by Lulu Taylor
‘When can I get out of here?’ she murmured. ‘I’m in fucking agony and I’m bleeding like a pig as well. How long does that go on for?’
Elaine remembered the aftermath of her own first delivery. No one could be prepared for the physical consequences of giving birth, the great trauma it caused to both mind and body. Michelle groaned and rolled over, obviously in pain.
‘Is there anyone to come in and see you?’ asked Elaine, more sympathetically.
‘Nah.’
‘The baby’s father?’
The girl made a snorting sound that Elaine took to be a derisory laugh.
The social worker sighed. It was a sad story. What kind of life did the fatherless baby face with this sad, lonely creature for a mother? What sort of future awaited her? The child would be safe enough here in hospital, and checks would be carried out before she could be allowed to go home with Michelle. If there was inadequate housing and the mother still showed signs of addiction, the child would be put immediately into foster care. Elaine would be happy to bet a sizeable sum on that outcome. ‘So,’ she said a little more brightly, ‘have you thought of a name for her?’
‘Yeah.’ Michelle looked round, a spark of interest in her eyes. ‘I’m gonna give her a really nice, glamorous name. Something that don’t sound like she comes from round here. I’m gonna call her Chanelle.’
‘Chanelle. Very pretty.’ Elaine picked up her pen and snapped the nib out. ‘Now we’ve got a name, we’d better get on with filling out some of these forms then, hadn’t we?’
3
DAISY DANGERFIELD LIKED this game very much. She called it ‘Being Like Daddy’, and it was a game she and her father both enjoyed. They always played it when Daisy came to stay in London. It would start the same way: Nanny would dress her up in her best pink coat with the velvet collar, pale pink leather shoes and a big pink bow in her fair hair. Then she would be summoned downstairs where Daddy was waiting in the hall in his huge grey overcoat and black hat, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
‘Here’s my princess!’ he’d yell as she came skipping down the stairs, giggling. Then she’d put her tiny hand in his huge one and they’d go down the front steps of the house to where the Rolls-Royce was waiting for them. The driver, Ted, opened the door for her and she’d climb into the vast interior and on to one of the slippery pale leather seats. Once Daddy was beside her, he would open the silver drinks cabinet that was recessed in the panelling in front of him, and pour himself a grownup drink from a crystal decanter, one of those liquids that looked as pretty as honey but smelled bitter and nasty.
While he sipped it and shouted through the dividing window at Ted about the traffic and the state of the markets, Daisy would press her face up against the cool glass window and watch the reactions of the people on the pavement as the car glided past them. In Belgravia, where they lived, there were plenty of cars like this and no one took much notice, but as soon as they were passing along busy shopping streets and through crowded squares, she would see people stare, their mouths dropping open and their eyes widening at the sight of the magnificent golden car with its unmistakable Spirit of Ecstasy mascot on the bonnet. Ted would drive them to a smart, modern building in the City of London, the place where Daddy’s company, Dangerfield Property Investments, had its headquarters, and a doorman would come and open the door of the Rolls and hand Daisy down exactly as if she were a real, grownup lady.
Inside, she held Daddy’s hand all the time, and, when he sat behind his huge mahogany desk, she would perch on his knee, pretending to help him run the enormous empire of Dangerfield holdings even though she was only four years old. All the grey-haired businessmen in their dark striped suits and silk ties would smile at her fondly and burst into roars of laughter whenever she spoke.
Today was a special day for Daisy. Daddy had promised her a surprise and she was eager to find out what it was. When the Rolls stopped at the entrance to the Dangerfield headquarters, she was ready to jump out as soon as the car door was opened.
‘Hey now, don’t be in such a hurry,’ laughed Daddy in his deep, booming voice. ‘It’ll keep, Princess. Another five minutes won’t make any difference.’
But Daisy couldn’t wait. She hurried in, her little leather shoes tapping on the marble floor of the entrance hall, and went straight to the special lift that only Daddy used, pushing the button for the top floor. The security guards and receptionist smiled fondly at her as Daddy followed behind, his laugh echoing in the vast atrium.
‘I wish all my employees were as eager to get to work!’ he declared, coming up to Daisy and taking her hand in his.
