This is fine, p.19
This Is Fine, page 19
‘Not exactly, but we can watch a video of how to do it. I’ve fixed loads of stuff around the house that way. Leaking tap, dodgy toilet, fuse, pulling out a splinter. You don’t need men for this stuff,’ I say sagely.
‘All right, go on then.’ After watching the video a few times, we open the boot of the car to see there is no spare tyre. When I look enquiringly at Daisy she says: ‘What? This is a rental.’
‘We’ll never get a taxi on a Saturday night this late. Myra is at Greg’s,’ I say, ‘let’s just walk there, all right? You can get your steps in or whatever.’
‘Fine,’ she snaps.
‘Daisy,’ I say, ‘you promised you wouldn’t lose your temper.’
‘Yeah, well,’ she says, without a trace of humour in her voice, ‘promises can be broken.’
*
Greg’s house, a cottage on the other side of the town, is a thirty-minute walk away. After we pass the crowds clustered on the beach around bonfires, laughing raucously in the beer garden of the local sea-facing pub, I make Daisy stop for a moment. For a small woman she can certainly get her march on, sweat beading on her upper lip as she mutters loudly about how she CAN’T BELIEVE IT and Myra is coming back to London tomorrow MORNING and fuck summer camp, it’s MILITARY CAMP.
Using Myra’s phone, Greg texted to let me know what the situation was. He had got a rescue dog from the shelter and so had … Myra. Except while Greg had been through the whole process in advance with his mother and had already been approved by the shelter, Myra had stolen hers. The rest of the details were still unclear, but when they returned to Greg’s, reality set in for Myra and she’d been too scared to go home.
‘Look, is what she did really that bad?’ I ask.
Daisy’s face shakes with anger. ‘I know you think you have a handle on things because you’ve turned her into Alan Titchmarsh, but this is what she does, Padma. She pushes and pushes to see how far she can get away with things. And this time she has gone too far.’
‘Just listen. Give me a minute. Three weeks ago, your kid would have been doing god knows what, god knows where. We’ve passed tons of teenagers just now, drinking and smoking behind their parents’ backs. Worse even. And look, I don’t know what I’m doing – not really. I’m not a parent. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you …’
‘No, you can’t,’ she says sharply. ‘She’s my flesh and blood, Padma. I’m the one who worries about whether she’s dead in a ditch somewhere. I—’
‘I know,’ I say, squeezing her shoulder. ‘She came from you – you literally created her from breath and bone. I cannot imagine how it must feel, the weight of that love! But, Daisy, do you trust me?’ She looks at me across that gulf we have allowed to grow between us. Maybe she wants to say yes but doesn’t know how to reconcile the complicated love between us.
‘Whatever has happened in the intervening years, I have loved you longer than I have loved anyone on this planet,’ I continue. ‘If you need something to trust in, trust in that. But I am telling you, this kid needs to be heard, to be understood.’
‘She knows how I feel about this, Padma,’ says Daisy, her voice strained. ‘She’s been asking for a dog forever. We’ve always said no because we have a ton of art in the house. And she doesn’t take responsibility for anything – how is she going to take responsibility for a living creature? And rather than talk to us about it, she steals a dog? Does that sound like a normal thing to you?’
‘I don’t agree with how she did it but I think we need to find out why she did it,’ I say, refusing to give in. ‘And this may be an inappropriate thing to say … but think about when homeless people have dogs, Daisy. They can provide love, routine and purpose. Maybe this will be good for Myra.’
‘Well, how do you suggest I handle this?’ she retorts. ‘Just say, “Hey, kid! Congratulations, you’re now the proud owner of a dog!”’
‘I wouldn’t say anything tonight. I would tell her you can talk about it tomorrow. But I think if she shows she can take care of a dog, then let her keep it. I’ll help. Okay? Because I don’t think any piece of antique furniture is worth the price of your child’s broken heart. Have some fun with her tomorrow. Go shopping together. Have some food. Watch one of her awful horror films with her. Ask her to show you what she’s been doing in the garden. Do your make-up together. Walk the dog.’
