Читать книгу The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with - Anna-Lou Weatherley, Julia Williams - Страница 13

a musical play by

Daisy Heartsease Maynard

Starring

Daisy Maynard age 9

with

Guin Maynard age 7

and

Elsie Maynard age 5 and a bit

Enjoy the play xx

‘I am Princess Jewel, and I am a beautiful princess!’ exclaimed Daisy, already tall for her age, her hair messily plaited under a crown of silver Christmas tinsel. ‘I come from a faraway kingdom and I have two beautiful sisters …’ She glared, stage right, towards the wriggling and giggling long Indian silk curtain over the patio doors leading to the garden. ‘Come on…’

The curtain gave one final squirm and two blonde-haired girls emerged, their wonky tinsel crowns and too-long bedsheet cloaks causing great annoyance to their playwright sibling.

‘I am Princess Snowflake and I can talk to unicorns,’ said the older of the two, her russet red cheeks and baby blue eyes shining as she held her youngest sister’s hand.

‘And I am …’ the smallest Maynard sister’s cherub-like face crumpled in consternation, ‘… I am …’

‘Princess Poppy …’ Guin prompted in a loud stage whisper.

Elsie’s smile beamed back into life. ‘I am Princess Poppy and I have a puppy called Spot.’

‘No you don’t,’ Daisy hissed. ‘You have a magical talking bird called Cassandra.’

Elsie’s lip jutted out. ‘But I don’t want a bird. I want a puppy.’

‘It’s only pretend,’ Guin interjected, ever the practical peacemaker.

‘Then I can have a pretend puppy,’ Elsie replied, her stubborn streak as bold as ever.

Jim held up his hands. ‘Girls, it doesn’t matter whether Elsie has a puppy or a bird.’

‘But it’s my play,’ Daisy moaned. ‘And I’m the oldest, so they should do what I tell them.’

‘You’re a bossyboots, Daisy!’

‘No I’m not!’

Rolling her eyes, Guin stepped between her sisters. ‘Let’s do the song now.’

Pacified, the eldest and youngest Maynard sisters obediently fell into line, singing Tomorrow from Annie with breathless enthusiasm.

Jim relaxed back in his old striped deckchair, sipped a cup of chai and listened to his daughters’ voices mingling with the summer hum of bees from the flowerbeds surrounding the garden. This is what Sunday afternoons were made for, he mused to himself: fun and laughter and music and family. The warm July sun glinted in the windows of the three-storey family home, sparkling on the three tinsel crowns and golden blonde heads of his daughters. Like sunshine personified, his mother always said of the three little girls when they visited her cottage in Hove. You have a little cluster of sunbeams dancing round you, Jim. Never forget how blessed you are.

Grandma Flo was right, but then she had a knack of being right about most things. She had been right when he first brought nineteen-year-old Moira O’Shaughnessy to meet her, himself barely twenty and smitten with the blonde haired beauty he had met on his travels.

‘She’s a storm waiting to happen,’ his mother had warned, her sudden change in demeanour catching him off-guard when Moira had gone. ‘You watch that one, Jim, or else she’ll break your heart.’

But Moira Abigail O’Shaughnessy had stolen Jim Maynard’s heart and nothing – not even the warning words of his beloved mother – could dissuade him from his chosen path.

While Guin was the spitting image of him, Jim often caught glimpses of Moira in Elsie and Daisy – and even now it tore at his heart to see their mother’s likeness: a bittersweet, constant reminder of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Despite everything – despite the lies and the barrage of words hurled in anger, despite the sleepless nights and silent days – he knew he still loved her. The emptiness he had felt for so long in her company was now echoed in the emptiness of his life without her in it and, to his shame, he suspected that if she were to relent even now he would run back into her arms and forget it all.

‘Daddy, you’re not listening!’ Daisy’s voice by his ear made him start.

‘I’m sorry, my darling. What were you saying?’

Her sigh was laden with more exasperation than her years could contain. ‘I said that you have to be the King and grant us each a wish.’

‘Ah. Righto.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am King James the fourth of Brightonshire and I will grant you each a wish.’

‘Daddy. Not like that.’

‘Oh.’

‘You have to say, “I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?” Do you want me to write it down for you?’

Jim suppressed a grin. ‘No, I think I’ll manage, Daisy. I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?’

‘Well done, Daddy!’ Elsie applauded him, the suddenness of it bringing unexpected tears to Jim’s eyes. He was glad he had decided to wear his sunglasses this afternoon. He gave a little bow, revelling in the beaming smiles of the three most precious people in his life.