By the time the lift doors opened on the top floor, people had gathered to meet them: executives, assistants and the secretaries who followed Daddy around whenever he was at work. And they always beamed at little Daisy, their affection for her blazing out of their eyes. Each one of them took every opportunity to tell Daddy how much they adored his little girl.
‘Here we are,’ he announced, smiling at his staff. ‘Is my surprise ready?’
They were led along the carpeted corridor to Daddy’s vast office, with its three glass walls and panoramic view over the city: St Paul’s Cathedral lying almost immediately below in its splendour, with the river stretching away beyond, spanned by bridges; skyscrapers to the east and the less dominant skyline of Westminster to the west. But they didn’t go into Daddy’s office this time. They stopped instead at a door next to his, and Daddy pointed at an engraved nameplate.
‘Can you read that, sweetheart?’ he asked.
Daisy recognised her own first name written out in capital letters, although she could not yet read her surname. Nanny had taught her the alphabet and how to scrawl out her name, but she wouldn’t learn to read properly until September when she started at her exclusive girls’ prep school.
‘Daisy! Me!’ she announced proudly, and everyone laughed.
‘Clever girl,’ said her father fondly. ‘Let’s go in.’
They stepped into a perfect miniature office. There was a small but beautifully made dark wooden desk inlaid with scarlet leather, and tucked under it was a child-size replica of Daddy’s own carved mahogany chair but this one had a little scarlet cushion. On the desk was an ivory pen pot with a miniature Mont Blanc pen in it, a Smythson scarlet leather writing pad stamped with ‘Daisy Dangerfield’ in gold letters, and a shiny black modern telephone. On the wall hung a pretty painting of a pot of daisies.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Daisy, clapping her hands with joy. The watching executives murmured their admiration of the adorable little set up. She ran to the desk, pulled out the chair and sat down. She swung on it happily and it turned smoothly, without a squeak. Laughing, she beamed up at her father.
‘Do you like it, darling?’ he said, his expression soft.
‘Yes, Daddy, yes!’
‘Look, I’ll show you how it works.’ Daddy came forward and picked up the telephone receiver. He showed her how one of the buttons would connect her to Lorraine, her personal assistant, who would fetch whatever she wanted. Lorraine stepped out from the crowd of onlookers and smiled.
‘Can I have betsy cola?’ asked Daisy quickly.
Her father laughed heartily. ‘Well, if you are a very good girl and make lots of lovely profits for Daddy, then you’ll be allowed a Pepsi-Cola. And this button is for when you want to speak to me. Your telephone is directly connected to mine and we shall be able to speak whenever we want to. Now, what do you think?’
Daisy gave herself an extra strong swing and put out her legs as she revolved in her little chair. ‘I think … I like it here!’
Everyone laughed again, then Daddy picked her up and carried her along the corridor to his own office. The others left them, to go to the boardroom in readiness for a meeting. Daddy and Daisy were left alone, the little girl in her father’s arms as they stared solemnly at the portrait over the fireplace. It showed a man who looked like Daddy: dark hair, strong features and a determined look in his blac
k eyes below the thick dark brows. But this man had a neat black moustache, small gold-rimmed glasses and wore old-fashioned clothes.
‘My father,’ said Daddy softly as they looked together. ‘The man who passed on his gifts to me and made me what I am today. He was a brave man, Daisy. A man who struggled every day of his life, and who gave us all the blessings we enjoy. He gave me so much, and what he gave me, I pass on to you – my daughter. There are some Dangerfields who aren’t true members of the family and we must beware of them. But you are, and one day, my dear, all of this – the Dangerfield inheritance – will be yours.’
Daisy thought for a moment, trying to understand what had just been said. Then something occurred to her. ‘And Sarah’s?’ she said brightly. ‘And Will’s?’
There was a pause. She felt her father’s shoulders stiffen under the soft wool of his business suit. She wondered if she’d said something wrong. Surely Daddy meant for her brother and sister to have something too – that was always how it was at home. If one of them got a biscuit, they all got a biscuit.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said gruffly. ‘Will’s and Sarah’s too. But you, Daisy …’ His hand tightened around her small one. ‘You are the special one. Try to understand that, my dear – you are the special one.’
