Daisy Chain

By Antonina Irena Brzozowska

As her ninety-fifth year draws to a close, Margaret’s light begins to fade. With her last wish and legacy in mind, she pins all her hopes on a much younger generation, seeking to bridge the gap between two vastly different stages of life.

Joshua and Abigail, at the opposite end of life’s spectrum, find themselves unexpectedly intertwined with Margaret’s final journey. As they strive to fulfil her dying wish, they are forced to confront their own demons and embark on a path of self-discovery. Will their efforts to help Margaret ultimately lead them to find themselves, or will their struggles be lost in the dwindling sands of time?

Amidst the turmoil, the question of forgiveness looms large. Can long-standing nemeses be forgiven, and can the weight of the past be lifted? As Margaret, Joshua, and Abigail navigate this emotional landscape, they each seek the serenity that has eluded them for so long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035858545

Antonina Irena Brzozowska

Antonina Irena Brzozowska was born and educated in the north-east of England. A former teacher, her interests incorporate the Polish, Canadian, and Hawaiian cultures and traditions. Her extensive travel experiences in these countries have provided her with an invaluable asset to her writing.

Book preview

Chapter One

Darlington! Pay attention, lad!

With remarkable speed, the chalk flew through the packed, stuffy classroom, narrowly missing the boy’s temple, making his astute eyes lift and stare unblinkingly at the object of his scorn. I hate him. He snapped his eyes shut. I fucking hate, hate, HATE—the fucking bastard! Opening his vengeful eyes, he aimed to outstare his persecutor; too late, Mister Sugden had moved on to another unsuspecting victim, leaving Joshua to stew in his cauldron of bitter-raw misery, where oppressive thoughts and hopeless, despairing emotions whirled and swirled; bubbled and frothed, threatening to pull him further, further, further down into a dark and dismal well of no return, in which he could feel and think no more.

A sudden tug on his arm immediately brought him back to the present, his eyes darting to his best friend, taking him in as if he were some stranger, before switching his gaze to the rapid exodus at the door where his classmates were eagerly filing out of the room.

You were away with the fairies, mate, smirked Mick, giving him a friendly swipe on the shoulder. Come on; it’s home time.

As the two teenagers gathered their protractors, rulers, exercise, and textbooks, Joshua was feeling short-changed; maths was his favourite subject, and he’d wasted three-quarters of the lesson plotting untold revenge on his teacher.

Walking the half-kilometre home, he tried furiously to reign in his swirly thoughts, and gradually, very slowly, a picture of his younger self began to emerge out of the fragmented puzzle and rise above the ashes of his despondency; a reflection of a young boy, five or six years of age; a happy, carefree boy; an innocent who had everything: a loving mother and father, a comfortable home, food, toys, and all the love and joys of a happy, loving family. And then…

Chapter Two

There was something about Joshua Darlington that, inexplicably, stole a tiny fraction of Abigail Hunter’s attention. What was that something she did not know. Desperately, she tried to override it—to banish it out of her system. She could not. Whatever it was, it was beyond her comprehension and ultimately beyond her control. And so, every morning, her eyes inadvertently switched to him, and, for a few secret moments, she savoured his presence before she managed to drag her eyes away and vowed never to look in his direction again.

As the first orange-yellow leaves fell, her thoughts fell on the boy she had vowed to ignore. Like autumn, she thought, there was an underlying sadness about him, but there was also something that suggested another side to him—a secret, perhaps a darker, troubled side.

Nearing the gate, she snapped out of her reverie. Whether Joshua Darlington was or wasn’t troubled, it had nothing to do with her, she told herself firmly. If she was ever to get into nursing school, she would have to banish all dead-end reveries; banish the likes of Joshua Darlington out of her mind and think, breathe, and live for her studies and nothing or no one else.

Life at home was good. Alan and Mary Hunter had never lost their love for each other or their one and only child. Abigail was their pride and joy, their precious jewel, cementing their love. Supported and loved Abigail basked, flourished, and matured by the examples her parents set, thriving in a haven where all rejoiced in each other’s achievements, no matter how small, big, or inconsequential they seemed to others.