She grunts and eventually motions me to keep walking. ‘I can’t believe you said that about homeless people,’ she says.
*
‘Her name is Tara,’ Myra says softly to us when she opens the door. In her arms is a small, wriggling caramel ball of fluff. I catch sight of one enormous dark brown eye under a frizz of fur. The other seems to be permanently closed, an accident, maybe. Tara’s tail wags so hard it beats a tattoo against Myra’s arm. I hold back to give Daisy centre stage. She doesn’t shout or yell. Something softens in her gaze when she sees Myra, but anger holds her back from saying anything loving.
Sarah Margaret drops us all back at the house together with a plastic bag of dog food to tide us over until the morning. When the front door closes, Tara shoots off to inspect the rest of the house. ‘She’s a year old and house-trained,’ Myra says, her body language submissive and small, trying to reduce the surface area that will receive a verbal lashing.
But there is none. ‘What happened?’ Daisy says wearily. ‘Why did you …’
We sit in the living room, the two of them on the sofa, and me in the oversized armchair covered in blankets. ‘Mum, I know …’ Myra begins, and then stops. Takes a deep breath like I taught her and gathers herself. ‘We went to the shelter and everything was fine. I promise, I didn’t plan this. But while Greg was sorting out Lucky, I overheard that they were going to put down another dog. She only has one eye – I don’t know if you noticed? No one wanted her because of that, even though she’s the cutest thing. When I said I would take her, they laughed and said I needed to have all this paperwork. They laughed, Mum. And she was going to die because of what? Not having the right paper?’
Daisy leans over and holds her hand. The confusion and hurt on Myra’s face are painful to see. Witnessing someone’s first steps towards understanding how brutal the world can be sometimes, the lack of value placed on a life. And, I thought more proudly, how sometimes you need to find a way even when other people won’t make one for you. And Myra had. ‘While they were on a lunch break, I just – snapped. If I hadn’t taken her, she would’ve been …’ She starts crying and Daisy pulls her into a mother-bear hug.
I go to get up from the armchair to give them some time, but Daisy gestures me over. I gingerly sit on the other side of Myra.
‘Hello, trouble,’ I say, hugging the other side of her.
‘Hello, Aunt,’ she says back, her face muffled in Daisy’s neck.
‘Why did you name her Tara?’
She lifts her head and turns to face me. ‘It means “star” in Sanskrit. Did you know that?’
Daisy’s face behind her fills with emotion, some of it pride, some sadness, all of it love.
*
The next morning just after dawn I make myself a coffee and open the back door to see Myra leaning half-asleep against the wall in a Pokémon hoodie, watching Tara sniff the flowers, selecting a spot to pee. I’ve never seen her awake this early. I’m not necessarily a dog person, but she is undeniably cute. A mixed breed with some poodle in there.
‘Good morning, dog-napper,’ I say.
‘Ha-ha,’ Myra yawns.
‘I put my neck on the line for you yesterday,’ I say. ‘You have to show you can look after this dog, and if you can, then you can keep her.’
Myra looks at Tara, shaking her bottom in the air as she digs between the fence posts, and love is already written in her gaze. There is no question of them being parted.
‘Whatever it takes. I’m amazed Mum let me bring her home at all. Although if she’d tried to separate us …’
I sip my coffee and we listen to birdsong for a while. ‘Your mum is wondering whether you should just go back to London with her. But I said you might want to stay. Do you want to be here with me? Or would you prefer to go back?’
She takes such a long time to answer, it makes me nervous. ‘I should probably stay. After all, who else would look after you? Besides, Mum just talks endlessly about school and A-levels and you’re lacking in direction, Myra. I’m only fifteen, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Language. Have you ever spoken to her about it?’
‘She doesn’t listen. She barely listens to you – and you’re a grown-up.’
It won’t help anyone if I take sides. Daisy needs help in softening towards Myra, and Myra needs help understanding her mother.
‘Did your mother ever tell you about your grandmother? What she was like?’
