The Skylark's Secret, стр. 57
‘Everyone enjoyed hearing you sing the other night,’ he tells me. ‘You should make it a regular thing. We’d be pleased to have you do a set with the band if you wanted.’
His eyes meet mine, his gaze as clear as the waters surrounding us. I find it unsettling, as if he can see right into my soul, to the places I try to keep hidden from the world, those dark neglected corners where grief and guilt and pain lurk. I look away, pretending to be fascinated by a clump of seaweed that trails its knotted fingers in the ebbing tide.
‘Really,’ he insists. ‘Do you not miss it, Lexie – the singing? When it’s in your blood, surely you’re denying a big part of yourself if you’re not making music.’
‘I am making music,’ I say, gesticulating towards the bag of instruments hanging from the handles of the pushchair. It comes out a little sharper than I’d intended.
‘Yes, for others,’ he replies. ‘But what about the music you make for yourself? I know I couldn’t live without it. It’d be like cutting off a limb if I ever stopped playing and singing.’
A surge of annoyance rises in me, rearing its head like a wave nearing the shore. I’m fed up with everyone judging. I know he’s only trying to be encouraging, but it feels like criticism to me – of my choices and decisions, of how I’m trying to live my life.
I’m about to retort that I’m taking my time, that I may never want to sing publicly again, and how could he possibly know what I’m feeling?
The words are in my mouth. But the sound of a splash interrupts them.
In a panic, I look across to where Daisy should be busily posting pebbles through the gaps in the boards, and in the same moment Davy yells her name. There’s the sound of another splash and he disappears over the side of the boat.
For a split second I stand, frozen, alone on the jetty. And then Daisy’s name tears at my throat as I scream it over and over. I fall to my knees, frantically trying to hold the boat away from the wooden edging, desperately trying to keep it from crushing my baby or from pinning her beneath the water: from sealing the gap into which she’s tumbled, the salt water swallowing her whole.
A silence fills my head, the noises of the wind and the waves and the cries of the seagulls blanked out by sheer blind terror as I wait . . . and pray . . . and wait, not breathing . . . and it feels as if the bones in my arms will snap as I fight against the bulk of the boat and the force of the wind.
And then the world around me erupts in a flurry of movement. Davy bursts from the water on the far side of the boat, holding a lifeless bundle in his arms, shouting words I can’t seem to register. There’s the sound of running feet, pounding on the boards of the jetty, of voices calling, of someone issuing instructions . . . Get the doctor! . . . Call the coastguard! Hands reach for Davy, taking the bundle from him, lifting it carefully on to the boards, helping to haul him up.
I try to move forward to where Daisy lies, water pooling around her. But she is still, still, too still and more pairs of hands hold me back as Davy sinks to his knees beside her and begins – oh so gently – to try to breathe life back into her, to persuade her heart to beat again.
The small crowd that has gathered – out of nowhere, hurrying from their homes – parts slightly and I see Bridie and Mairi running towards me, their faces shocked, as white as shells. And then I hear the wild, rasping screams, over and over, like the cry of a wounded animal, on and on as if they will never stop. I look around frantically, wide-eyed, terrified, wondering where they’re coming from.
It’s only as Bridie reaches me and wraps her arms around me that I realise the screams are mine.
I fight to get through to where Daisy lies, needing above all to hold her. As I reach her, there’s a gurgling choking sound and Davy turns her head to one side as a gush of seawater flows from her mouth. He presses a finger against her neck and looks up at me, relief flooding his face. ‘There’s a pulse.’
But her eyes are still shut, her damp lashes stark against the translucent, too-pale skin of her face. Tentatively, gently, I brush a strand of hair away from her forehead, where the shadow of a bruise is beginning to form. She looks so tiny, so fragile, lying there motionless, and I gasp as a sob judders through my whole being, unleashing a shaking so violent that it takes both Bridie and Mairi to hold me upright.
The crowd parts as the doctor strides to Daisy’s side, crouching, setting down his bag and opening her coat to press a stethoscope to her chest.
‘She fell between the boat and the jetty,’ Davy tells him. ‘I think she may have hit her head on the way down. She was only in the water for a minute or two, but she looked to be unconscious when I reached her. She wasn’t breathing and there was no pulse. I did CPR, she’s vomited up some water and there’s a breath and a pulse now.’ He sounds businesslike, clinical, telling the doctor the things he needs to know, but it panics me even more that they’re talking over my daughter like this, like it’s just an empty body, a shell, not my living,