*

Once, his daughters had brought joy to Moria, too. When Daisy was born, Moira’s every waking hour had been filled with the thrill of caring for her new baby. Even though they agreed to take turns for night feeds, Moira almost always appeared at her husband’s side in the small hours of the morning, her hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed at their firstborn child.

‘I can’t believe we made her,’ she would whisper, her breath warm as a summer zephyr setting his pulse racing despite the gnawing ache of tiredness in his body. This was all Jim had ever wanted from the first day he set eyes on the woman he would one day call his wife. In that moment, he had known without doubt that anything was possible when this woman was by his side.

Growing up with an absent father and a fiercely independent mother, Jim had promised himself that when his opportunity for fatherhood came, he would be the most committed, loving father he could be. All the things he had yearned so much for during his childhood he pursued as a father, first for Daisy, then Guin and, finally, Elsie. His initial fear that he may have inherited his own father’s lack of paternal instinct vanished the second he laid eyes on the tiny pink form of his first daughter; from then on, fatherhood fitted him perfectly.

‘You’re a natural,’ his mother marvelled, watching her son cradling his daughter on their first visit to her home. ‘Oh Jim, it makes me so proud to see it!’

Flo had been right about that, too. Being a father was what Jim Maynard was created for – of that he was convinced. He never once questioned the commitment, the long hours, the trials of teething and terrible twos. Nappies and snot and vomit were never insurmountable challenges; neither were long-running squabbles as three growing, headstrong girls vied for supremacy in the seaside townhouse. Because for each messy, headache-inducing negative there were a hundred positives: long weekend afternoons spent on Brighton beach, throwing stones into the sea and consuming ice creams with sticky enthusiasm; magical bedtime stories shared under makeshift Bedouin bedspread tents; feeding the ducks with bullet-hard chunks of bread made the day before by three pairs of little hands in the family kitchen; and the constant surprise of childlike creativity bursting out across the house – paintings and drawings pinned to the walls and stuck on the fridge, epic drama productions in the dining room and back garden, and snippets of song floating down the wooden staircases. Jim loved it all; but most of all he loved the free spirit of his girls – unfettered by convention, or expectation. He hoped they would always maintain this, always be free to be their own person in a world ruled by labels and boxes.

He understood the importance of their freedom because it was part of who he was. From an early age, Jim had dreamed of travelling the world – a dream encouraged by his mother despite the disapproving remarks of his maternal grandparents, who hailed from an era when every man knew his place and accepted it without question. Growing up in the brave new world of the early fifties, with a convention-defying mother who refused to remarry when her good-for-nothing first husband abandoned his family, Jim knew that his life would be lived differently – that anything was possible. His uncle Sidney, an officer in the merchant navy, presented him with an illuminated globe from one of his distant travels and Jim would lay awake late at night plotting imaginary expeditions to exotic locations. India was a favourite destination even then – and as he entered his teens and Britain entered the Swinging Sixties, he became increasingly drawn to the culture, music and mysticism of that great country.

Several of his friends were already there, and the brightly coloured postcards they sent back to him urged the young Jim to make haste and join them. They spoke of a land filled with colour and spectacle: where every shade was a hundred times brighter and every flavour magnified. While Jim worked extra hours in his father’s furniture store and gardened for older people in his street, he dreamed of walking India’s streets, taking in every experience the country could offer him. For as long as he could remember, India had signified adventure, promise and freedom: but more than that, he sensed that he would become a different person for having been there. India was to be the making of him. As soon as he had saved enough money, he had headed for Goa, staying for a month in Vasco da Gama before venturing further afield.

It was while travelling in Râjasthân that he first met Moira. He had arranged to meet an old school friend in Udaipur – a beautiful city surrounded by water, known as ‘the Venice of India’ – but his train from Jaipur was delayed for five hours, so that the sun was already beginning to set when he arrived in the city. Walking through streets bathed in the rose-gold glow of early evening sunlight, Jim made his way towards the small hostel where his friend was staying. The city was a multisensory assault of noise, heat, colour and scent, at once exotic and familiar, and Jim was swept away by the raw beauty of it all.

When he reached his destination he was surprised to discover not a backstreet apartment block but an imposing dusky pink palace, its carved balustrades and gothic arched windows a faded reminder of its former British Empire days. Hibiscus-framed stone steps led up to the main entrance, through a crumbling archway towards a small courtyard garden with a bubbling stone fountain at the building’s centre. And there, dressed in a long white shirt, jeans and sandals, her head swathed in a cool white scarf, was Moira O’Shaughnessy.

