Daisy Darker: A Novel

1

I was born with a broken heart.

The day I arrived into this lonely little world was also the first time I died. Nobody spotted the heart condition back then. Things weren’t as sophisticated in 1975 as they might be now, and my blue coloring was blamed on my traumatic birth. I was a breech baby, to complicate matters further. The weary doctor told my father to choose between me or my mother, explaining apologetically, and with just a hint of impatience, that he could only save one of us. My father, after a brief hesitation he would spend the rest of his life paying for, chose his wife. But the midwife persuaded me to breathe—against all their odds and my better judgment—and a hospital room full of strangers smiled when I started to cry. Everyone except for my mother. She wouldn’t even look at me.

My mother had wanted a son. She already had two daughters when I was born, and chose to name us all after flowers. My eldest sister is called Rose, which turned out to be strangely appropriate as she is beautiful but not without thorns. Next to arrive, but still four years ahead of me, was Lily. The middle child in our floral family is pale, and pretty, and poisonous to some. My mother refused to name me at all for a while, but when the time came, I was christened Daisy. She is a woman who only ever has a plan A, so none of us were given the contingency of a middle name. There were plenty of other—better—options, but she chose to name me after a flower that often gets picked, trampled on, or made into chains. A mother’s least favorite child always knows that’s what they are.

It’s funny how people grow into the names they are given. As though a few letters arranged in a certain order can predict a person’s future happiness or sorrow. Knowing a person’s name isn’t the same as knowing a person, but names are the first impression we all judge and are judged by. Daisy Darker was the name life gave me, and I suppose I did grow into it.

The second time I died was exactly five years after I was born. My heart completely stopped on my fifth birthday, perhaps in protest, when I demanded too much of it by trying to swim to America. I wanted to run away, but was better at swimming, so hoped to reach New York by lunchtime with a bit of backstroke. I didn’t even make it out of Blacksand Bay and—technically—died trying. That might have been the end of me were it not for the semi-deflated orange armbands that kept me afloat, and my ten-year-old sister, Rose. She swam out to save me, dragged me back to shore, and brought me back to life with an enthusiastic performance of CPR that left me with two cracked ribs. She’d recently earned her first aid badge at Brownies. Sometimes I suspect she regretted it. Saving me, I mean. She loved that badge.

My life was never the same after I died a second time because that’s when everyone knew for sure what I think they already suspected: that I was broken.

The cast of doctors my mother took me to see when I was five all delivered the same lines, with the same faces, as though they had rehearsed from the same sad little script. They all agreed that I wouldn’t live beyond the age of fifteen. There were years of tests to prove how few years I had left. My condition was unusual, and those doctors found me fascinating. Some traveled from other countries just to watch my open-heart surgeries; it made me feel like a superstar and a freak at the same time. Life didn’t break my heart, despite trying. The irregular ticking time bomb inside my chest was planted before birth—a rare congenital glitch.

Living longer than life had planned required a daily cocktail of beta blockers, serotonin inhibitors, synthetic steroids, and hormones to keep me, and my heart, ticking. If that all sounds like hard work and high maintenance, that’s because it was, especially when I was only five years old. But children are more resilient than adults. They’re far better at making the most of what they have, and spend less time worrying about what they haven’t. Technically, I’d already died eight times before I was thirteen, and if I’d been a cat, I would have been concerned. But I was a little girl, and I had bigger things than death to worry about.

Twenty-nine years after my traumatic arrival, I’m very grateful to have had more time than anyone predicted. I think knowing you might die sooner rather than later does make a person live life differently. Death is a life-changing deadline, and I’m forever in debt to everyone who helped me outstay my welcome. I do my best to pay it forward. I try to be kind to others, as well as to myself, and rarely sweat the small stuff these days. I might not have much in terms of material possessions, but that sort of thing never really mattered to me. All in all, I think I’m pretty lucky. I’m still here, I have a niece whom I adore spending time with, and I’m proud of my work volunteering at a care home for the elderly. Like my favorite resident says every time she sees me: the secret to having it all is knowing that you already do.

Sometimes people think I’m younger than my years. I’ve been accused of still dressing like a child on more than one occasion—my mother has never approved of my choice in clothes—but I like wearing dungaree dresses and retro T-shirts. I’d rather wear my long black hair in intricate braids than get it cut, and I’m clueless when it comes to makeup. I think I look good, considering all the bad things that have happened to me. The only visual proof of my condition is carved down the middle of my chest in the form of a faded pink scar. People used to stare if I wore something that revealed it: bathing suits, V-neck sweaters, or summer dresses. I never blamed them. I stare at it too sometimes; the mechanics of my prolonged existence fascinate me. That pink line is the only external evidence that I was born a little bit broken. Every couple of years during my slightly dysfunctional childhood, doctors would take it in turns to open me up again, have a look inside, and do a few repairs. I’m like an old car that probably shouldn’t still be on the road, but has been well looked after. Though not always and not by everyone.

