‘I’m going to haveFrozentattoos. Anna on this arm and Elsa on the other.’
‘That’s lovely, I’m sure they’ll look ace.’ And that was precisely why Violetta hadn’t mentioned a dagger!
And then came the words more stomach-churning than the first question itself. ‘I think one day my daddy will come and find me, and you too. I bet he’s busy being a soldier and when he’s finished he’ll come and see us. I’m gonna watch for him on the telly if there’s soldier men on the news.’
Oh, you poor, sweet child, if it was only that easy.‘I don’t know about that, Darcy. He doesn’t know where I live so don’t get your hopes up, okay. Now eat your dinner then you can have some jelly. I made strawberry.’ How could she add that he probably didn’t even remember her name, never mind admit that he’d buggered off and left her in a boat, pissed and semi-comatose. Not a good look!
‘Can I have ice cream on top, too?’
You can have whatever you want but please don’t ask me any more questions. ‘Yes, and rainbow sprinkles. Right, be quick while I nip upstairs and get some laundry. Then it’s jelly time.’
It was the coward’s way out, rushing from the room to avoid further interrogation but it had worked because when she came back down Darcy had finished her tea and was already engrossed in her colouring. Violetta prayed it wasn’t a new family portrait but to her relief, there were no more questions apart from a cheeky request for some squirty cream that, under the stressful circumstances, was duly granted.
Every now and then Darcy would mention her long-lost dad but only a passing comment, like:My daddy is a soldier, isn’t he, Mum.Or,Is my daddy’s hair the same colour as Granny Sylvia’s?So when Darcy mentioned asking Santa for a dad, Violetta’s first reaction was to feel affronted, that a mum wasn’t enough. Then, after she’d calmed down, it dawned on her that Darcy, in her hankering after a daddy, had resorted to Santa – or as everyone else knew him, Big Dave. This had made Violetta so sad, and that anger surged.
She had never wanted this for her child because she knew exactly how it felt, pining after her own dad when he’d been away on a business trip and worse, when he’d died and she knew he wasn’t coming back at all. Darcy was suspended somewhere in between and none of it was her fault.
What silently killed Violetta was the awful realisation that in Gabe, she might have found a gem but let him slip away like the sand she’d washed from her hair and clothes when she finally staggered back to the hotel that morning in Croatia. She had considered trying to track him down, but how? With no idea what regiment he was in, or where he was based. The only place that might have been any help was Facebook although she didn’t fancy posting a status saying:Hey, can you help? I’m trying to trace the father of my child. He’s a blond-haired soldier called Gabe and we had a one-night stand in Croatia six years ago!Her mother would have a fit. And imagine the conversation if she did find him. He’d probably think she was after maintenance payments and run a mile.
It was as though history kept on repeating. Dads didn’t last long in their family. First, her granddad had an affair with a woman called Martha and buggered off, never to be seen again. At least her own dad had stuck around. It wasn’t his fault he was killed.
That’s what she had believed at first. She had clung on to her memories, idolising him in life and death – until Rosina had ruined everything.
Appleton Farm, Cheshire. 1999
Being the middle sister, Violetta had always been protected by the eldest, Rosina, the mother hen of the family whose role expanded when Leonora, the surprise baby, came along just after their dad was killed. Even though it happened when she was eleven, those terrible days were scorched into Violetta’s memory and had tormented her for the next twenty-one years.
Christmas had been two weeks away and, as always, her mum had made the kitchen look lovely, decorating the warmest room of the house. They’d ordered the turkey from the butchers and in that jokey way that mums use when they actually mean it, she’d asked Violetta and Rosina to pray that their knackered old range didn’t conk out before she’d made their Christmas dinner.
Times must have been tough and her parents were scraping by. Her dad worked away much of the time while her mum stayed at home and tried to renovate an old, leaky house. It wasn’t as though they went without, they just didn’t have a lot. Nevertheless, each year belts were tightened and a happy day was had by all and with a new baby due any time, Violetta and Rosina were even more excited. Then everything went wrong.
Her dad was killed, her mum wandered around like a zombie and the house seemed to be plunged into darkness. Gloom lingered in every room and ghostly shadows waited in corners and for the first time ever, Violetta was glad to go to school.