Jim had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life – even the city that had beguiled him so completely since his arrival seemed to dim in comparison. In the middle of the chaos of Udaipur, Moira appeared as a vision of calm – poised, contained. As Jim gazed at her it was as if coolness emanated from her, like a frosted glass of iced water in the midst of the Râjasthâni heat. For some time, he didn’t know what to do. Should he approach her? Say something? His mouth was dry and words had all but deserted him, yet his head was awash with thoughts. Eventually, he was rescued by the familiar voice of Ray, his friend, calling from the third floor balcony overlooking the garden. As Jim raised his head to greet him, Moira looked up, too, and when his eyes returned to her he saw she was smiling at him.

‘I didn’t know you were expecting company, Ray,’ she said as Jim’s friend appeared beside them in the garden.

‘Surprising though it may be, Moira, I do actually have friends in this world apart from you,’ Ray grinned back and for an awful moment Jim feared that they were a couple. ‘Better get the formal introductions done then, hadn’t we? Jim Maynard, may I present the wonderful young actress Moira O’Shaughnessy. Moira’s here “finding herself” before embarking on her glittering showbiz career, isn’t that right?’

‘You’re the only drama queen in this palace, Ray,’ she scolded him, holding out her slender hand to Jim. When he took it, he was surprised at how warm it was. A gust of hot breeze shuddered through the Malati blooms which dripped large white, jasmine-shaped flowers like pearls from trails along the balconies overhead, sending a waft of clove scent towards Jim and Moira as their hands touched for the first time. From that day to this, Jim would always associate the smell of cloves with her – his breath catching in his throat whenever he used the spice in food he cooked at home for his young family.

At Ray’s invitation, Jim stayed in Udaipur for three weeks, initially exploring the city with his friend but increasingly venturing out with Moira. Ray, sensing the growing attraction between them, made his excuses and left them alone – a kindness which would later be repaid when Jim made him best man at his wedding. On the last night of his stay, sitting hand-in-hand with Moira at sunset on the banks of Lake Pichola, surrounded by ancient palaces, temples and hills, Jim found the courage to kiss her. In the midst of such history, it was as if they were outside of time itself – caught up in a magical world where nothing else mattered except the touch of their lips. He knew he was in love – and Moira felt it, too. Swept up in a tide of emotion, she refused to let him leave alone and, the next day, Ray waved off not one but two of his friends at Udaipur station.

They returned to England together, Moira surprising her mother by moving back home to Shoreham-by-Sea after several years of living in London.

‘I need to be near him,’ she had insisted, despite Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s insistence that she continue to pursue her career in the capital. ‘I love him, Ma. I’m going to marry him.’

While Jim’s mother had privately voiced her concerns about the suitability of her son’s wife-to-be, she became supportive of the young couple as soon as she could see their determination to marry. Moira’s mother, on the other hand, made no secret of her feelings on the matter.

‘He’ll hold you back,’ she warned her daughter, in full earshot of Jim. ‘You’re destined for greater things than keeping home for him. I didn’t raise you to be ordinary, Moira Abigail. I raised you to be a star.’

‘I can still act in London and live in Brighton,’ Moira argued, gripping Jim’s arm as if it were a lifebuoy. ‘Jim doesn’t want me to surrender my career. This is what I want, Ma.’

Never pacified, Mrs O’Shaughnessy maintained her objections, taking every possible opportunity to remind Jim of his unsuitability for her acting protégé daughter. Moira paid no attention, but Jim – despite appearances – found her disapproval painful. In later years, when he was alone, her words of dissent would plague him: had she been right? Had he stifled the promise of the woman he loved?

*

The rich tang of bubbling curry rose through the townhouse to meet the laughter of the Maynard sisters as Jim opened the front door and ushered his mother inside.

‘How are the three tornadoes?’ she grinned, hanging her handbag on the carved wooden balustrade and glancing up the stairs.

‘Overexcited,’ Jim replied over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘We had another of Daisy’s theatrical masterpieces this afternoon.’

