here. She could play quietly with her toys for hours, something which hitherto had been a great source of pride but, more latterly, bothered me slightly. Clutching the tiny parents in her hands, she gazed at the flowers in wonder.
‘Did they grow in the garden?’
‘No, darling,’ I laughed as she clambered onto my lap and reached out to touch. ‘Someone sent them.’
‘Why?’
I hesitated. ‘As a present.’
‘Who?’
I took a breath. ‘D’you remember that man who came to the pub with us? Luke? He sent them.’
‘The one who could make an eyebrow wiggle?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Is it your birthday?’
‘No, he just sent them.’
‘There’s a card.’ She seized it. Stared. ‘It … oh. What does it say?’
I swallowed, wishing I’d thought this through a bit. ‘It says, “Hope you’re feeling better, lots of love.” I … had a bit of a cold.’
‘When?’ She twisted on my lap. Brown eyes huge. I flushed.
‘Um, a few days ago.’
‘Oh.’
As she gazed at me the whole chasm between childhood, and her being grown up one day, seemed to yawn at me. A time when her own innocent little world of Sylvanian Families and truth would be over. When she’d be quicker at spotting lies like the one I’d just told her. Oh, I told her plenty: put your coat on, it’s cold out there – it wasn’t, but it might be later; teddy wants you to eat your carrots – who was I to know the workings of a stuffed bear’s mind? We definitely started them early, the small white ones. Introduced them gradually, like solid food. But this was a proper one. I wondered if she’d spot it. How grown-up was she? Was I training her well? But a few days ago was an eternity for a four-year-old.
‘Are you going to marry him?’
No flies on Clemmie. Forget the cold, spurious or not; cut to the chase. After a sharp intake of breath, I laughed nervously.
‘No, of course not!’
‘Oh.’ Her gaze went back to the flowers. ‘Becky’s mummy got married and she woz a bridesmaid.’
My heart gave a jolt. ‘Did Becky like that?’
‘Yes, she had a pink dress and a bogey.’
‘A bouquet.’
‘Yes.’
‘And does Becky like her new daddy?’
She shrugged, bored with the finer nuances of her story. ‘We saw pictures at Circle Time. It was long, like a princess dress.’
‘Ah. Lovely.’
‘Can I have one like that?’
‘Well, darling, I’m not sure I’m going to get married. That would mean you would have a new daddy, you see.’
‘We could ask him?’
‘Um, well, no.’ I scratched my neck. ‘I don’t think we’ll do that.’
‘If you do, can I have the dress?’ She slid off my knee, uninterested now that there seemed only a slim chance of sartorial splendour amongst her classmates.
‘Clemmie, do you ever think about Daddy?’
The health visitor had said I should ask things like this. I didn’t. Ever. It wasn’t my instinct. My instinct screamed: protect! Don’t mention it! So I hadn’t. Clemmie was on the floor with her tiny parents. The irony didn’t escape me.
‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. Carefully, almost. Too careful, for a four-year-old.
‘Do you remember what he looked like?’
‘He was a bit grumpy,’ she said eventually. To the floor.