4
LITTLE NELLY HUGHES was playing in the sandpit in the garden. Her father had built it for her ‘specially, and she loved it when he pulled off the wooden cover and let her climb in with her feet bare, the cold dampish sand squelching up between her toes. Inside was a collection of toys: buckets, little pots, plastic spades and some toy cars and tractors. A naked Sindy doll kept smiling despite the fact that her nylon hair was matted and dull with sand. Nelly liked to make the dolly have adventures in the sandpit, muttering to herself in a long, ceaseless stream of chatter as she played.
She was lost in her own world when her mother came to the sliding patio doors and called for her.
‘Nelly! Nelly! Come inside, please!’
Nelly heard a note of anxiety in her voice and looked up. Her mother stood just inside the house, wiping her hands on the apron she always wore during the day, unless there were visitors. As Nelly watched, her mother carefully untied the strings and took the apron off, folding it up neatly as she did so. The little girl got up obediently and climbed out of the sandpit. Her feet were scratchy with sand, so she wiped them quickly on the grass, picked up her sandals and came skipping back over the lawn.
‘What is it, Ma-ma?’ she asked chirpily. If visitors were here, a plate of the best biscuits appeared on the glass coffee-table in the lounge, and that meant one for Nelly. She hoped there were the round shortbread ones, with the window of sticky jam in the middle like a little red cushion or a shining jewel. She liked those best of all.
‘The lady’s here, darling,’ said her mother, her expression worried. ‘She says she phoned to tell us that she was coming this morning but we thought it was tomorrow. Oh dear, oh dear …’ Her mother’s eyes filled with tears.
Nelly didn’t say anything but gazed up, hoping and trusting that whatever was wrong, her mother would make it all right.
‘Come along.’ She bustled Nelly through the dining room, smoothing down the child’s hair as they went. Outside the lounge, her mother kneeled down and helped Nelly put on her sandals as she muttered that it couldn’t be helped. Then she stood up, took a deep breath, smiled and ushered the child into the sitting room.
It’s always cold in here, Nelly thought. It was only used for best, and there was a chill in the air that never went away. The family lived mostly in the kitchen or else in the room her mother called the snug – a small cosy room with a squashy sofa and a television.
In the lounge sat a plump lady in a flowery dress and glasses, a big bag by her side. She stood up with a smile as Nelly and her mother came in.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How nice to see you again. Do you remember me?’
Nelly nodded silently. She did remember her. The lady had come here before and asked to see her. There had been questions, dull ones, and she’d been made to sit still and answer them with the promise of a jam biscuit as a reward if she answered nicely. It was never the way it was when one of her mother’s friends came round and the adults ignored her as they chattered away, pouring endless cups of tea and not noticing when she slipped another pink wafer off the plate.
This lady had also been there when Nelly had been taken to a place like a doctor’s waiting room: a bright room, with toys and tables and chairs in it. Another lady had been there, asking to play with Nelly and telling the little girl to call her ‘Mum’, but Nelly hadn’t wanted to. The skinny, shabby woman, smelling of cigarettes and with her nose pierced, was nothing like Nelly’s own clean and comforting mother. Instead, the little girl had played with the dolls and ignored her.
Nelly expected a question from the visitor, but the lady turned instead to her mother.
‘Is she ready?’
‘No, not really … we thought … tomorrow …’ Her mother sounded helpless.
‘You should have warned her in advance,’ reproved the lady. ‘That’s the policy we advise.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s going to be worse for the poor little thing now.’ She turned her attention to Nelly again, the big smile spreading over her face. Nelly didn’t trust it.
Did the lady think she couldn’t hear anything? What was going to be worse? She felt a flicker of apprehension.
‘Have you had a lovely time here?’ the lady said in a stickily sweet voice. ‘Have you enjoyed it?’
What does she mean? Playing in the sandpit? Nelly just stared back and said nothing.
The lady turned to her mother again. ‘She has lovely eyes, hasn’t she? Very striking, that greeny-blue colour. You’ve done an excellent job, Mrs Thornton, you really have. You’d hardly know it was the same child. Remember how she was as a baby!’
