And Daughter Makes Three. Caroline Anderson

on the settee with a cup of hot chocolate.

      ‘That was wonderful, JJ,’ he told her, and the warmth in his eyes and voice made Frankie’s throat ache. She busied herself with her coffee, giving them room while they exchanged quiet, gentle words. Did he know how lucky he was? she wondered. Or Jane? Did she have any idea how precious her father’s love was, or how fleeting?

      She swallowed the lump in her throat and stirred the cream into her coffee, watching the black and white merge to a dull tan.

      Like her life. The contrast was gone, leaving only work to bring any colour or meaning to it. She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t happy either. Content?

      She probably should be grateful.

      She listened to the soft music playing in the background, and the gentle murmur of Robert’s voice mingled with Jane’s lighter tones. What was she doing here? Robert didn’t want her here, stirring up the undertones and making things difficult. She ought to go—

      ‘Goodnight, Frankie. Thank you for coming.’

      She looked up, blinking, thinking herself dismissed, and found instead that Jane was on her feet and hovering at the door. ‘I have to go to bed,’ she said with a little grimace.

      Frankie laughed wryly. ‘Don’t knock it. It wasn’t so long ago I would have given my eye-teeth for someone to send me to bed.’

      Jane grinned. ‘Yeah, well, we all want what we can’t have, don’t we? Oh, well, ‘night, all.’

      ‘’Night, Jane—and thank you for a lovely meal. I really enjoyed it. In fact, talking of bed …’ She set her cup down with a little rattle. ‘I must go—I’ve been here for hours—’

      ‘Oh, you don’t have to go. Stay and have another coffee with Dad—there’s tons in the pot. ‘Night, Dad.’

      ‘Goodnight, JJ—and thank you, darling. It was a wonderful birthday treat.’

      She grinned, her apprehension gone, and flitted through the door. Seconds later she reappeared, a rather more sheepish look on her gamine face.

      ‘Um—don’t worry about the kitchen, by the way, Dad. I’ll fix it tomorrow.’

      Robert closed his eyes as she flitted off again, humming. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘I have a bad feeling …’

      Frankie chuckled, her melancholy drifting away on his sigh. ‘Come on. She’s done enough. I’ll help you sort it out before I go.’

      She followed him into the kitchen, cannoning into his back in the doorway. The grunt of disbelief echoed through his chest and, peering over his shoulder, she scanned the kitchen.

      ‘Yup—looks like a teenager just cooked a meal,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll wash; you dry up and put away.’

      Those few words made it sound so simple. They didn’t begin to touch the bottoms of the pans, caked and burnt with rice and custard and curry sauce, or the endless pots and jars and packets strewn across the worktops—and over it all the fine, crunchy scatter of demerara sugar …