‘Another one? Well, well, that young lady’s becoming positively prolific. I’m sorry I missed it.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve a feeling they’re planning an evening performance.’ Jim smiled to himself as he stirred the spicy sweet potato and lentil dahl, savouring the Indian spice-infused steam. Somehow the house itself seemed to relax whenever Grandma Flo arrived. In the three years since Moira’s departure he had come to a new understanding of how special his mother was. She had been a constant support, picking up Moira’s discarded baton and running with it – a selfless act of devotion to both him and his girls that he would forever be grateful for. In the early days of his sudden single-fatherhood, Flo had practically moved in; cooking meals, cleaning the house and running around after three very confused children while Jim stared vacantly at the seemingly irreparable shards of his life that surrounded him. She had never once complained, always present and tirelessly attentive, making sense of the chaos of a home and life that had become alien to her son. Little by little, her patient persistence paid off, gently coaxing Jim back into the world he was so reluctant to face.

He thanked her, of course – over and over again – but even this evening as he prepared the meal, he felt as if it would never be enough to express what his mother’s involvement meant to him.

He gave the saucepan a final stir, poured a cup of Assam tea from the kingfisher-blue teapot and rummaged in a drawer for knives and forks. ‘Right, dinner’s almost ready. I’ll just set the table and then call the girls down.’ To his surprise, when he entered the dining room, Jim found Flo holding his wedding album.

‘I really don’t understand why you still have this,’ she said.

‘It’s there if the girls want to see it,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the fistful of cutlery he carried to avoid seeing what he knew his mother’s stare contained. ‘They have a right to know.’

‘They’re still too young to understand, thank heavens. I’ve held my tongue through all of this, but honestly, Jim! That woman makes a mockery of you, leaves you on your own with three young children and you still can’t be angry with her. I swear if she walked back into this house today you would carry on as though nothing had happened.’ She accepted the cup of tea from him, but her darkened expression remained.

Jim had heard it a million times before, but now was not the day to challenge his mother. She was entitled to her view as much as anyone, but he didn’t have to agree with her. It was nobody’s business what he truly thought or felt – and his right alone to keep it hidden. ‘Would you mind setting the table for me, Mum? Oh, and while I remember, after dinner you must have one of the biscuits Daisy made at school, or else we’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘Grandma Flo!’ Guin’s excited squeal heralded the noisy arrival of three very excited children as they burst into the room. Jim whisked the teacup away from his mother’s hands seconds before her arms were filled with blonde-headed invaders, catching her thankful grin as he did so.

‘Now, now, calm down lovelies! Stop wriggling for a moment and let me look at you. Girls, I do believe your father has been stretching you again.’

‘No he hasn’t,’ Daisy giggled. ‘We’re just growing. Look!’ She broke free of her grandmother’s embrace and pointed to the highest of a vertical row of pencil marks on the wall by the dining room door. ‘That’s how tall I am now!’

Guin and Elsie followed suit, excitedly chatting at once about their new heights, although Elsie couldn’t quite remember which one was hers, pointing at several in her haste to be part of the impromptu show-and-tell.

‘Gracious, isn’t that something? I can see you’re eating your greens then.’

‘Trees!’ Elsie yelled. ‘Daddy gives me green trees for my tea and they make me grow big.’

‘Broccoli,’ Jim explained, seeing Grandma Flo’s confusion. ‘I learned early on with Elsie that she wouldn’t eat it unless we called it green trees.’

His mother’s eyes glistened with pride. ‘You’re a natural, James. A wonderful father …’ The sadness in her expression completed the sentence as a moment of understanding passed between them.

Jim nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Grandma, have you seen the pretty dress book?’ Guin asked, and Flo and Jim turned to see – too late – the wedding album in her small hands.

Swallowing hard, Grandma Flo unpacked her calmest smile. ‘Yes, I have, darling.’

Daisy and Elsie were crowding around the photograph album now, causing Jim to look away as a sharp shard of pain pierced him. Instinctively, his mother reached out and took his hand, her eyes never once leaving her grandchildren.

‘Daddy looks so handsome,’ Guin said, stroking the cellophane that covered the photographs on the open page.

‘And what about the lady in the pretty dress?’ Grandma Flo asked, her expression steady. ‘Do you know who she is?’

‘That’s Mummy,’ Daisy replied, her baby blue eyes suddenly old beyond their years. ‘She doesn’t live with us anymore. But it’s OK: we have Daddy.’

Jim’s smile at his little girl belied the tears he was biting back.

*

The day of the wedding could almost have been a portent for what was to come, being beset by angry thunderstorms that churned the sea, turning the waves a murderous dark green as they crashed onto the shingle beach. But for the young couple embarking on a new chapter of their lives, it was everything their relationship was: drama, passion and high adventure. Moira laughed when her mother insisted on crossing herself repeatedly whenever another rumble of thunder punctuated the wedding service in the small Roman Catholic chapel of her hometown.