For devout Roman Catholics, prayer was at the top of their individual daily agendas. There was a secret figure Abigail prayed to each day; she shared this spiritual being with no one, and it was to this spiritual being, her guardian angel, that she related all her joys, secret sorrows, achievements, dreams, disappointments, and anxieties. She received no verbal answers, but she still carried on.

The bedside lamp switched off and abruptly went back on.

Oh, I forgot, guardian angel, as from midnight, Joshua Darlington will be wiped away from my thoughts forever.

The light snapped off, and her eyes stared into the darkness, seeing only one prevailing, defiant image.

Chapter Three

The mere thought of her forthcoming birthday sent shivers of dread through Margaret Rainforth’s aged body. On 1st December, she would reach the grand old age of ninety-five, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. If only, she mused, she could sweep back the tides of time; if only the sands of time were not rushing uncontrollably through the hourglass, if only she had taken a different course in her life.

She sat in her usual place at the usual time, watching the same scenario unravel before her aged eyes, and yet, each morning, aspects of the scene were creatively reconstructed. The same actors performing variations of the ritualistic scene; different lines of speech interspersed with laughter, shouts, yelps, and the occasional scuffle added to the mix. This, concluded Margaret, was the best part of the day. Half an hour or so later, it was gone, until the next morning and the next and the next until, one morning, she would no longer sit at the window. That day, she knew in her heart of hearts, was not far off; she could feel, sense, and smell its coming. Soon, it would be here; soon, but it was not quite here yet.

About to let the flimsy, grey-tinged curtain drop, something, someone—caught her attention. Her old, sharp eyes focused on one figure as it passed her window. Slowly and alone, the girl passed, as a pair of surreptitious eyes followed her every move and a collection of questions gathered in the old lady’s head. Who was this girl? Why was she alone? Was she clever, ambitious, or was she a dreamer? Was she reaching for the stars or merely settling for crumbs? Was she happy? Was she loved?

Margaret closed her eyes on the last thought.

Chapter Four

Long before he stepped through the door, the familiar sharp claws of tension and anxiety infiltrated Joshua’s young body, knotting the muscles of his stomach into a tight coil; apprehension surging through every fast-pulsating vein in his body; his heart beating furiously, threatening to explode into a thousand miserable pieces, never to be made whole again. Shouts, screams, threats, and thuds permeated his senses, and seeped through the cracks of his restless soul. Quickly, stealthily, he made his way up the stairs, avoiding the creaky third step, into the only sanctuary he had and quietly locked the door behind him. The tirade of rants, vulgar expletives, and chilling threats penetrated the solid wood of the door, permeated the walls, seeped through, and suffused his skull until they became one with him and he one with them. There was no escape. When would it all end? Would it ever end? Was there an end to this unrelenting nightmare?

Trembling, cold fingers rummaged through a rucksack, pulling out a pile of books. Slumping down on his chair, Joshua stared hard at the uneven pile before him: maths books, a classic novel, a history textbook. Was it worth it? Was anything worth it? He asked himself, staring fixedly at the spines of the books. Was he inevitably going to end up like him—hard, unyielding, cruel, without beliefs, ambitions, or dreams?

He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly until he could squeeze them no more, and still the shouts and threats squeezed through. Grabbing his black quilted jacket, which he had minutes ago discarded, he haphazardly threw it back on his back, ran down the stairs, and opened the door to freedom.

Where the fuck do you think you’re going?

Guts, veins, and heart froze as Joshua’s clammy hand continued to clasp tightly on the door handle, his knuckles prominent and white against his pale skin. Should he make a run for it? Which way, upstairs or out? His eyes shifted erratically, hither, and thither. The ferocious blow he felt on the back of his head determined his indecision. He fled as fast as his feet would allow, his stepfather’s vociferous curses mercilessly bombarding his head. Where he was heading, he did not know, nor did he care as he ran fast, faster, his young eyes looking straight ahead, his mother’s frantic screams and shouts haunting his every step, her voice becoming fainter as the distance became greater, filling his pounding heart and tortured soul with unquenchable guilt. He had run away. He had abandoned the only human being he loved in the world. He had deserted her and left her to defend herself against the callous brute of a man, she called her husband.

