In a cramped sleeper carriage of the night train, a very young girl perched on the lower berth by the window, eyes fixed on the passing countryside. Her name was Emily, who had just turned eighteen a week earlier, and she was travelling to visit her grandmother Margaret. Now, with all the changes of trains behind her, the locomotive would, in three days, deliver Emily straight into the town where Margaret lived. For the first time on the whole journey a cold fear seized her: what if Margaret no longer lived there? What if she had moved away altogether? When Emily fled her mothers flat that morning, she hadnt considered such possibilities.
—
1995. Tomorrow little Emily would be six years old. Yet the beautiful doll in a white, puffy dress with glittering beads in her hair a doll Emily called Daisy would not be coming to her. Its far too expensive for you, her mother said. Besides, youll be starting school in a year; you dont need dolls. Emilys eyes welled, while her parents argued loudly in the kitchen about money or rather, the lack of it. Grandmother Margaret sat on the bed, smoothing Emilys hair and sighing heavily.
The next day, when Emily returned from nursery, Margaret handed her a large box tied with a crimson ribbon. Emily untied the bow, lifted the lid, and her heart stuttered for a moment before racing wildly Daisy stared up at her with bright blue eyes fringed by long lashes. That evening her mother quarreled first with Margaret, then with her father over the doll, but Emily was ecstatic beyond measure.
—
Watching the fleeting landscapes outside the carriage, Emily smiled at the memory, as though the twelveyearold joy had pierced the years and wrapped her heart in warmth and calm. The fear of the unknown melted away. Margaret was alive, she reassured herself, and she still lived in the same town, on the same street, in the same threestorey house and the same flat whose address Emily had once wrested from her mother.
Emily tugged impatiently at her mothers arm, urging her to hurry home. Daisy is waiting, she cried, and Grandma promised wed make a proper little bed for her tonight, because every doll deserves a bed. Her mother clenched Emilys hand tightly, her frustration evident. Lately she had been constantly angry, often berating her husband for not earning enough. In those moments Margaret would raise her voice, but Emily still heard her mother shout, A real man finds a way to provide for his family! At last they arrived at the house. Emily burst out of the car and ran to the entrance. Granny, granny! she knocked, her fist pounding the door until it rang. Its me! Im here! Margaret opened the door and embraced her. Come on, lets finish Daisys little bed, she said, pulling Emily inside.
—
Emily kept looking out the carriage window, and instead of forests and fields she saw the doll already settled in its tiny bed. Twelve years earlier, Margaret had built that bed from the very box in which Daisy arrived. Shed sewn a small sack, stuffed it with scraps of foam and cotton, and stitched it into a snug mattress that fit perfectly inside the box.
Emily smiled again, then frowned. Its strange, she thought, I remember the doll, its bed, every outfit Margaret stitched for Daisy at my request, but I cant recall my grandmothers face. Its just a vague, bright blur. I remember her dark hair always tied in a knot with a brown barrette, but not her features. She strained to summon the image of Margaret, yet only the hands that deftly guided needle and thread came clearly to mind.
On Margarets left hand, a thin gold wedding band glimmered on the ring finger at the time it had gone unnoticed by the child. The delicate rubyset ring on the middle finger of her right hand had fascinated Emily. Margaret used to say, When youre grown, Ill give you this ring because it suits you, and it will be yours. Young Emily had begged to try it on, and Margaret would take it off and hand it to her, but it always proved too big for her tiny fingers.
Emily, Im about to go to bed, a womans voice interrupted, pulling Emily from her reverie. Startled, Emily scrambled onto the upper bunk.
—
The flats front door stood wide open, strangers streaming in. They had gathered around her father, who lay in the large living room, eyes shut. Her mother and Margaret wept, and Emily cried too, though she didnt fully grasp why her father had died. After the funeral her mother and Margaret barely spoke. Emily never learned the exact cause of her fathers death, but a stubborn feeling in her young heart blamed her mother.
Two massive suitcases loomed in the hallway. Emily and her mother prepared to leave, while Margaret sobbed. Emily promised she would visit often, not wanting to go. As they stepped onto the street, Margaret shouted, Emily, weve forgotten the doll! She dashed back, hauled a big sack containing Daisys boxedbed, swathed in a blanket, with another smaller packet of all the dolls outfits on top.
Do you expect me to carry your doll? her mother snapped sharply. Ill take it myself, Emily yelled helplessly. Youll take the grocery bag, her mother retorted, snatching the dolls sack and handing Emily a bag of sausages and pastries. Emily burst into tears.
Dont cry, my dear, Margaret coaxed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ill mail Daisy to you; just send me your address. The front door slammed shut. Send the address, Emily Margarets voice faded as Emily shouted, Ill be back, I promise!