‘Stop being so superstitious, Mother! This is the happiest day of my life.’

It was not – as was blatantly obvious to everyone else at the ceremony and small reception afterwards – the happiest day of Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s life, however: a fact evident in her disgruntled complaints and pursed lips over everything from the order of service and the playing of the church organ, to the flowers, the food and the wedding cake. Her vociferous opinions rose like the growing storm overhead until it appeared she was engaged in a shouting match with nature itself. Jim’s mother, aunts and friends all failed in their attempts to silence her, their intervention only serving to heighten the woman’s disdain.

But Moira and Jim saw nothing but each other: the thunderstorm, raging mother-in-law and everything else in the dining room of the seafront hotel paling in the blaze of their love for each other. The photographs in the album attested to this fact.

‘Daddy looks so handsome,’ Guin breathed, her small fingers tracing the outline of Jim’s figure in the photographs. ‘And everyone looks happy. One day I’m going to marry someone just as handsome as Daddy.’

Jim reached out to ruffle the mess of curls on her head. ‘I’m sure you will, darling.’

‘Let’s put this away, shall we?’ Jim’s mother suggested, gently pulling the photograph album from her granddaughter’s hands.

‘Awww! Just a bit longer, Grandma Flo!’ Guin protested. ‘I love looking at Mummy and Daddy when they were happy.’

Jim looked away, the poignancy of his daughter’s words too intense.

‘I don’t,’ Daisy said, suddenly. ‘Mummy doesn’t love us any more.’

‘Daisy Heartsease! What a thing to say!’

Daisy ignored her grandmother’s rebuke and stood her ground. ‘It’s true! She promised to love Daddy forever, but she lied. Just like she lies about everything.’

Grandma Flo cast a startled glance in the direction of her son who was gazing out at the garden. ‘Sweetheart, sometimes grown-ups have the best intentions but they find they can’t keep promises. It’s nobody’s fault when things go wrong …’

‘Why did Mummy go away?’ Elsie asked suddenly, her small cheeks reddening. ‘Why doesn’t she want us any more?’

Heart shattering at the sound of his youngest daughter’s stark summation, Jim turned back into the room. ‘Oh, baby. Your mum loves you.’

‘She said she loves us, but she isn’t here,’ Daisy agreed, joining her youngest sister in a defiant show of solidarity in the middle of the dining room carpet.

Guin burst into tears and Flo gathered her into a secure embrace. ‘Of course your mummy loves you my darling,’ she said, her eyes searching out a response from her son. Say something to them, James …

Words failed Jim as he stared helplessly back. What could he say that wouldn’t be a lie? His heart still yearned for their mother, but how could he justify what she did? Given the apparent ease with which Moira had discarded him and their girls, what other conclusion could there really be?

*

The signs had been there, of course, but Jim had chosen not to see them. Maybe he thought it was temporary, or could be solved with enough love and time; perhaps he was blinded by his own unwillingness to accept the inevitable. When hindsight illuminated the truth it was as obvious as the sun in the summer sky, but by then it was too late.

Moira’s mood had blackened over several months; she had lost a worrying amount of weight, hiding her body beneath voluminous jumpers; and her eyes, ringed with permanent dark circles, seemed to be sinking inside her. She abandoned her expensive London salon shampoo and scraped her lifeless hair back into a severe ponytail. Her interest in everything waned: even the weekly arrival of her copy of The Stage, which had been a highlight of her week for as long as Jim could remember. Instead of being eagerly pored over, the trade papers lay untouched in a pile by the front door, greying with dust. Jim saw all of this with gnawing concern, but said nothing. In fact, neither of them said anything: to the point where Jim was tempted to provoke arguments simply to break the silence that hung like a shroud between them.

But then, quite unexpectedly, an old RADA friend of Moira’s who had since become an agent, called with a job offer. A production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof would tour local secondary schools – and the part of Maggie was hers if she wanted it. To Jim’s relief, Moira appeared to rally, and the mood in the seaside townhouse lifted. He helped her learn lines, while the girls played contentedly around them. Her appearance improved and her smile made a welcome return. And Jim, seeing a glimpse of the girl he loved, believed the storm had passed.

Three weeks after Elsie’s second birthday, Moira asked Jim to take the girls to Brighton beach to give her time to focus. The start of the tour was less than a fortnight away and nerves were getting the better of her.

‘Two hours, Jim. That’s all I need to sort this.’

