Chapter 26
Australia
‘I thought we could make banana bread.’
It was seven in the morning, and I was in the main house with Daisy. I’d been awake since six and already had two strong cups of coffee. I’d had a quick look around the kitchen yesterday evening and there was a bunch of overripe bananas in a bowl looking desperate for attention.
She was dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and yawning sleepily. ‘Good choice. We’ve got yogurt and fruit to serve with it.’
‘Plus tea, coffee and juice, yeah?’
‘Better than Starbucks,’ said Daisy, twisting her hair up into a bun.
‘Thanks for helping out,’ I said, tying on an apron over my sundress. ‘Especially as we’re catering for twelve, including both of us and Jono. I’ve found this recipe.’ I showed her one I’d found online.
‘Hmm.’ She glanced at it. ‘I think Mum’s is better. More banana-y.’
‘Your mum’s it is. Do you have it written down somewhere?’
‘It’s up here,’ she replied, tapping the side of her head. ‘She taught me how to do it.’
In an instant I was back in my mum’s kitchen as a little girl, gathering the ingredients for something like her favourite raspberry buns while Mum recited the recipe.
There were still some things I could make on autopilot, all because I’d learned them at my own mother’s knee.
I’d forgotten about that. I’d forgotten the happy times when we’d cooked together.
Somehow my brain had filtered them out and only recalled the occasions when she hadn’t been bothered to cook, and Kat and I had had to fend for ourselves.
We decided to make two loaves, and Daisy put the oven on and found tins while I peeled and chopped eight bananas.
‘Did you teach your daughter to cook?’ she asked.
‘I did. She loved baking. Although she was more into the eating than the cooking. Decorating everything with icing and sprinkles was her favourite part – she would spend ages making patterns on the top of cakes. Then always had a good excuse when it came to doing the dishes and clearing up.’
‘Sounds like she was a lot of fun.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry she died. You must really miss her.’
‘I do. But I’m very lucky to have had her in my life. I have lots of happy memories of her, so in a way she is still with me.’
My words took me by surprise. For once, the first emotion I’d had was not of anger that she’d gone, but gratitude that she’d lived. The thought filled me with joy.
‘And you have her gap-year itinerary too,’ she added.
‘You know about that?’ I said, surprised.
‘I follow Harry on Instagram. All my friends do; he’s adorable. He really loved Bronte. We all hope he can find someone else one day … Oh, sorry!’ She cringed. ‘That sounds bad. I hope I haven’t upset you.’
I smiled, feeling the familiar ache in my throat when I thought about what he and I had both lost. ‘Don’t apologise. I hope he does too. He’s only twenty-three, too young to give up on love.’ So why did you? nagged a voice inside my head.
The banana bread mixture was too big for one bowl, so we made it in two batches. Once the batter was ready, we scraped it into loaf tins and put them in the oven and I set a timer for fifty minutes.
‘The pickers eat outside Ruby’s Bar under the porch,’ Daisy told me as we stacked the dishwasher. ‘The plates and stuff are already over there.’
‘Thanks for helping. I can manage from here if you’ve got stuff to do.’
‘Can I ask you something? I’ll understand if you say no.’ She stumbled over her words. ‘But would it be okay to see the book Bronte made, the gap-year one?’
For a moment I hesitated. Bronte’s messages to herself, her drawings and anecdotes, were so precious to me that I was loath to share them with someone I didn’t really know.
Plus, of course, I’d begun my own journalling in it too.
I wouldn’t want anyone else reading that.
But then I thought that if Bronte were standing here now instead of me, she’d be flattered and fetch the book straight away.
‘Sure. Come over to the cottage. We’ll do it now.’
We left the kitchen and headed to Creek Cottage.
‘So tell me about last night,’ I prompted. ‘How were the puppies?’
‘Adorable. I took some photos.’
She wiped her hands on her shorts and got her phone out to show me, swiping through the images.
Bronte used to wipe her hands on her clothes too.
You could always tell when she’d been painting by the state of the pockets on the back of her jeans.
She had loads of paintings in her room and I made a mental note to look for some when I got home.
I would get them framed and hang them, so I could see them every day.
They deserved to be admired, not shut away.
‘The puppies were so tiny and their eyes were still closed.’ Daisy grinned. ‘Like Max was the first time we saw him. More like a guinea pig than a dog. Mum wanted one of the others, but Max had the prettiest little face.’
‘What about your dad?’ I asked. ‘Which one did he want?’
‘He wasn’t there. Me and Mum were choosing a puppy for Dad’s birthday as a surprise. He and Max are best friends now. Inseparable.’
‘Tom seemed nice,’ I said. ‘Is that your boyfriend?’
Daisy blushed. ‘He is nice but we’re friends. Not even that, really. It’s his sister who’s my friend. She was in the car when Tom came to pick me up.’
‘So why didn’t she come in instead of him?’
She shoved her phone away, looking sheepish. ‘Because Tom’s obviously too old for me and I wanted Dad to say something.’
‘And he didn’t,’ I said.
‘Nah.’ She shook her head. ‘He says he trusts me. But sometimes I want a dad who cares about what I’m doing.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ I said. ‘I only met him yesterday, but I already know how much he loves you.’
She looked sceptical. ‘He’s too busy. Especially now that the winery manager and my mum have left.’
‘You must be the only teenager on the planet who wishes their dad was stricter,’ I said, to get a smile out of her.
It worked and she giggled. ‘True. Maybe I should make the most of it. Go a bit wild.’
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 Bronte’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 Bronte’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 Bronte 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 Bronte’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 Bronte’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?