Gradually, his pace decreased, and his heartbeat followed suit. Slowly the rhythm of his breathing resumed at a steady pace, and a sense of relief washed over him as he found himself standing on his best friend’s doorstep.

As his taut body began to relax in the warmth and safety of his friend’s home, his eyes caught the tinge of concern in his best friend’s eyes. What Joshua heard stilled his eyes, making them seem hard and uncompromising to the concerned teenager. This did not deter Mick’s resolve.

Josh, you have to tell someone. You can’t go on like this.

The stony silence was deafening.

Jo…

I heard, snapped Joshua, turning his hard-of-flint eyes to Mick. I don’t have to do anything, mate.

Abruptly, he rose and headed for the outside door.

Where are you going, Josh? You can’t just go—Josh—Joshua—

Aimlessly, he walked for what, seemingly, felt like endless kilometres, finally ending up on a park bench. Stiffly he sat, his collar huddled to his cheeks and against the bitter, raw wind; his cold hands firmly clenched inside his pocket; his fixed eyes staring into the velvety darkness, where he saw nothing but black emptiness.

What to do?

Where to go?

Thoughts swirled about his swimming head. To go back to his mum, and so-called stepfather would be like walking into the proverbial lion’s den. To flee was a tempting option, but at what cost to his mother? His thoughts jumped to Mick, his best friend; his words were hauntingly clear in his head. You have to tell someone…But the stark reply thundered, Tell who? Who would listen? And, more importantly, who would believe?

The pile of schoolbooks on his study desk crashed into his thoughts. Education is the way out. An inner voice whispered repeatedly until it became a loud declaration, a statement of fact. Education is your freedom—freedom—freedom. Slowly, he rose, feeling the chill in his young limbs.

Begrudgingly, he turned onto his road. He could already hear the threats, the banging, and the crude expletives.

Chapter Five

Nervously, she twiddled her thumbs, her face pale and taut, and her body rigid as she sat stiffly on the hard, high-backed chair. Why had she been summoned? She didn’t have the slightest clue. Still, she rummaged her head for possible reasons; all proved nil and void. Her eyes, when not on the closed door, surveyed her fellow pupils sauntering by; some she knew well, and others were mere acquaintances; most she didn’t know at all. More than one cast a cursory glance her way, making her feel a touch more conspicuous than she cared to feel. She dropped her eyes to the tiled floor, unwilling to engage in any form of eye contact; wishing the bell would ring and disperse them all. The tightly knotted coil in her clenched stomach tightened further. Her eyes lifted to the door and dropped once more.

The door opened.

Abigail.

Thousands of erratic butterflies crashed and burned in her knotted gut. She took a deep breath.

The middle-aged woman extended the door wider, and Abigail walked through. Her young eyes settled firmly on the back of a framed photograph sitting on a neat desk, her mind wondering what the image depicted: a husband, a daughter, a son’s graduation, a pet dog?

Abigail.

Eyes shifted to the head teacher, who was now sitting behind her tidy desk with an open file perched on top. Slowly, Abigail raised her eyes to meet the eyes of authority, the knot in her tight stomach becoming ever tighter and her heart pumping furiously and threatening to jump out of her chest. The smile appearing on Missus Hamilton’s lips allayed the anxiety bubbling within the teenager, but she still wondered what on earth she was doing, sitting in the head teacher’s study.

Abigail, please don’t be anxious; you have not been called here to be reprimanded in any way.

The explanation given brought with it more questions than answers.

Chapter Six

Young eyes, full of raw loathing, stared at the man sitting opposite him, following his every move, as the middle-aged man heaped a spoonful of cereal and brought it up to his contorted mouth, slurping the milk, ignoring soggy flakes as they fell on to his beer-stained shirt. Bloodshot eyes darted to the young lad, glaring viciously. What the fuck are you gawping at? Snarled Henry Baker, his red, glassy eyes wavering uncontrollably at the stepson he despised.

Regardless of his inner resolve to keep shtum, Joshua couldn’t help himself as he dared to reply.

Obviously, there’s nothing worth staring at.