Her mother looked down and Nelly saw pain deep within her eyes and felt cold clammy fear crawl over her. ‘Yes,’ said her mother in a strange, tight voice. ‘I thought she’d never stop crying. It took four months before she stopped suffering. Now you’d never know what she’d been through. It’s taken a lot of love and care.’
The lady looked sympathetic. When she spoke it was in a low, soft voice. ‘I know how difficult this is. I’m very sorry.’
‘We … we had hoped … to adopt.’ Nelly’s mother’s voice sounded choked.
‘That’s what we all thought would happen,’ the lady said, shaking her head. ‘But the mother really has turned her life around, quite unexpectedly. And her petition to have the child back to live with her was granted.’ The lady shrugged. ‘You know and I know that the best thing for the poor mite is to stay here with you. But what the judge says … well, that’s what happens, I’m afraid.’
Nelly reached out for her mother’s hand. She had grasped that they meant her when they said ‘poor mite’. ‘I want to stay with you!’ she said quickly, clasping Ma-ma’s fingers.
‘When does she go?’ asked Nelly’s mother in a shaking voice, putting her own hand over Nelly’s.
‘This afternoon, I’m afraid. We can wait until your husband gets back so he can say goodbye.’
‘So soon?’
The lady nodded, and Nelly saw to her horror that her mother was crying.
‘I don’t want to go!’ she cried, nestling into the warmth of her mother’s body. ‘Where am I going? I won’t go! I won’t.’
Her mother suddenly pushed her away, stood up and ran out of the room, sobbing. Nelly watched her go, staring after her with wide eyes, confused and frightened. The lady in the armchair opposite leaned towards her, her eyes grave and sad.
‘Now, Chanelle,’ she said softly. ‘You must be very brave. Do you understand? You must be a very brave girl indeed.’
5
THE PARTIES HELD in honour of Daisy’s birthdays were legendary: in the grounds of Thornside Manor, a modern William-and-Mary-style palatial mansion in the gre
enest, plushest part of Surrey, whole fairgrounds and circus tops appeared. One year, a fairyland was built in the grounds, with tiny houses where real little people lived, along with a miniature castle with a moat for Daisy and her friends to play in. Another year, a dozen over-excited eight-year-old girls were dressed and made up as miniature Disney Cinderellas, before being driven around the grounds in a glass coach pulled by white ponies, and then enjoying a party in the ballroom of the house. And the celebrations weren’t confined to birthdays. People still talked of the Christmas extravaganza that Daddy organised one year: fake snow, husky dogs, sleigh rides and a skating rink were all conjured into existence, along with stalls handing out hot chocolate or hot blackcurrant and endless ice cream. Father Christmas himself came from Lapland to sit in a beautiful, twinkling, snow-covered chalet and hand out splendid presents to everyone. Daisy had a sense that anything was possible – Daddy could always make her dreams come true.
For her twelfth birthday, she asked for something a little more grownup. Her entire class was invited to a smart hotel in London where Daisy’s favourite pop group, a chirpy quartet, performed on the stage and then mingled with the party goers. Familiar faces were everywhere, tucking into canapés and seeing if they could get anything harder to drink than lemonade: they were the stars of Daisy’s favourite television soap opera, flown over from Australia to be guests at her party.
‘Thank you, Daddy!’ she’d said, squeezing him tight in a gigantic hug.
‘You’re welcome, my princess. Anything for you,’ he’d replied, kissing her cheek and beaming with pleasure.
Everybody thought how wonderful it was to be a Dangerfield and have such a loving, indulgent father. But they didn’t see what it was like at home, when Daddy wasn’t the expansive, generous giver of gifts and thrower of parties. They didn’t see his rages.
Daisy was thankful that these were never directed at her. When Daddy wanted to let rip with his lacerating tongue, he directed it at Julia, criticising her looks, her clothes, and almost every choice she made. Or he took out his bad temper on Will and Sarah, his children by his first marriage. Daisy’s half-brother Will was five years older than she was and seemed very grownup. Sarah came next, with three years between her and Daisy, although her shyness and reserve made her seem a little younger. Daisy loved being with her big brother and sister, but some of the time they lived with their mother, Elizabeth, who had been divorced from Daddy before Daisy was born. Will and Sarah were both at boarding school and divided exeats and holidays between their parents.