Daughter Darling

DAUGHTER DARLING KELLY GOLDEN CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Letter from the Author FREE Short Story & Mailing List Contact the Author 1 I love being in this room. It’s just the kind of room I wanted when I was a little girl. There’s a circular rainbow rag rug under a glass bead chandelier, rose pink walls, a giant gold-framed mirror propped next to a bookcase which is filled half with books, half with things Imogen has found on the beach or made – sea glass, driftwood, tiny models of cats, paper houses with flowers drawn in boxes on their windowsills. On the middle shelf is a print I found on Etsy, the words ‘Darling Daughter’ spelled out in a fluid calligraphy flourish in a bright pink, heart-shaped frame. The morning sun streams through the gauzy white curtains and sets the glass in the frame ablaze. Hanging from a hoop above the bed is a dusky pink, pom-pom-fringed canopy. Last winter, Imogen took to sleeping with it pulled closed around her bed for warmth. Now she says it’s to keep out the light. She’s quirky like that – always has been. I can’t tell if she’s awake yet. I consider sneaking inside and snuggling up to her in her warm nest to tell her the good news, but I don’t want to disturb her if she’s still asleep. My Imogen needs her rest, poor petal. So instead, I set the old tray on the floor. I made her porridge with honey and banana, and next to her morning milk and pills sits a half-square of chocolate – just a really tiny bit. She’s been so good recently and it’s not spoiling if it’s just a rare treat. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe out of her room and close the door behind me. The landing is dark and musty, gloomy light working its way up the stairs from the ground floor windows. I haven’t made as much effort with the rest of the house as I have with Imogen’s room. I keep it cleaner than I can ever remember it, but the cost of renovating these high-ceilinged caverns with their threadbare carpets is hard to stomach when the only money I have coming in is rent from the fields. Along the corridor a door squeaks and I freeze, but then Socks, our ginger cat with white paws, comes out of the bathroom. I press my hand to my chest as 2 Downstairs, I make a mug of tea in the beautiful old kitchen with its flagstones worn by six generations of Bodillys. The walls were painted with a thick cream gloss by a great-grandparent and I’d say it looks as good now as it did when I was a kid. The farm, twenty-five acres of fertile hills with one large farmhouse and a huddle of barns, was bought by my great-great-great-grandfather about a hundred and fifty years ago. It sits on the north Cornish coast, three miles from Port Emblyn, and seagulls come to drop their mussel shells on our rocky cliffs. From the counter I pick up a photograph from years ago that has slipped off the shelf above the tea things. I found it in an old album and propped it where I’d see it every day, but it’s now slightly tacky as it’s fallen so many times between the sugar and tea caddies. I can remember the moment this picture was taken perfectly, just outside the back door with freshly washed sheets billowing in the sea breeze. I look at the sweet angel child with her sun-bleached curls and raspberry-smudged smile, her tiny hands clinging to a stick and an orange bucket, her bare feet in a soapy puddle on the lichened paving slabs. I wince as a needle of headache jabs above my right eye, but I press my palm to it and it eases. Children are born perfect. Their innocence, their capacity for love, their simple desires. It’s a gift to be in the presence of such purity; to be given the chance to nurture a life. This is the life that I’m giving Imogen – the pretty room, the meals at the table, the sunblock and toothbrushing and times table practice, the afternoons lying together reading in the sun, the duvet days in front of old Disney films with steaming mugs of hot chocolate… Okay, I’m a bit jealous. But I’m getting to live it too. Children are a second chance. What I want is for Imogen to live the perfect childhood. To see how it’s meant to be done. I want to give her the foundation that will allow her to be happy and make good choices. Kind choices. I take my tea and go to sit out on the patio. A