—
Emily awoke, wiping salty tears from her cheeks. The carriage rocked gently under the steady rhythm of the wheels. Grandma, she whispered, Im on my way. She now understood that Margaret hadnt sent the doll because she wasnt cruel or greedy as her mother once claimed; she simply didnt know where to send it. Her mother had never given Margaret the new address, having kept the doll for herself after her motherinlaw gifted it. As a child, Emily would ask her mother and Aunt Gloria daily whether the doll had arrived. When the answer never came, Emily grew resentful, accusing Margaret of betrayal.
Emily slid down from the bunk and stepped into the vestibule, lighting a cigarette and swaying with the trains motion as memories of the past eleven years flickered through her mind. The weight in her chest was immense.
Young Emily never liked Aunt Gloria, even though she smiled, hugged, and gave occasional gifts. Something about her never felt genuine. Gloria constantly berated Emilys mother, who the girl adored. Real men find ways to support their families! she would hear her mother shout. Gloria sold homebrewed spirit late into the night, despite the towns drylaw campaign. She never drank herself, only a tiny nip for taste, but she taught Emilys mother how to manage a household and even matched her with suitors. Over time, Emilys mother slipped further into drinking, perhaps feeling indirectly responsible for her husbands death.
When Emily entered Year Five, Gloria suffered a stroke and died. Her mothers mental state collapsed entirely. Alcoholfilled evenings, noisy parties, and endless crowds of men became the norm. Emilys behaviour grew rebellious; she was placed in a residential school.
She never wanted to recall those years. The boarding house offered no happiness, and occasional weekend visits from her mother brought no relief. After leaving the school, Emily returned to a mother who had become an alcoholic.
The future seemed bleak, but two weeks earlier Emily dreamed of Margaret, whom she had long forgotten. In the dream, Margaret whispered sadly, Emily, look how many new dresses Ive sewn for Daisy. Why dont you come and play? Ive come, Grandma, Emily replied brightly. They played motheranddaughter, Emily tucking the doll into its bed while Margaret smiled, stitching a fresh dress. Emily woke that morning with a vague, painful lump in her throat, an urge to weep, yet also a quiet joy as if some longlost light had returned.
Margaret visited Emily in dreams each night. On the fifth day, Emilys psyche cracked; she sobbed loudly upon waking, If you dreamed of Mum, she must be thinking of you, missing you, and will come fetch you home, recalled a fellow boardingschool girl. Determined, Emily decided to travel to Margaret, hoping the old woman still waited and loved her.
She wrestled the address from her perpetually drunk mother, who finally confessed, I pushed your father into that gang Im sorry, child. Tears and curses flared, but Emily left, fearing the journey of thousands of kilometres.
The train shuddered one last time and halted at an unfamiliar platform. A taxi would have been easier, but the few pounds she had scraped together barely covered a bus ticket. After asking strangers, Emily boarded a coach that would take her to the correct street. The house she entered was unknown, its darkbrown wooden door with a brass knob waiting for her touch. She pressed the bell; silence. Again. Nothing.
Maybe Grandma isnt alive anymore, she thought, tears threatening. Instinctively she turned the knob and the door swung open. Is anyone here? she called, voice cracking. Maggie? a voice answered from a back room. Emily followed the sound.
On a small bed lay an elderly woman, frail, beside a stool holding medicines, a plate, and a cup. Who are you? A new sister? the woman asked, eyes narrowing. Emily stared, unable to reconcile the vague image of her grandmother with the woman before her. The old ladys face flushed, hands clutched the bedside rail, tears spilling. Emily, she whispered, youve finally come. Emily fell to her knees, grasped the wrinkled hands, and sobbed loudly. Im sick now I thought Id never see you again Ive been waiting for you, Emily look how many dresses Ive sewn for Daisy youre grown now, you wont be playing with dolls
Emily turned toward the opposite wall and instantly recognised her own childhood cot, covered with a familiar quilt, and Daisy perched there, eyes of blue glass. Ill Ill she hiccuped.
Ten years later, Emily qualified as a pastry chef and now works in a cosy independent bakery. She married, and they have a daughter she named Kate after her grandmother. Margaret recovered enough to enjoy afternoons playing motheranddaughter with her threeyearold granddaughter, endlessly dressing and tucking Daisy to sleep. Margaret can no longer stitch, but over the past eleven years she has crafted so many outfits for the doll that it is a wardrobe in its own right. Emily never thinks of her mother, having erased those painful eleven years from her memory.
Through the tangled twists of loss, betrayal, and longing, Emily learned that love endures beyond absence, that the smallest acts of care can become the strongest bridges across time. She now understands that holding onto gratitude for the few warm moments we have is the truest way to keep the past from stealing our future.
