But whoever Mick Kennedy was, he must’ve thought well of my mother to leave her this inheritance, so that’s a positive. It’s either an incredibly kind gesture, or he felt like he owed her something – or maybe he’s a bit unhinged. Perhaps it’s a combination of all three. But this place was willed to my mother and not to me. So I need to accept it in her honour. The problemis: where is her birth certificate? James said I need that and some other documents to prove ownership. This might be easier said than done.
I flick on the light in the back cupboard of my bedroom and gather my courage. If my mother’s birth certificate is anywhere, it’ll be here – a cardboard box tucked away in a black bag, double-wrapped with duct tape to protect it from years of wear and tear, humidity and moth damage. I crouch down and worm my way beneath the low shelf and reach for it, dragging it into the light. It’s smaller than I recall – and heavier. It contains all my mother’s ‘personal articles’ – that’s what the social worker called them.
At ten years old, I was too young to sift through them. The social worker told me that there were important items that might come in handy in the future. Things like her wallet, keys and cards she had on her when she was knocked off her bike. Also, anything that was deemed official. I was told to keep them safe and secure, and that’s what I’ve done. This box has followed me everywhere, always tucked away in some dark corner out of view. I’ve been struck with fear whenever I’ve considered opening it, an instinctive dread of what might come out if I do. Like Pandora’s box, I figured that whatever contents lie within should remain undisturbed. Until now.
I hesitantly pick up the scissors, my fingers shaking as I cut open the packaging. When I peel back the protective wrapping, I see her name scrawled on top in neat handwriting: ‘Rose Clarke’. I slowly lift off the lid and find a pile of envelopes, pictures… My eyes close and my mouth tightens to contain the tears that have been building up inside me for years.
This is exactly where I didn’t want my mind to go. To be overwhelmed by sorrow. To be filled with recollections of the most incredible and gifted woman I’ve ever encountered. To sinkinto the reality that she’s really gone forever and nothing can ever bring her back.
I run my thumb over the faded image of my mother and me. We’re standing by the duck pond, our faces illuminated by the sun. She has her arms draped around me, and I can still feel the warmth of her embrace, even after all these years. Our laughter captured forever, frozen in time, unaware of the tragedy that was to come.
Now, as I look at her image, I remember the moments before the accident that changed everything. My mum preparing to go out into the stormy night for her late shift at the Fox. I knew the drill – I don’t cook anything or answer the door, and just close my eyes and dream of beautiful adventures.
I heard my mother’s gentle footsteps coming down the hall. She entered my room, the soft light of the hallway lamp illuminating her face. She carried a mug ofhot chocolate and sat on the edge of my bed, then started to stroke my hair and sing softly, her voice soothing and calming. She tucked me in and placed a heavy blanket over me, the fabric soft and snuggly against my skin. I felt her soft lips press against my cheek one last time before the door clicked shut.
Lying on my side, I felt a deep sense of calmness. With a relaxed sigh, I rolled over and nestled under the covers, expecting that I’d open my eyes to see her in the morning when I awoke.
But when I did open my eyes again, a twirling blue-and-red light lit the room. Apolice officer stood firmly in the doorway with his hands clasped together in front of him.
‘There’s been a fatal accident.’
‘We did everything we could.’
‘Can we contact your father?’
So much to take in, so few words.
At that time, I didn’t understand the significance of what hit-and-run meant. No suspects, no witnesses, no hope.
The police officer apologised but told me my mum wouldn’t be coming back. I tried to plead with him – nothing worked. There were no calls that could bring her back, no miraculous fix, nowhere for me to go to find her. The police officer shook his head sadly from side to side, and my world felt like it was falling apart as an emptiness started to fill me up.
I sit in stillness, holding her photo to my chest, my thoughts flooded with what could have been, whatshouldhave been… I can still feel her hand in mine, and the gentle breeze against my face, our laughter ringing out like music. No matter how hard I try, I know it’s impossible to relive those memories. It’s a longing deep within me that I can never fulfil, yet foolishly I still hope for another way to feel close to her again. There’s this crazy, irrational part of me that believes maybe, just maybe, we still have one more chance.
CHAPTER 11
THE TAKE-OFF
‘How much do you think it’s worth then? What kind of money are we talking here?’
I roll my eyes and stare at him with disbelief. ‘Really, Ash? That’s your initial reaction?’
He brings his hands to his face and stares upwards. ‘Of course! That’s all that matters! It means nothing more to you… you’ve never heard of this guy Mick, you have no connection whatsoever to his house. The past is completely irrelevant. Nothing can ever change it, so what’s the point in even thinking about it?’
I take in a deep breath. I don’t want to fight. I can tell he’s still angry for being shafted at the flat viewing. But this inheritance is good news and it couldn’t have come at a better time.I’m keeping it that way.
‘It’s not worth getting all emotional, Daisy. Just use your head, like you always do, and fill out the forms. It’s easy – you can’t mess it up, I promise.’ He pauses, his eyebrows pulled together as he waits for a response.
I reach out for the wine and take a large swig.
‘When you get there, they need to verify your identity as the sole heir of this property, and once that’s done, you get the keys.After that, you list it for sale and whoever bids the highest will get it as is.Goof-proof, eh?’
Goof-proof.I take another long swig.I can’t expect Ash to understand. How could he?He is the yin to my yang, the rationality to my emotionality – if that’s even a word. We’re quite opposite in our approaches; he’s more composed while I’m more sentimental. Opposites attract and all that. So, Ash is approaching the situation from a practical point of view, and that’s understandable. Especially in his line of work. He deals with property changing hands day in, day out. And I see his point. This doesn’t have to be amajor ordeal. It’s just a legal process – just sign the paperwork and move on with life.
If only.It’s not as simple as signing the paperwork and that’s it, no matter what anyone tells me. I can’t simply move forward with life when the past keeps resurfacing. So many secrets remain unsolved, ones that mum took to her grave with her. Now, with this lawyer and this inheritance, it’s like I’ve been tossed into a labyrinth with no map or compass – only uncertainty.
He takes out his phone and searches for the location of Innisfree. ‘Oh dear, this place is the wilderness; remote and rainy. Hardly a tropical paradise.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘But if the property itself is in decent condition, we could be looking at six figures with the land. Easily snag a buyer on an online auction so it goes fast – no waiting around for months with viewings, et cetera. Whole sale can be wrapped up with one click. See, told you: goof-proof.’
Ash leans back on the worn leather sofa, staring at himself in the mirror. He stretches his arms over his head and then down to his sides, runs his hands under the waistband of his Armani boxers and unbuttons his shirt. He pats his chest and grins at me to come over. My heart usually melts whenever Ash flashes that confident grin, but today I feel a sharp stab of disappointment.For him, this isn’t about adventure and uncovering my heritage at all.
