The wedding photo shows Archie and Sandy on the steps of an old country church. Confetti has been thrown, and the photographer has managed to capture it mid-air, streaks of lilac and pink. Sandy is very pretty, with pale skin and stunning auburn hair, her face forever caught in a huge, delighted smile. Archie is holding her hand, grinning down at her with such pride and love, his hair short and his face clean-shaven. He is handsome, but it’s the expression that makes it magical – he looks like he just can’t believe his luck. It’s exactly how a woman would want her husband to look at her on their wedding day.
I stare at it for a few moments more, and wonder at how hard this must be for Archie. Every decision must be a balancing act for him – walking a line between remembering her, and helping his daughters know her, while at the same time building a life in the present and not just in the past. There must be pictures of Sandy with Lilly – photos taken perhaps in her hospital bed as she cradled her newborn; holidays, birthday parties. But he has clearly made the choice to not hang those particular pictures here – because it would be a constant reminder that there are no pictures of Sandy with Meg, and never will be.
My mind is still swirling with the sadness of it all when the door next to me opens, and a small ginger head pops out of it. The rest of Meg follows, and I am about to move away from the wedding picture when she says: “That’s my mummy. I didn’t get to meet her, but Daddy says she loved me to the moon and back when I was in her tummy.”
Meg doesn’t sound upset by this statement – in fact it is declared in a very matter-of-fact way – and I suppose that at her age, she knows no different. This is her normal, and she is not a child who is lacking for people who adore her. Still, it brings a sharp sting to my eyes, and I hear a waver in my voice as I reply: “I’m sure she did, Meg. I bet she loved you all the way to Neptune and back.”
“Is that further?”
“I think so! Anyway, did you want to show me your room?”
She claps excitedly, and I follow her through the door. The room is small, but manages to contain bunk beds, a little wardrobe, and every single dinosaur toy ever made in the history of the universe. There are plastic ones, plushy ones, stretchy ones, big and small and in between ones, and the duvet set on the lower bunk is covered in friendly dinosaur faces – presumably the kinds that eat plants, not little girls.
Meg starts with a model of a T-rex, and proceeds to tell me the names of every single dinosaur in the room. I’m not entirely sure she pronounces them correctly, and there is at least one where she giggles halfway through and admits: “I made that one up! I can’t remember his name…Daddy says when that happens, it must be a Forgotasaurus!”
It is still quite the feat for a small girl, and it reminds me of Sam when he was a similar age, and he got really into Pokémon and could recite all their names and types and what they evolved into. He was forever asking me which was my favourite, and I’d always pick one called Tangela because it looked like it had a radical hair-do. He’s still got piles of Pokémon playing cards in his bedroom drawers now.
I wonder how many different phases of enthusiasm Meg will go through, and how crowded this small room might be by the end of them all. She has just finished telling me about the dinosaurs on her bed sheets – diplodocus, apparently – when Lilly bursts into the room, declaring that it’s her turn with Cally, and she’s been waiting ages, and she bets Cally isn’t even interested in stupid dinosaurs anyway. This is unkind, but doesn’t seem to faze Meg at all – she simply responds by throwing the plastic T-rex at her sister’s head with considerable force.
Lilly nips nimbly to one side, and the toy goes flying out into the landing instead. Right. Well. As an only child myself, and as the parent to one, I have always been fascinated by sibling dynamics – a weird combination of being envious of the company, and being insanely pleased not to have the drama.
I stand up, brush down my dress, and take another gulp of wine as I follow Lilly down the corridor to her room. Meg tries to come with us, but Lilly slams the door in her face. I’m not quite sure how to referee this, and even less sure that it’s my place to even try. I settle for opening the door, and telling Meg that I loved her dinosaurs, and that she should probably go downstairs and see if dinner’s ready.
Lilly’s room is at the back of the house, and bigger than her sister’s. Despite that, it manages to be just as crowded. There are bunk beds in here as well, and I assume that it’s set up like this so they can have their own space, but also have the comfort of sharing if they want to.
I look around and see, predictably enough, fairies – or, as I learn during my tour, pixies, fairies, goblins and elves, which are all completely different things. Some of them look like the little figures her dad makes for her, but some seem shop-bought, and others are normal dolls that she’s adapted by gluing on wings and spraying with glitter.
Her bookshelf is bustling with fairy tales, picture books, compendiums and other ephemera – tiny trees, miniature toadstools, a few fossils similar to the one I’d collected as a child. Her walls are covered in pictures and posters, but beneath it all, they are painted a pretty shade of lilac. Some of the posters are overlapping, a new layer added on top, lots of them featuring horses and dogs.
“Do you like horses, Lilly?” I ask. The closest I’ve come to a horse in real life is going to the races, and they always look beautiful but slightly scary.
“A bit. My friend at school – Shannon – she says that being into fairy tales is for little kids. She has a pony.”
“I see. And is Shannon the same friend who calls you a ginger-nut?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t mean it! Anyway, sticks and stones will…I can’t remember the rest.”
Obviously, I do know the rest, and I’ve never entirely believed the truth of that saying. In my experience, words can be just as hurtful as a being hit on the head with a plastic dinosaur, and the wounds can take a lot longer to heal.
“Well, you’ll have lots of friends as you go through life, love, and lots of different things you’re interested in as well. But if you still like your fairy tales, don’t let anyone tell you that’s wrong. Have you got anything else you want to show me?”
I’m starving by this stage, and desperately hoping that the answer is no. Sadly, she also wants to play her recorder for me, and show me her lipstick collection – all of which is actually lip balm in different flavours. Little girls always seem to be in such a hurry to grow up, don’t they?
When we’re finally done, we both traipse down the stairs again, and walk back into the main room. Everyone is sitting around the table eating, and the big pan that once contained delicious home-made lasagne appears to now be completely empty.
“Oh!” says Connie, looking up at me as though she is surprised I am there. “We totally forgot! I’m so sorry, it’s all gone…”
George remains deadpan, but Archie can’t meet my eyes. I suspect foul play, and reply: “Oh no! Where’s the nearest chippie?”
Everyone bursts out laughing, and Connie dashes into the kitchen, returning with a plate for me and a smaller one for Lilly.
“We were going to hide it under the table,” says Meg, giggling, “but Lottie tried to eat it!”
Lottie is, I see, camped out by their legs. Her joints may be aching, but her Retriever genes are still fully alert for scraps of food, it seems.
We settle around the table, and the feast begins. The wine is flowing, and the conversation too. Archie has put Christmas music on in the background, and the lasagne is, as expected, to die for. I’ll be needing to size up my wrap dress if I carry on eating like this.
I gently quiz Connie about what our kids are likely to get up to in Weymouth, and she puts my mind at ease by listing sex, drugs, rock and roll, fairground rides and devil worship as potential activities. All good then.
