When Nana heaves open the old wooden door to greet the late arrivals, the causeway is already slippery with seawater. I can see that their shoes are all soaking wet, forming little puddles around their feet. Lily is too busy blaming everything and everyone but herself for being late – the traffic, the satnav, the car Nana paid for – to notice the way we are all staring at her. It’s as though she thinks the tide should have waited for her to arrive. Complaining is my sister’s not-so-secret superpower. She is a walking frown. The soundtrack of her life is little more than a series of moans stitched together into a symphony of negativity, which I find exhausting to listen to. I feel the chill of the cold shoulder she gives us all, and take a step back.
Lily is a smaller version of Rose, but without the brains or cheekbones. Like my mother, she has never had a full-time job, and yet is still a part-time mum, who got pregnant when she was seventeen. My sister stinks of perfume and entitlement. I get an unpleasant waft of Poison – her favourite eau de toilette – which she’s been drowning herself and our nostrils in since we were teenagers. That’s not the only thing about her that has never changed. Lily still dresses in skimpy clothes from Topshop and I think she must sleep in her make-up, because I can’t remember what her face looks like without it. She twists a strand of highlighted hair around her finger like a child, and I notice that her roots are showing. She is not a natural blonde. We are all dark in my family, including my wonderful niece.
Trixie is fifteen. Like most children, she was a walking, talking question mark for years, filled to overflowing with endless whys, whats, whens, wheres and hows. Finding the answers fast enough – or sometimes at all – was a constant challenge. These days, I think the bookish teenager she’s become knows more than the rest of us put together. She looks like a miniature librarian, and I think that’s a good thing, because I love librarians. Unlike her mother, or mine, Trixie is well read, very polite and exceptionally kind. A little precocious at times perhaps, but that’s no bad thing if you ask me. Not that anyone does.
Like me, she dresses in a way that her mother does not approve of. As soon as Trixie was old enough to have a say in what she wore, she insisted on only wearing pink. She would literally cry and hold her breath if Lily tried to dress her in any other colour. The tantrums stopped years ago, but Trixie doesn’t dress like a typical teenager. She wouldn’t be caught dead in denim, or the cheap, trashy clothes her mother favours. I see that today’s carefully curated outfit consists of a fluffy pink jumper with a white lace collar, a pink corduroy skirt, white tights, and shiny pink shoes. Even her glasses are pink, and she’s carrying a small, vintage pink suitcase, which I imagine contains several books. Her shoulder-length hair is a mess of dark brown curls, and her reluctance to straighten it is yet another way she inadvertently irritates her mother. But all teenagers find ways to test their parents; it’s a rite of passage.
Trixie instinctively knows how to warm the coldest of hearts, and her presence instantly defrosts the chilly atmosphere at Seaglass. She might be a little immature at times and lacking in street cred, but she’s a kind and happy child, a rare breed of teenager. Her hopeful outlook on life seems to bring out the best in all of us.
‘Nana!’ she shrieks, with genuine excitement. ‘Happy birthday!’
‘It isn’t my birthday until tomorrow, but thank you, darling girl,’ Nana replies, beaming back at her namesake and great-granddaughter.
Hugs and hellos are exchanged between the women in the family, and I notice that we are all smiling at the same time. It’s a rare sight to see, like an eclipse.
‘I’m so happy to see you, Aunty Daisy,’ Trixie says while the others dump their bags, take off their coats, and remove their wet shoes, tights and socks.
‘I’m very happy to see you too,’ I reply.
‘Now, don’t forget to punch in,’ Nana says to everyone. ‘All your cards are in their cubbyholes next to the old factory clock. You know I like to keep track of who is here and who isn’t.’
Nancy sighs. ‘You do know this isn’t a normal thing to ask guests to do, don’t you?’
Nana grins. ‘My dear, I’d rather be dead than normal.’
Amused glances are exchanged, but the smiles all fade when my father steps into the hall. I watch him proceed with caution towards the late arrivals.
‘Grandad!’ Trixie says, smashing the silence. She hasn’t inherited the family grudges yet, and rushes to hug him.