Families are like fingerprints; no two are the same, and they tend to leave their mark. The tapestry of my family has always had a few too many loose threads. It was a little frayed around the edges long before I arrived, and if you look closely enough, you might even spot a few holes. Some people aren’t capable of seeing the beauty in imperfection, but I always loved my nana, my parents, and my sisters. Regardless of how they felt about me, and despite what happened.

My nana is the only person in my family who loved me unconditionally. So much so, she wrote a book about me, or at least about a little girl with the same name. If mine sounds familiar, that is why. Daisy Darker’s Little Secret is a bestselling children’s book, which my nana wrote and illustrated. It can be found in almost every bookstore around the world, often nestled between The Gruffalo and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Nana said she chose to borrow my name for the story so that—one way or another—I could live forever. It was a kind thing to do, even if my parents and sisters didn’t think so at the time. I suspect they wanted to live forever too, but they settled for living off the book’s royalties instead.

Nana had more money than she knew what to do with after writing that book, not that you’d know it to look at her. She has always been a generous woman when it comes to charity and strangers, but not with herself or her family. She believes that having too much makes people want too little, and has always hesitated when asked for handouts. But that might be about to change. Many years ago, long before I was born, a palm reader at a fair in Land’s End told my nana that she wouldn’t live beyond the age of eighty. She’s never forgotten it. Even her agent knows not to expect any more books. So tomorrow isn’t just Halloween, or Nana’s eightieth birthday. She thinks it’s her last, and they think they might finally get their hands on her money. My family haven’t all been in the same place at the same time for over a decade, not even for my sister’s wedding, but when Nana invited them to Seaglass one last time, they all agreed to come.

Her home on the Cornish coast was the setting for my happiest childhood memories. And my saddest. It was where my sisters and I spent every Christmas and Easter, as well as the long summer holidays after my parents got divorced. I’m not the only one with a broken heart in my family. I don’t know whether my parents, or my sisters, or even Nana’s agent take the palm reading about her imminent death seriously, but I do. Because sometimes the strangest things can predict a person’s future. Take me and my name for example. A children’s book called Daisy Darker’s Little Secret changed my family forever and was a premonition of sorts. Because I do have a secret, and I think it’s time I shared it.

2

October 30, 2004, 4 p.m.

Seeing Seaglass again steals my breath away.

It normally takes at least five hours to drive from London to Cornwall, slightly less by train. But I’ve always enjoyed swapping the hustle and bustle of the city for a network of twisted memories and country lanes. I prefer a simpler, slower, quieter way of living, and London is inherently loud. Navigating my way back here has often felt like time travel, but my journey today has been quicker than expected and relatively pain free. Which is good, because I wanted to get here first. Before the others.

I’m pleased to see that nothing much has changed since my last visit. The stone Victorian house with its Gothic turrets and turquoise tiled roof appears to have been built from the same granite rocks it sits on. Pieces of blue-green glass still decorate some of the exterior walls, sparkling in the sunlight and gifting Seaglass its name. The mini mansion rises out of the crashing waves that surround it, perched upon its own tiny private island, just off the Cornish coast. Like a lot of things in life, it’s hard to find if you don’t know where to look. Hidden by crumbling cliffs and unmarked footpaths, in a small cove known locally as Blacksand Bay, it’s very much off the beaten track. This is not the Cornwall you see on postcards. But aside from the access issues, there are plenty of other reasons why people tend to stay away.

My nana inherited Seaglass from her mother—who allegedly won it from a drunken duke in a card game. The story goes that he was an infamous bon viveur who built the eccentric building in the 1800s to entertain his wealthy friends. But he couldn’t hold his liquor, and after losing his summer palace to a woman, he drowned his sorrows and himself in the ocean. Regardless of its tragic past, this place is as much a part of our family as I am. Nana has lived here since she was born. But despite never wanting to live anywhere else, and making a small fortune writing children’s books, she has never invested much on home improvements. As a result, Seaglass is literally falling into the sea and, like me, it probably won’t be around much longer.

The tiny island it was built on almost two hundred years ago has slowly eroded over time. Being exposed to the full force of the Atlantic Ocean and centuries of wind and rain has taken its toll. The house is swollen with secrets and damp. But despite its flaking paint, creaking floors, and ancient furnishings, Seaglass has always felt more like home to me than anywhere else. I’m the only one who still visits regularly; divorced parents, busy lives, and siblings with so little in common it’s hard to believe we’re related have made family gatherings a rather rare occurrence. So this weekend will be special in more ways than one. Pity fades with age, hate is lost and found, but guilt can last a lifetime.