Lithely, he shot up, turned, and slumped back down like a sack of potatoes, his inner anger rising to gargantuan levels, his guts twisting uncontrollably, his heart thumping, and the sharp pain caused by the bowl hitting the back of his head making his eyes squint. Turning his burning eyes, he fixed them on his perpetrator. Opening his mouth, ready to spew out a host of unsavoury words, he closed it abruptly as, feeling another presence in the room, his lashing words were left unspoken. His eyes turned to his mother, who was standing perfectly still, her pleading eyes silently begging her son not to retaliate. For a moment, he wavered, weighing up the consequences. Turning, he walked away to the sound of raised voices.

Alone, down the long road, he briskly walked. Alone, he felt some modicum of peace, and a small particle of the stuff was better than no peace at all, he told himself. A group of schoolmates passed him by; some called out to him. He ignored them all, sticking two fingers at the old biddy standing at the window, walking briskly by, not caring to see her reaction. Not caring about anything.

If only the world would go away and leave him alone.

Chapter Seven

Slowly and reflectively, she walked away from the head teacher’s room. Her world spinning as endless questions, potential possibilities, and numerous scenarios chaotically chased each other around in Abigail’s head. What she heard was the last thing she had been expecting; in fact, she did not know what she had been expecting, but it certainly was not this.

Not one iota of Shakespearian literature absorbed in her fuddled mind that morning; not one historical fact entered her brain that afternoon. And, as for mathematical equations, the only disjointed words repeating themselves in the teenager’s uncharacteristically muddled brain were…sixth form college…strive higher…A ’levels…options…university…possibly Oxford material…Isolated words that now united and were fighting a mighty war with her childhood dream of becoming a nurse—words that never had any real bearing on her life until now. And now, it was all Missus Hamilton’s fault. She had planted the seed. But she told herself, avoiding Mister Sugden’s eagle eye, that she would kill the seed before it ever had a chance of growing. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do. Nursing was her dream, and nursing was what she was going to do, whether Missus Hamilton agreed or not.

And anyway, she asked herself as she slipped on her flannelette nightie that night. What on earth would I study in sixth form? The absurd idea, as Abigail described it, was swiftly relocated to the back of her mind.

The impending school Christmas disco was the subject of discussion on everybody’s lips, but Abigail had mixed feelings about it. While she enjoyed dancing to the latest rhythms with her friends, she dreaded being ogled at by the obnoxious boys in her year group. With no exception, she thought them all to be immature, especially Craig Smithson, who thought it hilarious to pinch a girl’s bum and watch her reaction. But the question crossed her mind: would Joshua Darlington be there, and if so, would he notice her? Perhaps, she mused, he was her exception. Shaking her head vigorously from side to side, she admonished herself severely for going back on her resolve and giving him another thought.

They sat on opposite sides of the corridor. Two statues, stiff and unyielding, wondering why they had been summoned to Missus Hamilton’s door, both unable to raise their stubborn eyes to acknowledge the other, both feeling the presence of the other.

Many a morning, he had seen her from afar, wondering why she preferred her own company to those of her more boisterous friends. A slim, dark-haired, good-looking girl; not a stunner like Mary Hopingdale; still, he mused, she held her own, and there was that something—something quite mysterious about her. Yeah, she was all right, as girls, went but, he concluded, she was far too aloof for his liking.

She felt his magnetic presence, as if he were sitting right next to her; she felt his surreptitious eyes on her, making her instantly feel inferior in the company of the school’s number one heartthrob. She didn’t have a chance. She was stupid to ever have thought she had. Furtively, she raised her eyes to him, her thumbs twiddling nervously for England.

Eyes locked.

The door opened.

Missus Hamilton’s head popped out, and her red-lipsticked mouth curved into a warm smile.

Come in, Abigail; come in, Joshua. What I have to say applies to you both although Abigail, you are already familiar with what I have to say.

Ominously, the clock on the wall ticked away, as the girl sat next to the boy, both facing the head teacher, who rose, walked around to the front of her desk, and stood in front of her perplexed pupils. Her eyes flitting from one to the other, while two pairs of eyes stared unblinkingly at the figure of authority.

Immediately, Missus Hamilton launched into full throttle. Some ten minutes later, the door opened and closed, leaving Joshua and Abigail standing outside.

