Summer Daydreams by Carole Matthews

Mercs. His dad had an ulcer by the time he was thirty. He’d died at the age of forty-six. Keeled over with a heart attack while he was mixing concrete.
    Looking back, had his dad’s desire to make money at all costs been the right thing to do? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to have eased back, had a little less money, but enjoyed life and stayed with them for longer? His widowed mother had sold the big house within months and now lived in Spain and he hardly ever saw her. Olly didn’t want that kind of future for himself or his family.
    ‘What colour shall we make the icing?’ he asked Petal.
    ‘BLACK!’
    ‘I have pink, yellow or blue.’ Petal was clearly not bowled over by the feeble selection on offer.
    ‘Blue,’ she ventured, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Let’s do blue.’
    ‘We also have sprinkles to put on top.’
    ‘Yay!’ she shouted. ‘Sprinkles! Sprinkles! Sprinkles!’
    Well, that had cheered her up considerably. If only grownup ladies were so easily pleased.

Chapter 14
     

     
    When I get home, Olly and Petal are both lying flat out on the sofa in the living room, sparko.
    I tiptoe towards them, kneel down beside Olly and kiss him on the nose. It twitches in his sleep. ‘Hey there, sleepyhead.’ I stroke his arm gently and he rouses.
    ‘What’s the time?’
    ‘Time you were at work and time this little one was in bed.’
    Olly pushes himself up. He looks completely shattered. I think he would have been there for the whole night if I hadn’t woken him up. I’m not the only one burning the candles at both ends.
    ‘We both must have dropped off,’ he says with a shake of his head and a stretch. ‘The last thing I remember is watching In the Night Garden .’
    Petal might be too old for it now, but it’s still her favourite programme. Frankly, if they ever needed a stand-in for Igglepiggle or Upsy Bleeding Daisy, then I’m your man. I could recite every word off by heart.
    ‘I’ll take her upstairs,’ I say.
    We have made a rod for our own backs in that Petal always sleeps with me when Olly is working nights and that means, of course, that she won’t settle in her own bed when he’s not. I think she’ll still be sleeping between us when she’s twenty-five. I just hope she doesn’t bring home too many boyfriends.
    ‘I’ll do it.’ Olly yawns again.
    He scoops our daughter into his arms. At least Petal is already in her pyjamas.
    ‘Stick the kettle on, love.’ Another yawn.
    ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Yeah. Nice and strong. Black.’ He throws his head back and groans. ‘Need something to keep me awake all night.’
    I go through to the kitchen and make coffee. I’m going to need one myself if I’m going to have any hope of doing my work for tomorrow, rather than give in to the overwhelming urge to go and slip into bed next to my child. I feel as if I haven’t seen her properly for weeks and I’m missing my Petal fix. But there’s a dozen different things I need to get on top of, so I put two good spoonfuls of full-hit, instant coffee in the cups and hang the expense. The work to be handed in is stacking up and I feel as if I’m slipping behind. I can appreciate that there’s a lot to be crammed into this short year, but I wish we’d started at a slightly more sedate speed so that I could ease myself into it. I wonder, does the pace let up at all as we get into the course or is it going to be flat out all the way?
    It’s clear that Olly and Petal have spent the afternoon baking and I get an unwanted and unfamiliar twinge of jealousy that Olly is spending much more quality time with our daughter than I am. I sample one of the cakes and conclude that they really are very good.
    When Olly comes down, he’s changed into his work clothes. A grey-that-was-once-white T-shirt with The Beatles on the front and jeans with no knees. The scruffier he is the more I love him. He adds some cold water to his cup and gulps down his coffee. ‘Got to fly.’
    ‘So soon?’ I wind my arms