In the days leading up to the funeral, half of Violetta was grieving her dad while the other half was cross with him for being killed and spoiling Christmas. She thought it wise to keep these bad thoughts to herself so during the funeral service, when the vicar asked everyone to pray for her father, Violetta had bowed her head, clasped her hands and prayed hard for a miracle. The thing was, instead of asking for her dad back she had begged God and his angels to grant her a happy Christmas Day. And that her mother would stop crying and Rosina wouldn’t be in a bad mood because she was tired from looking after everyone. And lo and behold. It worked.
Instead of going back home to her council flat in the city, after the wake Granny Sylvia said she would stay a while to help out, until the baby came at least. And the very next morning when Violetta and Rosina came down for breakfast they found their mum in the kitchen, humming to the radio, cooking them egg on toast and smiling. From that day, her mum rallied, wiped away their tears and held in her own. And it was all down to Violetta’s prayers and God actually listening for once. That was the Christmas their lives changed and their mum took control of the family and their futures and became a legend.
Not that Violetta didn’t revere her dad, too. She adored him and always would, once she’d forgiven him for dying and almost ruining Christmas. Soon, she learned to get along without him, making do with memories and a box of his treasures, knick-knacks that her mum had allowed her to keep. His lighter, a hip flask, some fancy sunglasses, his wallet, all kept inside his briefcase along with a photo album. And in order to assuage the guilt she felt at being so angry with him, Violetta made sure she thought about him every day.
She also took it upon herself to ensure that her baby sister loved him too, passing on everything she remembered, showing Leonora videos so she could hear his voice and his laugh, see him smile. It annoyed Violetta that when she talked about her dad at the kitchen table her mum didn’t really join in, maybe a bit, a nod and a smile but it felt like she changed the subject too quickly.
Maybe Granny Sylvia was right when she’d taken Violetta aside and explained that talking about her dad might make her mum sad, and everyone dealt with grief in their own ways so not to be cross with her. It made sense and knowing her gran was always fair, Violetta took it on board.
About a year later, Rosina was in one of her bad moods (Granny Sylvia had said it was hormones) and she’d made Violetta cry by saying that their dad wasn’t a saint and she should stop talking rubbish to Leonora. She’d hated Rosina that day and they’d actually fought. Hair-pulling, face-scratching, rolling around on the carpet while their little sister wailed until Granny Sylvia had pulled them apart and made Rosina apologise. When they’d both calmed down she’d asked Rosina what she meant only to be told it was nothing. However, deep down Violetta knew something was wrong.
Preferring to stick to her version of her dad, and heeding her gran’s words she’d let it go and found other ways to vent her frustration, easing the little balloon of anger that every now and then filled with hot air, swelling, fit to burst inside her heart.
Violetta wasn’t what you’d class as a troubled teenager, more headstrong, prone to flare-ups, a borderline drama queen who chose the best opportunities to make a statement. Granny Sylvia simply called her a pain in the arse and she was right.
It began with the black clothes, studded boots and kohl-pencilled eyes. Then came the piercings, as soon as the law allowed without parental consent. At fourteen it was her lobes and then at sixteen her nose and as many studs as she could fit in her ears. Her tongue and whatever other bits remained unpierced had to wait till she was eighteen.
Rosina had been furious when her chief bridesmaid refused to take them out for the wedding, and was horrified by the red Dr Marten boots that peeped from beneath the peach bridesmaid dress. They’d had a stand-up row about it. Violetta sulked all day and took further umbrage when her mum walked her sister down the aisle. It should have been her dad, the dad nobody talked about and nobody missed. At least it wasn’t Bern. That would’ve sent her daft because it was bad enough him hanging about the house without him muscling in and acting like he was their stand-in father.
During the reception, she managed to stash two bottles of wine and after sneaking away as soon as the speeches were done, rang Candy, told her to bring vodka and meet at their favourite haunt, the graveyard. Here, basking in the summer sun, the chief bridesmaid and her partner in many crimes proceeded to get totally smashed. And it didn’t end there.
Deciding to honour her dad, seeing triple, Violetta and Candy staggered through the graveyard and into the village church. It was empty, too early for evensong, so they proceeded along the pews, unhooking the floral wedding decorations from the end and liberating the two large arrangements that stood on the altar and lectern.
‘Well, I think that looks bloody frantas– flabul– great, don’t you, mate?’ Violetta slurred and swayed, leaning on Candy.
