Daphne
Daphne
Daphne had never understood dogs. Cats she rather admired. They walked their own path. They were independent and wily, and doled out affection sparingly and only when they had an agenda. Dogs, on the other hand, were entirely too needy and would roll over for a tummy tickle from any random passerby. That was no way to garner respect.
But despite her misgivings, Daphne was actually really enjoying having Maggie Thatcher to stay. The dog was, it transpired, an excellent listener, gave far more back than Daphne’s spider plant, and was more trustworthy than the yucca.
“A little more smoked salmon with your scrambled egg, Margaret?” asked Daphne. She refused to call her dog “Maggie.” Margaret was far more dignified, and reminded Daphne of one of her role models—Princess Margaret, the late Queen’s late sister. Now, there was someone who kicked arse and never took prisoners. And such style .
While Margaret ate her breakfast, Daphne checked OurNeighbours.com for any updates. She scrolled down to the post discussing the council meeting about Mandel Community Center, and read again the words that had given her such a thrill. They hadn’t used her name, thank goodness, but they were definitely describing her.
Wasn’t that old lady brilliant? Who was she? We need her on the council!
She scrolled through the comments, relishing the adjectives used to describe her: “feisty,” “eccentric” and—bizarrely—“the bomb.” This was the first time she’d been likened to an explosive device. Although, come to think of it, maybe not.
Daphne remembered Jack, in another life, describing her as a firecracker. He’d whispered the word in her ear, with warm, whiskey-infused breath, as he’d pulled her toward him, while they danced in a smoky basement club to the sound of a jazz band. She’d laughed, and he’d wound her auburn hair around his hand, pulling back her head and kissing her in the hollow of her neck. She blinked several times to dislodge the memory, and focused on the screen in front of her.
There were some rather rude adjectives, too, of course, but Daphne was quite used to that. The important thing was that she was being noticed. Back on the map. Yet, still—for the time being, at least—safely incognito.
Daphne wasn’t stupid. She knew that all of this could end in disaster. She’d lit a fuse without knowing what it was attached to. Rookie error. But it was such a joy not to be hiding away any longer. And if she was going to go down, she might as well go down in flames. As befitted a firecracker. Or a bomb.
Just as Daphne was about to close her laptop, she spotted something else. A photo of the postbox outside the town hall. It was sporting a giant woolly Santa hat. A hat that looked spookily familiar. MYSTERY YARN BOMBER OF HAMMERSMITH STRIKES AGAIN! read the headline.
Oh, Ruby, you dark horse , she said to herself. You’re the Banksy of the knitting world. It looked as if Daphne wasn’t the only one with secrets.
Daphne closed her laptop and turned to the dog. “Right, when you’ve finished, we need to go and collect that baby,” she said.
Daphne was a little nervous about looking after Ziggy’s baby. Kim? Khloe? She was sure it was one of the Kardashians. The Kardashians were Daphne’s guilty addiction, on account of her huge admiration for Kris, the matriarch. A modern-day Princess Margaret. She knew that were she and Kris to meet in real life, they’d be the best of friends.
Despite Daphne’s assurances to Janine, she had, in fact, managed to reach the grand old age of seventy without having gained any experience with babies whatsoever. Still, it couldn’t be that hard to keep a tiny human alive for an hour, could it? Her father, Ziggy, was only a child himself, and he seemed to manage it.
The hallway of the community center was filled with parents and carers picking up their children. On a table, prominently placed in the center, in a display of utterly misplaced optimism, was a collection box labeled SAVE OUR COMMUNITY CENTER . How many years of people adding their spare pennies to the box would it take to raise the ￡80,000 required? It was going to take far more than begging for loose change to solve their problem.
Within seconds, Maggie Thatcher was surrounded by a swarm of children.
“Look! It’s M!” said one.
“Don’t be silly,” said Daphne. “M is just an initial, not a name. Her name is Margaret.”
“What breed is she?” asked one of the mothers.
“A toy poodle,” said Daphne.
“Really?” said the woman, raising a skeptical, verging on impertinent, eyebrow.
“Yes. She just likes to wear her fur a little differently from the average poodle,” said Daphne. “She has flair.” Daphne stared pointedly at the old, shapeless polyester tracksuit the rude woman was wearing.
“Kylie!” said Janine to the baby she was carrying on her hip, solving the Kardashian mystery. “You’re going home with Daphne today. Isn’t that going to be fun?”
Kylie gave Daphne a steady appraising glance, then burst into tears. She was obviously a much better judge of character than Janine.
“Margaret’s coming, too!” said Daphne, pointing at the dog. Kylie looked a tiny bit reassured. And, to be fair, Margaret had probably spent more time with babies than Daphne.
Daphne leaned over to buckle Kylie into her pushchair. She’d seen Ziggy do this a number of times, often with one hand. He made it look incredibly easy. It wasn’t. Daphne tried rearranging the various bits of plastic and strap in every permutation and combination, but nothing seemed to work. Daphne could solve a Rubik’s Cube in under three minutes, and crack a safe almost as quickly, but this was beyond her.
“I imagine the technology’s all changed since your day, eh, Daphne? I bet you used a Silver Cross pram!” said Janine. “Look, you put these two bits together like this, then clip them into here. See?”
“And how do I release her at the other end?” said Daphne.
“You just press this red button here,” said Janine.
“Like an ejector seat!” said Daphne. Janine looked at her a little warily, then gave her Ziggy’s flat keys and waved them out of the door.