The journey here felt so solitary and final. The road leads to a hidden track on top of the cliff that soon comes to an abrupt dead end. From there, the only two options to get down to Blacksand Bay are a three-hundred-foot fall to certain death or a steep, rocky path to the sandy dunes below. The path has almost completely crumbled away in places, so it’s best to watch your step. Despite all the years I have been coming here, to me, Blacksand Bay is still the most beautiful place in the world.

The late-afternoon sun is already low in the hazy blue sky, and the sound of the sea is like an old familiar soundtrack, one I have missed listening to. There is nothing and nobody else for miles. All I can see is the sand, and the ocean, and the sky. And Seaglass, perched on its ancient stone foundations in the distance, waves crashing against the rocks it was built on.

Having safely reached the bottom of the cliff, I remove my shoes and enjoy the sensation of sand between my toes. It feels like coming home. I ignore the rusty old wheelbarrow, left here to help us transport ourselves and our things to the house. I travel light these days. People rarely need the things they think they need in order to be happy. I start the long walk across the natural sandy causeway that joins Seaglass’s tidal island to the mainland. The house is only accessible when the tide is out, and is completely cut off from the rest of the world at all other times. Nana always preferred books to people, and her wish to be left alone with them has been mostly granted, and almost guaranteed, by living in such an inaccessible place.

The invisible shipwrecks of my life are scattered all over this secluded bay with its infamous black sand. They are a sad reminder of all the journeys I was too scared to make. Everyone’s life has uncharted waters—the places and people you didn’t quite manage to find—but when you feel as though you never will, it’s a special kind of sorrow. The unexplored oceans of our hearts and minds are normally the result of a lack of time and trust in the dreams we dreamed as children. But adults forget how to believe that their dreams might still come true.

I want to stop and savor the smell of the ocean, enjoy the feel of the warm afternoon sun on my face and the westerly wind in my hair, but time is a luxury I can no longer afford. I didn’t have very much of it to spend in the first place. So I hurry on, despite the damp sand clinging to the soles of my feet as though trying to stop me in my tracks, and the seagulls that soar and squawk above my head as if trying to warn me away. The sound of their cries translates into words I don’t want to hear inside my head:

Go back. Go back. Go back.

I ignore all the signs that seem to suggest that this visit is a bad idea, and walk a little faster. I want to arrive earlier than the rest of them to see the place as it exists in my memories, before they spoil things. I wonder if other people look forward to seeing their families but dread it at the same time the way I always seem to. It will be fine once I’m there. That’s what I tell myself. Though even the thought feels like a lie.

The wind chimes that hang in the decrepit porch try to welcome me home, with a melancholy melody conducted by the breeze. I made them for my nana one Christmas when I was a child—having collected all the smooth, round pieces of blue and green glass I could find on the beach. She pretended to like the gift, and the seaglass wind chimes have been here ever since. The lies we tell for love are the lightest shade of white.

There is a giant pumpkin on the doorstep, with an elaborate scary face carved into it for Halloween; Nana does always like to decorate the house at this time of year. Before I can reach the large weathered wooden door, it bursts open with the usual welcoming party.

Poppins, an elderly Old English sheepdog, is my nana’s most trusted companion and best friend. The dog bounds in my direction, a giant bouncing ball of gray and white fur, panting as if she is smiling, and wagging her tail. I say hello, make a fuss of her, and admire the two little plaits and pink bows keeping her long hair out of her big brown eyes. I follow the dog’s stare as she turns back to look at the house. In the doorway stands Nana, five foot nothing and radiating glee. Her halo of wild white curls frame her pretty, petite face, which has been weathered by age and wine. She’s dressed from head to toe in pink and purple—her favorite colors—including pink shoes with purple laces. Some people might see an eccentric old lady, or the famous children’s author: Beatrice Darker. But I just see my nana.

She smiles. Come on inside, before it starts to rain.

I’m about to correct her about the weather—I remember feeling the sun on my face only a moment ago—but when I look up, I see that the picture-perfect blue sky above Seaglass has now darkened to a palette of muddy gray. I shiver and realize that it’s much colder than I’d noticed before too. It does seem as though a storm is on the way. Nana has a habit of knowing what is coming before everybody else. So I do as she says—like always—and follow her and Poppins inside.

Why don’t you just relax for a while, before the rest of the family joins us? Nana says, disappearing into the kitchen, leaving me—and the dog—in the hallway. Something smells delicious. Are you hungry? she calls. Do you want a snack while we wait? I can hear the clattering of ancient pots and pans, but I know Nana hates people bothering her when she’s cooking.

I’m fine, thanks, I reply. Poppins gives me a disapproving look—she is never one to turn down food—and trots out to the kitchen, no doubt hoping to find a snack of her own.

I confess that a hug might have been nice, but Nana and I are both a little out of practice when it comes to affection. I expect she is feeling just as anxious as I am about this family reunion, and we all deal with anxiety in different ways. You can see fear on the surface of some people, while others learn to hide their worries inside themselves, out of sight but not out of mind.