So Jim gathered their children and set off for an afternoon of seaside fun. Walking along the promenade, the early summer sun warming his head and the laughter of his daughters warming his heart, he allowed himself to relax. Contentment that had eluded him for so many months now flooded his being and he felt alive again. It was like stepping out of a cold, dark building into brilliant sunlight – and it felt good.

He bought ice creams from a kiosk on Brighton Pier, and they strolled together along its length, watching as green waves moved far below through the gaps in the boardwalk. It was a perfect afternoon, with seagulls wheeling lazily overhead and the tang of sea salt in the air – and life felt good again.

‘Daddy?’ Elsie’s face was one-third human and two-thirds raspberry ripple as she gazed up at Jim.

‘Yes poppet?’

‘Are we going on holiday?’

‘No, honey. But then we don’t need to, do we? It’s like being on holiday right here.’

‘So are we going on holiday when we get home, then?’

Jim suppressed a grin as he looked at his youngest’s seriousness. ‘No, darling.’

‘But we must be going on holiday, Daddy!’

‘Why?’

‘Because Mummy got the big suitcase out.’

‘That’s right,’ Guin agreed. ‘I saw her put it in the downstairs loo when you were making breakfast. Perhaps it’s a surprise for when we get back.’

At that moment it was as if the world froze on its axis. Jim’s ice cream cone dropped to the boards of the pier as he scooped Elsie into his arms and grabbed Guin’s hand. ‘Girls, we have to go.’

‘But we only just got here,’ Daisy protested, following her father as he walked quickly towards the pier exit. Saturday strollers milled aimlessly across their path, causing Jim to swerve around them, but once his feet hit the tarmac of the promenade he broke into a run, dragging Guin alongside him with Daisy struggling to keep up. Terrified, Elsie burst into tears, her pitiful wails loud as a siren in Jim’s ears as he ran.

‘Daddy! Slow down! Where are we going?’ Guin shouted.

‘We’re just … I have to go back … I forgot something …’ he panted, a terrifying image of what he dreaded most hanging stubbornly before his eyes.

‘I don’t want to go home!’ Elsie sobbed.

‘It’s all going to be fine,’ he lied, his heart plummeting as he rounded the corner of their street and saw the waiting taxi.

Reaching the gate, he stopped, lowering Elsie into the arms of her eldest sister. ‘Girls, just wait here, OK? I won’t be a minute.’

Staring at him, Guin took Daisy’s hand and Jim walked into the house.

‘What’s going on?’

Startled, Moira froze in the hallway, the packed suitcase in her hand and folded coat over her arm answering the question before she spoke.

‘I’m – I have to do this. I’m sorry.’

‘No. No, you don’t have to do anything until we’ve talked, Moira. Where are you going? How long are you going for?’

Guilt dragged her shoulders towards the tiled hallway floor. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

‘That’s all there is to say.’

‘Don’t do this …’

‘I don’t have a choice!’ she yelled. ‘This place smothers me, Jim! I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything! I don’t know who I am anymore …’

‘You’re my wife. And their mother …’ Jim pointed through the open doorway towards the three small, forlorn figures at the end of the garden path, ‘or had you forgotten that?’

‘None of it matters, don’t you see? This isn’t who I am, Jim! It’s not what I was destined for.’

‘But they need you—,’ he stepped forward, placing his hand on her birdlike wrist, ‘—I need you …’

Her eyes met his and the coldness of them made him draw back.

‘But I don’t need any of you.’

She brushed past him and walked out of the house.

As Jim’s universe began to implode, a taxi door slammed and the shock of three young screams shattered the calm of the quiet suburban street …

*

‘I am Princess Poppy and I have a magic bird called Cassandra who can talk,’ Elsie grinned proudly at Daisy, who beamed back, ‘… and a puppy called Spot.’

Jim shrugged as Daisy’s face fell. ‘Sounds like a good compromise to me, darling.’ He sat back in his armchair, pride blazing within him as he watched his daughters performing their latest masterpiece for their beloved grandmother.

How far we’ve all come.

He saw Daisy, strong, confident, her character already suggesting the beautiful young woman she would one day be; Guin, independent and full of energy, refusing to compromise and proud to discover her own way through life; and little Elsie, remarkably resilient at such a young age and developing a sense of humour that would no doubt serve her well in the future.

My beautiful family…

Whatever lay ahead of them, Jim Maynard was confident he and his girls would be fine.

‘… and they all lived happily ever after. The End!’

THE END