that?’

  ‘He can make most things, but he specialises in chairs and tables of all kinds, shapes and sizes. He creates them from scratch, either bespoke, to a particular customer’s specifications, or from his own imagination. They’re really nice. Unique. Totally different from the usual kind of thing you find in shops. He started out by making me some items for my bedroom when I was little: a reading chair and two bedside tables. He did it for fun, but ended up finding it really enjoyable. He then made a couple of things for family and friends, who were really impressed, and it escalated from there.’

  Rose doesn’t know the financial ins and outs of her dad’s business, but she suspects he doesn’t make a huge profit. He’s still a one-man band with no apparent desire to expand beyond his workshop. And he definitely doesn’t charge enough, especially to people he knows, to cover the considerable time each of his wonderful creations takes him to make. The way she looks at it, though, if it keeps him busy and makes him happy, that’s what counts. How fortunate not to have to be money-driven. He’s generous too. She knows he has monthly direct debits set up to a variety of charities.

  Last year, he supported a fundraising auction for the church Nana used to attend, donating two spare creations: a lovely rustic oak coffee table and the cutest child’s stool with a sheep carved into the top. And that was despite him not being a churchgoer. He did it because he knew how much it would mean to his mum. Not that he told her about it. Deborah only found out from Rose, who knew her dad wouldn’t have said anything.


  When she was younger, on occasional evenings and weekends when he was busy with a particular project, she sometimes used to do her homework alongside him in his workshop. They’d beaver away independently, soft classical music or jazz playing in the background. Always instrumental, as Dave said lyrics were bad for concentration.

  She tells Cassie most of this, skipping the part about her hunch that he makes little profit from his furniture building. That’s none of her business. Not that any of it is her business, come to think of it.

  Why is she telling so much to a stranger?

  Reflecting on this suddenly makes Rose suspicious.

  Hang on. What if Cassie is a journalist trying to dig up dirt on her father, the reclusive literary figure? Oh my God! How has she not thought of this until now, after running her mouth about all sorts? And today of all times: a week before the wedding. What if a terrible exposé comes out in the papers next weekend, breaking her dad’s heart and ruining everything?

  Rose’s heart is pounding. Her breathing is laboured and shallow; she feels woozy.

  And then, somehow, she’s on to thinking about Cara, feeling awful that she’s not been in her thoughts while she’s been chatting to Cassie; wondering how she’s dealing with her family emergency, whatever it might be. She should have left with her best friend, no matter what. Cara would never have abandoned her in such circumstances.

  ‘Everything all right, Rose?’ Cassie asks, a shadow of concern falling over her face. ‘You look like something’s wrong. Are you too hot? We can move on if you like.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Rose says, jumping to her feet and storming out of the small sauna at speed. She doesn’t look back until she’s outside, resting on a wooden bench, appreciating the much cooler air as she greedily sucks it into her lungs.

  Cassie follows her. She wipes perspiration from her furrowed brow as she approaches. ‘Can I get you some water, Rose? You look parched.’

  ‘Yes, please.’