···
Daphne stared down at the battered London A–Z in her hand, trying not to stop moving lest Kylie started yelling again, and someone realized she was totally unqualified and called the police. She was aware that using an actual map in this day and age was an anachronism, that most people used their phones for that sort of thing, but she loved her A–Z . Daphne liked to be able to highlight her route, to run her finger along it, and to make little notes in the margins: wonderful flower shop—does creative things with cabbages; café sells good, strong espresso; the alleyway where Jack and I had wild, celebratory sex, after concluding a business deal .
Daphne had had her trusty A–Z for decades, so it was no longer entirely accurate. But it was a reminder of paths taken and not taken, and of places still to see. One of which was Ziggy’s flat.
Daphne turned into a large, somewhat notorious, council estate, built in the 1960s when low-cost, high-rise housing had become all the rage. While Christmas lights and decorations had started to spring up around the neighborhood streets over the past week or so, the estate remained depressingly gray and bleak, dotted with overflowing rubbish bins. The only festive lights on display were wound around an abandoned, broken fridge-freezer, which at least showed that someone had a good sense of irony.
She felt a prickle at the back of her neck—that strange sixth sense that someone was watching, the one that had saved her life at least once. She turned to see a group of youths in hoodies, leaning against a wall, appraising her. Her practiced eye picked out the heavy designer watches and chunky gold jewelry that looked incongruous against their bleak surroundings. They said nothing, but their eyes followed her, like hyenas tracking a wounded wildebeest.
Daphne was no wildebeest. Certainly not a wounded one. If she had been a wildebeest in a previous life, she’d have been the Kris Jenner of the herd. She studied the group, searching for the leader. She could tell by the body language. The way each of the other boys leaned almost imperceptibly toward him, like sunflowers tracking the sun. She stared him full in the face, chin slightly raised, unblinking. He raised an eyebrow at her, then, a few seconds later, gave a tiny nod.
Still got it.
Daphne pushed the buggy, Maggie Thatcher trotting along beside her, toward a sign reading Flats 115–159 , and backed it through a swing door into a gloomy lift lobby, half lit by a flickering light bulb and covered in graffiti tags. Daphne pressed the button for the lift, which took an age to arrive, and—when it finally did—smelled strongly of urine and cannabis.
The lift doors closed, and Daphne pushed the buggy backward and forward in the confined space, trying to stop Kylie from shrieking. Maggie Thatcher squatted and did a mini wee in the corner.
“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, eh, Margaret?” said Daphne. She was pretty sure Princess Margaret would never have weed in a lift. Or perhaps she would. That woman had had hidden depths.
The door to Number 143 was immediately to the right of the lift well. Daphne fished around in her handbag for Ziggy’s keys, and opened it.
Ziggy’s flat, Daphne was hugely relieved to see, was everything the building’s common parts were not. Clean, bright, and homely. The tiny entrance hall was filled with coats, boots, and shoes in three sizes—big (Ziggy), medium (his mum, no doubt), and tiny (Kylie). Daphne felt like Goldilocks, and wondered if she might find three bowls of porridge on the kitchen table. Daphne left Kylie wailing and thrashing in the stationary buggy for a few moments while she peered into each of the doors leading off the hallway. This was just like stalking on Rightmove.co.uk, but in real life.
It was the first time Daphne had been in anyone else’s home since 2008. It was strangely thrilling being surrounded by possessions that she’d not chosen herself, not knowing what she’d find when she opened a door.
There were two bedrooms—one very neat double and one containing a single bed and a cot, the walls plastered with pictures of Chelsea football team and a couple of scantily dressed reality TV stars on one side, and brightly colored mobiles and glow stars on the other. She found one small bathroom, very clean, but overflowing with a mixture of men’s and women’s toiletries and a basket of plastic bath toys, nappies, wipes, and creams. Finally, there was a decent-sized living room with a small kitchenette at one end.
Daphne pressed the ejector seat button on the buggy, which released Kylie in a disappointingly muted manner, then picked up the wailing child and sat her in the center of a brightly striped rug on the sitting-room floor.
“What is it you want?” Daphne asked her. “You’re going to have to learn to communicate a little better than this, you know, or you’ll never get anywhere in life.”
Kylie yelled harder, her previously pretty little face all red and scrunched up in an uncannily accurate impression of the angry face emoji. Daphne had recently discovered that one on her new phone and was desperate for a chance to use it.
Maggie Thatcher licked Kylie’s face, which was a novel and rather helpful way of removing all the snot and tears. Much better for the environment than wet wipes. Kylie stopped crying for a moment, no doubt in shock. Daphne supposed being licked by a tongue almost as large as your head must be a strange, and not entirely pleasant, experience. For a blissful moment, Daphne enjoyed the silence, before Kylie started up again, even louder.
Daphne sank into the armchair next to Kylie, placing her handbag on the floor. She only had to wait about forty-five minutes until Ziggy got home, but those minutes were going to feel like hours.
Kylie reached out for Daphne’s handbag, and clenched her gums around one of the leather straps. Silence.
“You’re not supposed to eat it, you know,” said Daphne. “Especially since it’s vintage Prada. If you insist on eating a handbag, at least choose one from Primark. You carry things in it. Look.” She unzipped her bag and showed Kylie the contents.
Kylie grabbed the bracelet around Daphne’s wrist.
“Ah, you have great taste, my friend,” said Daphne. “Here—you can play with it, if you like.”
Daphne unclasped the bracelet and passed it to Kylie, who actually smiled at her.
To her immense surprise, Daphne felt something very much like happiness.
Perhaps she and Kylie could, at the very least, reach some sort of understanding.