He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. Well, what do you think? He kept his eyes firmly fixed on his shuffling feet.

I think, she thinks, we have potential.

He turned and started to walk off, stopped, and shouted back. Are you going to the Christmas disco?

There was no reply.

Chapter Eight

Both tossed and turned that night for different reasons, though one underlying reason reached its tentacles to both.

Joshua grabbed a pillow and pressed it hard over the back of his head, trying desperately to obliterate the noise permeating the thin wall. Henry Baker was drunk as a skunk and demanding his conjugal rights. Joshua heard his mother’s muffled protestations, his painful heart breaking in two. What had his mother done to deserve this despicable monster? She was a good mother. Caring, honest, loyal, and law-abiding, but what could she do in this lunatic’s clutches? He pressed the pillow harder, harder, and harder but could not annihilate the words seeping through. You have potential, Joshua. Buck up. Revise. Succeed. Neither could he eradicate the serious look in Missus Hamilton’s eyes. She was concerned. She had high hopes for him. She did not want him to fail, which was more than he could say for his stepdad, he morosely concluded. Throwing the pillow on to the floor, he sat at his study desk, opened his books, and stated aloud, I shall succeed!

Two streets away Abigail’s mind was filled with an irritating doubt niggling in her mind. Did she hear him correctly, or was it just her wishful imagination? Had Joshua Darlington inquired if she was going to the school disco and, if he had, why?

She switched on her bedside lamp, her eyes straying to the night table, on which lay a sealed envelope addressed to her parents from Missus Hamilton. In the subdued lighting of her room, she opened the drawer and placed the envelope inside, shutting the drawer firmly and decisively, her head teacher’s words ringing loudly in her ears. You have the potential to reach the stars, Abigail. She snapped off her bedside lamp and turned over.

Chapter Nine

The school hall was buzzing, heaving, and bursting at the seams; excitement suffused the air wherever the youngsters congregated in the hall, corridors, and toilets; the exuberance was almost tangible and most certainly contagious. It was hard not to be consumed by its wave; everyone wanted to be a part of it. And while Noddy Holder hammered out his Christmas hit, Abigail’s heart pounded to its own rhythm, her eyes flitting from groups of friends to individuals to mere acquaintances. Where was he? He just had to be here; he had to be otherwise, why would he have asked if she was going to be here? Where on earth was he? Her restless eyes scanned the periphery of the crowd in the heaving hall. She felt the tap on her shoulder, her heart leaping to the highest heavens. Josh! With a mighty crash, her heart plummeted down to Earth. David.

Will you dance with me, Abi?

His eyes darted to the clock on the mantelpiece. The disco would be in full swing by now, he thought, his eyes turning away from the clock and on to his mother’s scarred face. Why did it have to be like this? He closed his eyes momentarily. But his answer did not come.

Chapter Ten

David Lewis was an average pupil; a pleasant boy—well-mannered, well-meaning, and, seemingly, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Although he was mild-natured, he was persistent, and once he set his mind on something or someone, he normally achieved his goal. As he stood waiting for Abigail’s answer, he felt his goal slip from his grasp, while she stood perfectly still in the midst of the gyrating crowd, her eyes on her fellow pupils, still wondering where on earth Joshua Darlington had gotten to. Had he planned to come at all, or had he just been toying with her feelings?

A decision sometime this evening would be good, Abigail. David’s hopeful eyes grew wider in eager anticipation, his body poised and ready to share a dance with the girl he fondly admired.

His innocent question gate-crashed her meandering thoughts, her eyes swiftly rescanning the packed room one last time for any sign of Joshua, finally resting on the optimistic young man before her: her reluctant smile warming every crevice of his heart. Why not, David.

And, while they danced and threw each other the odd smile, questions continued to file in Abigail’s head, one after another, each one demanding an answer that would never come. Did she hear Joshua correctly? Did he ask her if she was coming to the Christmas disco? Where was he? What was he doing? What was he thinking? Why had he bothered saying anything to her in the first place if he had no intention of coming? Why was she thinking about him when she had fervently promised that she wouldn’t? What on earth was all this nonsense about?

Another dance? David shouted above the din.

