say again, “we get on fine. It’s nothing like that. I just know Daisy’s ill.” I take a deep breath, try to keep
my voice level. “I want her to be referred to the hospital.”
There’s a pause, as though this is entirely unexpected. She looks unsure; I see how young she is.
“Please,”
I say, “She isn’t eating; she always feels so tired. I think we should see a pediatrician.”
“Right then,” she says, but with reluctance, as though she’s been constrained.
She’s writing in her notes now. “I’ll refer you to Dr. McGuire at the General,” she says. “They’ll write to you with the appointment.
I’m afraid there’s quite a waiting list. In the meantime, we’ll get all the blood tests done. You can come in on Thursday
and the nurse will take the blood.”
As we go, she gives Daisy a lollipop from the jug on her desk.
We walk back toward the car, which is parked down the end of the road. There are green fresh smells of spring, but the rainbow
has faded.
“She was really nice, wasn’t she, Mum?” says Daisy.
“I’m glad you liked her.”
“I did,” she says. “She was kind.”
She starts to unwrap the lollipop; I have to take Hannibal. We stop for a moment because it’s hard to do, the paper is firmly
stuck to the sugary surface. The lollipop is veined with purple and red, the color intense as nail varnish. I think of additives
but don’t say anything.
She rips off the last scrap of cellophane.
“There,” she says with satisfaction.
She takes one careful lick. We walk on for a bit, the lollipop held in front of her like some precious thing.
“Is it ok if I leave this, Mum?” she says then.
“Of course.”
As we pass the bus stop, she drops it in a bin.
Chapter 8
D AISY CAN’T GET TO SLEEP ; she says she feels too sick. I sit her up, and prop her against the pillows and smoothe her hair.
“We’ll crack this,” I tell her. “We’ll get you better. I promise. Soon it’ll be over.”
I read to her from the fairy-tale book, the tale of the twelve princesses who went dancing at midnight under the hill and
wore out their satin slippers. Sometimes she spits into a tissue.
Sinead comes to the door. She needs me to test her on her homework.
“It’s false friends. For crying out loud. How can any word of French your friend?”
“I’ll come when Daisy’s asleep,” I tell her.
I read till Daisy’s head is drooping, as you might with a very young child. Her eyelids are shut but flickery, tense: She
could so easily wake. Sinead looks round the door again. I put a warning finger to my lips. She mouths melodramatically, “My
vocab, my vocab.” I whisper she’ll have to wait. Eventually Daisy’s breathing slows and she sinks down into the pillows. I
slip off my shoes and creep out like a thief. I sit with Sinead and test her on the words. She isn’t very confident, but it’s
nearly ten; she’ll never learn them now. I tell her to go to bed.
Richard has his meeting; he won’t be back till late. I pour myself some wine and try to imagine him there. When I think of
it, this world of his that’s so mysterious to me, I always see men in suits all sitting round a shiny mahogany table, and
heaps of papers in front of them covered in cryptic figures, and the coffee brought in by Francine, Richard’s glamorous PA.
I met Francine once at a party at Richard’s office. She was wearing a rather impressive dress, demure in front, right up to
her neck, but almost completely backless.
I take my wine into the living room. It’s cold in here tonight: The heating’s been off for most of the day, and the house
won’t seem to warm up. I pull the curtains, shutting out the night, but chill air seeps up through the gaps in the floorboards.
I don’t turn on the main light, just the lamps on the little tables on either side of the fireplace. There is darkness in
the corners of the room. The masks we brought back from Venice are lit from
my voice level. “I want her to be referred to the hospital.”
There’s a pause, as though this is entirely unexpected. She looks unsure; I see how young she is.
“Please,”
I say, “She isn’t eating; she always feels so tired. I think we should see a pediatrician.”
“Right then,” she says, but with reluctance, as though she’s been constrained.
She’s writing in her notes now. “I’ll refer you to Dr. McGuire at the General,” she says. “They’ll write to you with the appointment.
I’m afraid there’s quite a waiting list. In the meantime, we’ll get all the blood tests done. You can come in on Thursday
and the nurse will take the blood.”
As we go, she gives Daisy a lollipop from the jug on her desk.
We walk back toward the car, which is parked down the end of the road. There are green fresh smells of spring, but the rainbow
has faded.
“She was really nice, wasn’t she, Mum?” says Daisy.
“I’m glad you liked her.”
“I did,” she says. “She was kind.”
She starts to unwrap the lollipop; I have to take Hannibal. We stop for a moment because it’s hard to do, the paper is firmly
stuck to the sugary surface. The lollipop is veined with purple and red, the color intense as nail varnish. I think of additives
but don’t say anything.
She rips off the last scrap of cellophane.
“There,” she says with satisfaction.
She takes one careful lick. We walk on for a bit, the lollipop held in front of her like some precious thing.
“Is it ok if I leave this, Mum?” she says then.
“Of course.”
As we pass the bus stop, she drops it in a bin.
Chapter 8
D AISY CAN’T GET TO SLEEP ; she says she feels too sick. I sit her up, and prop her against the pillows and smoothe her hair.
“We’ll crack this,” I tell her. “We’ll get you better. I promise. Soon it’ll be over.”
I read to her from the fairy-tale book, the tale of the twelve princesses who went dancing at midnight under the hill and
wore out their satin slippers. Sometimes she spits into a tissue.
Sinead comes to the door. She needs me to test her on her homework.
“It’s false friends. For crying out loud. How can any word of French your friend?”
“I’ll come when Daisy’s asleep,” I tell her.
I read till Daisy’s head is drooping, as you might with a very young child. Her eyelids are shut but flickery, tense: She
could so easily wake. Sinead looks round the door again. I put a warning finger to my lips. She mouths melodramatically, “My
vocab, my vocab.” I whisper she’ll have to wait. Eventually Daisy’s breathing slows and she sinks down into the pillows. I
slip off my shoes and creep out like a thief. I sit with Sinead and test her on the words. She isn’t very confident, but it’s
nearly ten; she’ll never learn them now. I tell her to go to bed.
Richard has his meeting; he won’t be back till late. I pour myself some wine and try to imagine him there. When I think of
it, this world of his that’s so mysterious to me, I always see men in suits all sitting round a shiny mahogany table, and
heaps of papers in front of them covered in cryptic figures, and the coffee brought in by Francine, Richard’s glamorous PA.
I met Francine once at a party at Richard’s office. She was wearing a rather impressive dress, demure in front, right up to
her neck, but almost completely backless.
I take my wine into the living room. It’s cold in here tonight: The heating’s been off for most of the day, and the house
won’t seem to warm up. I pull the curtains, shutting out the night, but chill air seeps up through the gaps in the floorboards.
I don’t turn on the main light, just the lamps on the little tables on either side of the fireplace. There is darkness in
the corners of the room. The masks we brought back from Venice are lit from
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