‘Not much. We have that picture of her hanging up and that’s it. I know she was a doctor.’
‘There’s a lot about your mother that can be explained by the type of person your grandmother was. I know it’s hard at your age – it feels like everyone has a say in your life or tries to control what’s in it. But I think maybe understanding your mother can make that stuff a bit easier, you know?’
‘Why – what was she like? What was different about her?’
‘Your dodda – that’s the word in our language for “grandma” – came over from India. She was a brilliant doctor but she always had to contend with being an immigrant and never fully being accepted. I think your mother saw how hard it was for her, and for me, and tried to make sure things were different for you. But it also means she puts a lot of pressure on … everything, and that can be really difficult. Especially if you don’t know why she’s being like that. What you think is a criticism of you – or you not being enough for her – isn’t really about you. It’s about her.’
I look at Myra to see if any of it is sinking in. She seems to be absorbing it, for now at least. I can tell the idea that her parents have had different experiences of safety and belonging has never occurred to her.
‘Your video is doing well, by the way,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘Let’s record some more this week.’
Tara bounds over for attention and Myra reaches down to give her a treat. Already in such a short space of time, Tara knows Myra is hers. I leave them in the sunshine, feeling the warmth of our shared plans, and this new life that has come into ours, needing both of us.
*
Before I walk down to the Green Goddess, I make a detour across to the beach Hugo and I visited. Alva Beach. I love this part of the morning, the softness present in the sky that is smudged pinks and blues, dew gathered in the grass as I walk past. There is only silence, too early for the hum of jet skis in the distance, and too late to catch the birds tidying up their nests or stalking about for worms.
I think about Daisy, and how tangled our love is. I’ve been avoiding conflict with her for so long, I failed to see that this is a vital part of how we measure our love for each other. That we cared enough to fight or disagree, and that love isn’t just agreeing with what the other person wants for fear of losing them or being banished. That daring to disagree is in fact an expression of certainty.
I make it to Beach Road just in time to help Selena with the morning service – plating up, chopping, making coffees – and Caitlin smoothly moves between tables, taking orders and handing out plates. Selena has been banished to the kitchen and told not to come out, which has alleviated a lot of the pressure she feels to talk to her customers while panicking that the fake bacon is burning.
Once the morning rush eases off, we sit down at a table with tea and a veggie sausage sandwich to discuss the two specials I’ll be making for her lunch service, but more excitingly, the relaunch of her menu in three weeks. While she’ll still be serving some local favourites, she’ll also be offering gluten-free and dairy-free options in the pastry and dessert cabinet. Eileen, who owns the only other competing café on Beach Road, is someone who believes gluten-free is ‘hipster bollocks’, and I think it will give Selena an advantage being the only place in Harkness to do it well.
‘This is cute,’ she says, gesturing at my striped top and loose parachute trousers that are tapered at the ankles. Given how meticulous she is about her clothes, it is a compliment that warms me.
I start working on the two specials I’m trialling at lunch, both hybrids. One is a macadamia nut chaat and the other a tikka masala vegetarian pie. I prep the chaat, chopping boiled potatoes, coriander, washing chickpeas, so all Caitlin has to do is scoop some in a bowl and drizzle on some tamarind and mint chutney, while the pie filling is already cooked. As I roll the pastry out for it, my eye catches Myra and Daisy peering through the window. I gesture at them to come in.
‘Why are you being so weird?’ I ask.
‘We didn’t want to disturb you while you’re working,’ Myra says, trying to rein in Tara, who is going berserk at the new and interesting smells in the café. As she snuffles her way over to Selena, who is putting out a bowl of water for her, Myra follows.
‘I see presents have been bought,’ I say to Daisy, referring to Tara’s new lead and the shopping bag that says Pups N Stuff. ‘Does that mean the dog is staying?’
‘For now,’ Daisy says, glaring at Tara wagging her tail. ‘She’s on probation. I’ll have to sort things out with the shelter but I’m sure we can reach an agreement.’
