Page 8 of Take Me Away

Because Isla Quinn is back. And having a fish bap, apparently.

And yeah, I’ve seen the newspaper headlines, ISLA QUINN in big black bold lettering. I’ve also seen the side-eye glances from most of the town while they all burst at the seams desperate to talk about the girl who left here.

But Isla Quinn is safely locked in a box deep within my memory and I stopped unlocking and lifting that lid years ago, so sure, she can be back, and she can be in the headlines. She can also stay the hell out of my way.

I take a moment to study my daughter. They say when you have a baby it changes your life. That I guess is a given; all lie-ins and Sundays at the pub evaporate with the intake of one tiny set of lungs preparing to take on the world. What they don’t tell you is how profound that change is. How in that instant, in that pause of a breath, the very fabric of your universe tears apart and weaves itself into a new tapestry. A new love. A new life that you know you’d die to protect.

She’s so much of me, with the dark wilful curls and the shape of her long-lashed eyes. But she’s also her mother in the curve of her mouth, the freckles on her nose. Those freckles break my heart every morning.

Right now, she’s got mismatched socks – one purple with stars, one green striped, and those wild curls are half in, half out of the ponytail I wrestled it into earlier. That one YouTube tutorial hack with the vacuum cleaner lied. It’s not ‘dad-proof’. It’s a trap.

Two years in, and I still can’t nail a bloody ponytail.

‘There’s cereal,’ I offer, knowing damn well the milk’s probably turned.

‘Nope.’ She’s picked up my phone, thumbs tapping like a hacker. ‘Dad, can I help you find someone?’

‘Someone?’ I’m busy scraping together what’s left of the sandwich into something vaguely square-shaped for her lunchbox. ‘What do you mean, find someone?’

‘Like a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Tommy’s dad has a boyfriend. They play football together.’

Jesus Christ.

‘What are you doing on my phone?’

I grab it back – gently, but firmly. Sure enough, one of those bloody dating apps is open. Jude. Has to be. That idiot’s idea of a joke.

‘Maisie, we’ve talked about this. My phone’s private.’

She shrugs. All casual eight-year-old meh. ‘You looked sad yesterday. And the day before. Miss Trent says sometimes people just need a little push.’

Miss Trent can push herself off a cliff.

‘I’m not sad.’ Close enough to a lie that my throat tightens. Life’s just … heavy. I swipe the app away. Rows of desperate smiles disappear. ‘I don’t need a push. I need…’ Sleep. Silence. A way to go back and undo every bit of grief I watched Maisie survive. ‘…to get you to school. Shoes. Now.’

Maisie rolls her eyes and slides off her chair like I’ve asked her to walk the plank. ‘You’re always grumpy in the morning.’

‘I’m always grumpy, full stop.’ I mutter it under my breath as I stuff the sad excuse for a sandwich into her unicorn lunchbox. She’s not wrong. She rarely is. Got that from her mum – the bullshit radar. Razor-sharp.

Cap crawls out from under the table, tail wagging. Toast crumbs on his face like battle trophies.

‘You’ve got to lose weight, old man,’ I say, scratching behind his ears. ‘Vet says so.’

He leans into it like he’s proud of every extra pound. Doesn’t worry about cholesterol or how long he’s got left. Just wants toast and ear scratches. He’s got life figured out better than I do.

‘Dad!’ Maisie again. ‘I can’t find my black shoes!’

I check the time. We’re already late.

‘Wear the red ones!’ I shout back as my phone pings. It’s Cal: Don’t forget to sign off the new rota. PS. Have you seen who’s back?

I groan and shove my phone away in my pocket. The RNLI rota can wait until later. Cal’s been on my case about it for weeks – who’s on call, who can launch, who’s trained for night shouts. ‘Deputy launching authority’ sounds impressive until you realise it means paperwork and the weight of deciding when to send men into hell.

‘They’re not school shoes!’ Maisie screams back down the stairs, and I wince, pinching my nose.

‘They’ve got soles, haven’t they? They’ll do.’

Her sigh could power the national grid.