I sit there in stunned silence. I don’t think anybody’s ever really asked me that before.
* * *
It’s strange how life goes on even as it’s falling apart. Sometimes I wonder how my grandmother coped during the war. Separated for six years from her husband, not knowing if he was dead or alive, yet still she had to sweep the floor, buy the groceries, and clean the toilets. I expect she ate cake with friends—when she had the rationing coupons—and thought about the most mundane things. Somehow, human beings have the ability to survive no matter what’s thrown at them.
As I watch Daisy slowly bring her glass up to her lips, her hands shaking like an old man’s, I marvel that even she has a survival instinct forcing her to go on. A few weeks after kissing Niall, my own survival instinct is a different matter. I smother it with concerns for other people.
“How was she?” Daisy asks. She’s picking at the skin around her thumbnail. A tiny bead of blood glints in the sunlight before she wipes it away, a ruby smudge angling down her thumb.
“She misses you.” I think Daisy needs to hear this. “She wants to come home to you. Did Grace tell you if it’s on the cards?” I know Daisy’s been meeting with her social worker weekly.
Daisy shrugs. “She won’t say. We’re on supervised visits only at the moment. Until I can prove I’m clean and Darren’s not coming back they won’t let her come and live with me.” Her voice is drowned out by the roar of a motorbike engine. We both wait for it to pass by.
“He’s not coming back is he?” I try to swallow down the rising bile. A memory of her lifeless body flashes through my mind.
“He said he wasn’t.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “When he let them… you know.”
It turns out it wasn’t Darren who beat her up, not that it really matters. He was the one who virtually pimped her out to his mates. The one who stood and watched as they bashed her to within an inch of her life. He poisons everything he comes into contact with, and I don’t blame Allegra’s social worker for wanting to keep him away from her.
“Why do you go back to him every time?” Of all people, I shouldn’t be the one asking her this. It’s like asking an addict why they take drugs.
Or why I can’t keep Niall Joseph out of my mind.
“I love him.” Her reply’s so simple it makes me want to cry. That isn’t love. It’s sick and evil. She was so neglected as a kid that any attention equates to love in her book.
“But what about Allegra? What if he ever let someone hurt her as he hurt you?”
Her face twists as I ask the question, her lips turning thin. “Are you telling me I don’t love my kid?” A lock of her dirty-blonde hair falls i
n her eyes as she leans forward. “Don’t you dare fucking say that.”
I’m hasty in backtracking. “Of course not. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s so fucking easy for you to judge me, isn’t it? With your rich husband and lovely house and no worries about anything in life. Maybe Darren was right about you.”
My heart starts to race. I’m never good with confrontation. “What do you mean?”
“He reckons I’m your bit of rough. Your project. He thinks you don’t give a shit about me and Allegra, that you only hang around us to make yourself feel better.”
Her words are a slap in the face. I feel the injustice of them as if it’s a physical thing. “That’s not true. I love you and Allegra.” I want to say more but my voice catches in my throat, scraping at the skin.
“Then why do you judge me? Just because you’ve got the perfect fucking life. You’ve never had to slum it.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I can’t stand the thought of Darren ever hurting either of you. You deserve better.”
“If you think I’d ever let anybody hurt my baby you know fuck all. I can’t believe you even said it.” She pulls out a cigarette and slides it between her dry lips. “If I hear you’ve said anything to the social workers I’ll bloody whack you.”
I don’t think she means to be intimidating. It’s the way she is—the way she has to be—in order to get by. Life has taught her it’s either fight or flight, and she’s chosen to punch her way through the bad times. Part of me is glad she’s coming out with her fists held high, that she’s not going to let things bring her down. But it’s still scary in the firing line.
The cafe door bangs open as the waitress comes out with our food. A teacake for Daisy and a piece of toast for me. Daisy pulls out the raisins before she butters it, piling them on the side of her white plate until they resemble a mound of dead flies. I scrape the butter across my own toast even though I have no appetite. The sound of my knife against the crunchy bread is better than the silence.
“I wouldn’t come between you and Allegra,” I say, finishing the dregs of my lukewarm tea. “I know how much she wants to come home.”
Daisy seems mollified, though I’m not sure if it’s my words or food in her stomach that softens her up. “I want her home. I won’t do anything to endanger that.” When I look up she’s staring at me through watery eyes. “Help me,” Daisy begs. “Help me get my baby back.”
“How?”
“Tell Grace I’m better now. Tell her I’m a fit mother. I just want her back. She hates it at the home.”