The first thing I notice—as always—are the clocks. It’s impossible not to. The hallway is full of eighty of them, all different colors, shapes, and sizes, and all ticking. A wall full of time. There is one for every year of Nana’s life, and each one was carefully chosen by her, as a reminder to herself and the world that her time is her own. The clocks scared me as a child. I could hear them from my bedroom—tick tock, tick tock, tick tock—as though relentlessly whispering that my own time was running out.

The bad feeling I have about this weekend returns, but I don’t know why.

I follow my unanswered questions further into Seaglass, hoping to find answers inside, and I’m instantly filled with a curious collection of memories and regrets. Transported back in time by the familiar sights and smells of the place, a delicious mix of nostalgia and salty air. The diffused scent of the ocean loiters in every corner of the old house, as though each brick and beam has been saturated by the sea.

Nothing has changed in the years I have known this place. The whitewashed walls and wooden floors look just as they did when my sisters and I were children—a little worn out maybe by the leftover love and loss they have housed. As I breathe it all in, I can still picture us as the people we used to be, before life changed us into the people we are now, just like the sea effortlessly reshapes the sand. I can understand why Nana never wanted to live anywhere else. If this place were mine, I’d never leave it behind either.

I wonder again why she has really invited the whole family here for her birthday when I know she doesn’t love or even like them all. Tying up loose ends, perhaps? Sometimes love and hate get tangled, and there is no way to unpick the knot of feelings we feel. Asking questions of others often makes me ask questions of myself. If I had the chance to iron out the creases in my life before it ended, which ones would I choose to smooth over? Which points and pleats would I most want to unfold so they could no longer dent the picture of the person I wished to be remembered as? Personally, I think that some wrinkles and stains on the fabric of our lives are there for a reason. A blank canvas might sound appealing, but it isn’t very interesting to look at.

I head up the creaky stairs, leaving the ticking clocks behind me. Each room I pass contains the ghosts of memories from all the days and weeks and years I have walked along this hallway. Voices from my past trespass in my present, whispering through the cracks in the windows and floorboards, disguised as the sound of the sea. I can picture us running through here as children, giddy on ocean air, playing, hiding, hurting one another. That’s what my sisters and I were best at. We learned young. Childhood is a race to find out who you really are, before you become the person you are going to be. Not everybody wins.

I step inside the bedroom that was always mine—the smallest in the house. It is still decorated the way it was when I was a girl, with white bedroom furniture—more shabby than chic—and old peeling wallpaper covered in a fading pattern of daisies. Nana is a woman who only says and does things once, and she never replaces something unless it is broken. She always used to put flowers in our bedrooms when we came to stay as children, but I notice that the vase in my room is empty. There is a silver dish filled with potpourri instead, a pretty mix of pine cones, dried petals, and tiny seashells. I spot a copy of Daisy Darker’s Little Secret on the bookshelf. Seeing it reminds me of my own secret. The one I never wanted to share. I lock it away again for now, back inside the box in my head where I have been keeping it.

The ocean continues to serenade my unsettled thoughts, as though trying to silence them with the relentless shh of the sea. I find the sound soothing. I can hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, and my bedroom window is stained with the resulting spray, droplets running down the glass like tears as if the house itself were crying. I peer out and the sea stares back: cold, infinite, and unforgiving. Darker than before.

Part of me still worries that I was wrong to come, but it didn’t feel right to stay away.

The rest of my family will be here soon. I’ll be able to watch them walk across the sandy causeway one by one as they arrive. It’s been such a long time since we’ve all been together. I wonder whether all families have as many secrets as we do. When the tide comes in, we’ll be cut off from the rest of the world for eight hours. When the tide goes back out, I doubt we’ll ever all be together again.

3

October 30, 2004, 5 p.m.

My father is the first to arrive.

Being punctual is his only way of saying, I love you. For as long as I can remember he has expressed emotions through timekeeping, unable to demonstrate affection in the ways most other fathers do. But when I think about him growing up here as an only child, in a house full of clocks, on a tiny tidal island, I suppose time was always going to be on his mind. As a boy, I suspect he was often counting down the minutes until he could leave. I watch him from my bedroom window as he trudges across the damp sand. The sun is still setting, melting the sky into a palette of pinks and purples that do not look real. Dad glances up in my direction, but if he sees me, he doesn’t smile or wave.

Frank Darker is a frustrated composer who mostly conducts. He still travels the world with his orchestra, but while that might sound glamorous, it isn’t. He works harder than anyone I know, but doesn’t earn as much as you might think. Once he has paid the salaries, hotel bills, and expenses of an entire ensemble, he doesn’t have a lot of spare change. But he loves his job and the people he works with. Perhaps a little too much: his orchestra is more like family to him than we ever