I want to go home, she shouted back, suddenly yearning to be back home with her parents, warm and secure in a little girl’s innocent world, where boys were not permitted to enter and where adults were not allowed to question childhood dreams; where deceit, lies, pain, broken hearts, disappointments, shattered dreams, and heartache of any sort were strangers and not the norm, where there were endless sunny days without anxieties. Did such a world exist? She doubted it, but she could dream.

I’ll walk you home, Abi, David volunteered enthusiastically, cutting into Abigail’s reveries and steering her through the mad scramble of bodies and into the corridor, where it was marginally quieter.

Thank you; you’re a good mate, but Jenny told me she wanted to go home ages ago, and she only lives a few doors away.

But, but…

Thank you, David, she said determinedly, pinning on a smile. You enjoy yourself.

Sitting on her bed, clutching her angel stone in one hand, she stated, I am rather disappointed with the turn of events tonight. Joshua didn’t turn up; I think he’s been stringing me along. I hate—hate—hate him! No, I don’t. I just don’t think he’s the guy I thought he was. David Lewis danced with me; oh, how I wish he hadn’t. He is just not my type. Actually, I have a problem much bigger than Joshua Darlington and David Lewis. I want to leave school at the end of the school year and become a student nurse. Missus Hamilton, on the other hand, thinks I should go to sixth form. She has given me an envelope to pass on to mum and dad, and I think it’s something to do with further education. To be honest, I feel a bit guilty about not passing it on, but, having said that, it’s going to stay in my bedside drawer; I’ll deal with the consequences later.

Climbing into bed, she flicked off the night lamp and, within minutes, fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Eyes stared unblinkingly at an open textbook, seeing one scene—an image that would remain with Joshua until the moment he drew his last breath—inadvertently he had walked into the living room a raised, angry voice preceding his entrance—nothing new. He closed his eyes, his guts on fire, his fists tightly clenched by his sides as he took a further step and gasped, trying to stifle his audible alarm. Stark eyes stared, incredulous at the live scenario playing out before him. His stepfather’s bare, dimpled, podgy backside, his trousers halfway down his fat legs, his lower body pumping furiously, while his plump hands held back his wife’s head; her raven tresses twisted tightly around his fingers, her face on the solid bare table, her mouth clamped tightly. Baker’s thrusts were hard and fast, his grunts infiltrating the room. The teenager looked on, his incredulous face drained of all colour, his demand to stop arid in his bone-dry mouth, his eyes fixed unblinking and staring, his feet unable to move a centimetre; stuck, glued to the floor beneath; lifeless; immovable. His mother finally gasped, mumbled, and muffled, pleading words strangled and inaudible. Still, the bastard on top pumped groaning, throwing out crude expletives, daring to chuckle and smirk in between threats of untold misery if she somehow dared to escape his clutches, while Joshua stared, paralysed inside and out, unable to do a single thing to help his mother, his ears finely attuned to her odd gasp, whine, and muffled plea.

Shut the fuck up! Henry Baker snarled, slamming his hard fist across the back of his wife’s head, his free hand grabbing another tuft of hair and pulling it out. Supplications remained prisoners in her mouth, her bare backside becoming visible as the bulk released a prolonged sigh, shifted to one side, rose, pulled up his brown corduroy, trousers and sneered, Thank you, ma’am.

Y…You raped m…me! she managed to stutter before he raised his chunky fist and thrust it across her ashen face; his wedding ring immediately left a red mark on Sandra’s cheek.

Turning, he took one step and stopped. The sight he beheld was the last thing he expected. Move out of my fucking way, he snarled, roughly shoving a speechless, immovable teenager to the side of the wall. And then the door banged, and there was silence…

Gradually, the merged words on the page became clear, separate units as the text came back into focus. The gruesome scene had disappeared from the page but rose like a phoenix in his head, repeating itself over and over again like an overrun soap episode. It was as clear now as it was the day he had witnessed it, less than seventy-two hours ago. And since then, more beatings, more lashings of tongue, screams, expletives, and thumping fists. When would it end? Would it ever end? How did it begin? Why the hell did she allow it to happen? His mother, kind and honest with not one working grey cell in her