Page 76 of Somewhere Only We Know

I held my hands up, laughing in horror. ‘That was not what I meant!’

We entered my cottage, and she sat down while I fetched Brontë’s notebook.

‘There’s a bookmark in it,’ I said, handing it to her. ‘I haven’t looked beyond this page and I don’t want to either. The rest of my trip is a mystery.’

‘This is so cool.’ She gave me an appraising look. ‘You’re cool too. I miss my mum.’

I sat beside her so that our knees were touching. I wanted to give her a hug, but I wasn’t quite sure we were on hugging terms yet. ‘I’m sure she misses you too.’

She shook her head. ‘Then why did she leave me? She’s been gone three months. I haven’t seen her since. She left me a letter telling me she would always love me, but it doesn’t feel like it.’

My heart broke for her, poor kid. ‘I don’t know enough about your parents to comment, but maybe she felt she didn’t have a choice.’

‘She did.’ Daisy’s eyes flashed. ‘She had a choice between me and Pierre – and she chose him.’

‘I felt the same when my dad left home,’ I told her. ‘My little sister and I stayed with my mum. I thought that he didn’t care about us, but the truth was that it was my mum he’d fallen out of love with, not us. He still loved us.’

This was in fact debatable, but there was no point in digging into that particular wormhole. He had loved us – I felt sure of that – but as time had gone on he’d gradually distanced himself from us, only getting involved when either Kat or I forced him to. It wasn’t the greatest demonstration of fatherly love, and his actions following Mum’s eviction had shown me that he wasn’t a man who could be relied on. But this wasn’t about me, it was about Daisy and her parents.

‘I wouldn’t have wanted to leave Ruby Creek and go with Mum and Pierre,’ she said. ‘All my friends are here, and my school, and I love Dad. But sometimes you want a hug from your mum, you know?’

‘I do know,’ I confirmed.

While I watched Daisy examine Brontë’s book, marvelling at her clever illustrations and reading her anecdotes and observations, I let my mind examine my emotions surrounding my mother.

I did know about wanting a hug from your mum. Despite everything. There’d been so many times over the years when I’d needed just that. Not because a hug could solve anything, but because occasionally you needed to be reminded that someone loved you unconditionally, that when you were hurting or overwhelmed or lost, someone understood and would happily share your burden.

My memory of the day I told Mum I was pregnant was as sharp as it had always been. How her response had been to inform me that she’d regretted becoming a mother. I’d shut her out from that day onward. I’d never told Kat what she’d said. I didn’t want her relationship with our mother ruined by me. To give her her due, Mum had apologised. In cards, in phone messages, by leaving gifts outside my door. I hadn’t let her back in my life, but oh how I’d been tempted to.

Those difficult early weeks and months with a newborn, feeling clueless, exhausted and lonely. The years of being a proud mum as Brontë had grown into an energetic, happy child, through the wilful teenage years and finally revealing the impressive young woman who floored me with her enthusiasm and excitement for her life to come. I’d wanted to share my pride; I’d wanted a mum who would revel in Brontë’s achievements and tell me what a good job I’d done with her. But I couldn’t trust my mum to be that person, so I’d kept her at arm’s length.

Mum had been at Brontë’s funeral. I’d spoken to her, although I have no recollection of what I said. She’d looked old and grey, a tissue twisted up in her hand. I’d allowed her to hug me, as I let everyone hug me, but I wanted to scream at her. How dare you mourn her now, when you didn’t even want her to exist in the first place?

‘Daisy, I’m not your mum, and I’m only here for two weeks, but I do give great hugs,’ I said, holding her gaze.

‘Thanks.’ She dipped her chin. ‘I bet you were a great mum.’

Her use of the past tense brought tears to my eyes, and I hurriedly blinked them away. She was young and had yet to know the mother-child bond from the other side.

‘I like to think I still am,’ I said. ‘Brontë will always be my daughter, I will always be her mum.’

She thought about that for a moment and nodded. ‘I guess you never stop being someone’s mum, do you? Like you never stop having a mum, even if they’re not there anymore.’

I nodded. ‘I’m sure your mum thinks about you all the time. Have you told your dad that you miss her?’

She scrunched up her pretty face. ‘Whenever I try to talk about her, he changes the subject. When she left, he said she wasn’t welcome here ever again. He’s really mad about her and Pierre. I think he’s humiliated too. Do you think my dad is good-looking?’

I was taken aback by the sudden question and found myself floundering for words. ‘Jono? Yes. Your dad is a very handsome man.’

She shrugged, throwing her hands out to the sides. ‘Exactly! Pierre is old, like ten years older than dad, and really grumpy. Why would Mum …?’ She broke off, shuddering. ‘I don’t even want to think about it.’

I smiled to myself, remembering Jono’s words about Pierre’s French accent. I wondered about Andrea, and what had been going through her mind when she ran off with Pierre and left Ruby Creek and this lovely girl behind. Was she regretting her decision, missing Daisy?

‘Jono loves you, and he seems like a really nice guy. He’s hurting too. My advice is to keep talking to him, let him know how you feel. Maybe he and your mum could work out a way for you to see her.’

Daisy looked speculatively at me. ‘Do you think?’

Before I could answer, Max bounded through my open door, leaping up onto the sofa and knocking Brontë’s book out of Daisy’s hand. Jono appeared next, his broad shoulders filling the door frame.