‘And are you going to take Myra back to London now or let her stay?’ I try to act nonchalant but I’m hoping Daisy will let her stay. I have no desire to return to London either, given that it will mean having to piece together my life.
‘She seems happy here and there’s only another three weeks to go so I’ve decided she can stay. How do you feel about that?’ she asks. ‘Wallace okay with you being gone this long?’
‘It’s fine with me.’ I roll out the dough, coloured a deep yellow from the turmeric I have folded into the flour. When I raise my head Daisy is looking curiously at me. ‘Oh, yeah, and Wallace. He’s fine.’
‘Mum! Let’s go,’ Myra says.
‘More shopping,’ Daisy explains. ‘We’ll see you back at the house. Let’s continue this chat later, okay?’ I nod and start pressing the filling into the pastry, eager for her prying gaze to be somewhere else.
‘Padma?’ Daisy says, and I look up from my work. ‘You look … happy. Right now. Like you’re in your element, you know?’
It’s the first time she has said anything like this to me. An observation that isn’t stapled on to a piece of advice about what she thinks I should be doing. Maybe it isn’t too late for people to change. For me, and for her.
12
The next morning, I wake just before the dawn. It feels as if something from the beyond, the dream or the death realm, is shaking my shoulder. With a blanket wrapped around me, I make my way out to the back of the house and settle into the new outdoor sofa, a mug of coffee held between my hands. Witnessing a sky full of stars transform into dawn makes it seem reasonable, possible even, that the loved ones we have lost sit in the space between the horizon and the earth.
I think of Mum, and that makes me think of Daisy and our histories, which are the same and yet so different. Daisy and I aren’t best friends, or even best siblings, but when it came to Myra, she listened to me. It made me feel like I mattered. That she needed me. I hadn’t realised how much I had needed to feel that from her.
The patio door scrapes open and Daisy steps over the threshold, her tiny body wrapped in a thick cardigan, like a piece of glass in cotton wool. She sits on the sofa, her knees pulled up to her chest like she used to do when we were kids. ‘Couldn’t sleep either?’ she says.
‘Something called me out here,’ I reply.
‘Careful,’ she says, ‘you’re starting to sound like Esme.’ I smile and continue to look straight ahead. We sit in the silence for a while until she gathers the right words. ‘Pads … it’s been brought to my attention that I don’t really ask you about … you.’
This must be the work of Myra.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I say.
‘Yeah, she said you’d say that. But are you fine? How are things with you? How are things with Wallace?’ She sips her coffee and looks sideways at me. For years, I have stopped telling Daisy anything about Wallace. She asks how he is, I say he’s doing well, neither of us talks about his absence from various parties, and he remains a distant satellite in her life. But now she isn’t asking how he is, she’s asking how things are with him.
I don’t know if it’s because it’s too early in the day to manufacture lies or because I’ve recently realised just how wearing it is to carry around a different version of myself for Daisy. But I tell her about how things have been, our conversations around kids and his ultimatum.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘why don’t you want kids? You’d be a great parent.’
I sigh. ‘See, this is why I don’t talk about this kind of thing with you.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Isn’t it enough, Daisy, for me to say I don’t want kids? That maybe I have given it some thought and it wasn’t something I just decided on a whim? Why is it that people cannot wrap their heads around the fact that not everyone wants a child?’
‘I didn’t say …’ she begins, but my repressed anger spills over.
‘I don’t want kids. I never have. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love Myra, or that I don’t admire what you do as a mother. Believe me, I do. But I don’t. Want. Them. I am not going to change my mind. And no matter what I say, no one seems to listen to me, least of all my boyfriend!’
The word ‘boyfriend’ rings out in the silent dawn. I hate losing my temper and Daisy doesn’t say anything. She knows the anger isn’t for her and for once she doesn’t rise to it. We watch the morning sky and wait for the sea air to carry away the heat of my words. Eventually she says: ‘I’m sorry.’ I cannot believe she has said that. The last time those two words came out of her mouth, she was a teenager. ‘That must be shit. Especially if you’ve been given an ultimatum.’
