From the Kitchen of Half Truth (23 page)

Nestled against the pillows, she suddenly looks so small and vulnerable, like a child waiting to hear a bedtime story, longing to be comforted. I feel my throat burning, and I have to swallow once, twice, to feel that I can breathe.

I shake my head, tears rising and misting my vision.

I am about to tell her that I don't know, that no one knows the answer to that, but when I open my mouth, those aren't the words that come out.

“Close your eyes,” I whisper, “and I will tell you.”

Her eyes drift shut, and I reach out and stroke her hair, just as she stroked mine when I was a little girl.

“It's the most wonderful place you can possibly imagine,” I hear myself say softly. “There are clouds made of marshmallow and rivers of wine. Baked apples grow in the fields, and the air is scented with spice. The ground under your feet is soft and bouncy like sponge cake, and your favorite lemon bonbons grow from the trees, lightly dusted in icing sugar, which drifts down in a powdery haze when you pull the bonbons off the branch. Beautiful white swans lay chocolate eggs while bees buzz among the flowers, making the sweetest honey. In the meadows grow the most delicious delicacies—apricot turnovers, strawberry tarts, raspberry meringues—all just waiting to be picked. The grass is made of licorice, and the rain upon your tongue tastes like elderberry cordial. Flowers grow in abundance all year-round, and in the summer they smell like picnics on a warm beach, while in the winter they smell like mince pies by the fireplace. On Christmas Day, snowflakes made of sugar drift down from the sky, and in spring the cows grazing in the meadows produce banana milkshakes. There are little bridges made of gingerbread and picket fences made of pastry…”

I gently touch my mother's shoulder, whispering, “Mother?”

She is still and silent. The wheezing from her chest has stopped, her eyes no longer flickering beneath their lids. She looks peaceful in the warm glow of the lamplight, a faint smile resting on her lips. Digger crawls up the bed on his belly, his ears back, and lays his head on my mother's thighs, letting out a small, sad whimper. I lean forward and kiss her cold cheek, trying to inhale the scent of her skin, of her hair, expecting the familiar aroma of baking and sunshine, but there is nothing there.

She has gone.

My head is empty, my body numb. I get slowly to my feet and walk over to the window. Outside it has grown dark, and I reach out to draw the curtains, just as I do every evening around this time. I notice Ewan's van is still in the lane below, parked under a streetlight. He is asleep, his head resting against the driver's window. I reach out and switch off the TV, just as Delia is saying good-bye for another season.

 

Pots, pans, and casserole dishes. Birds, trees, and vegetable patches. Books, TV, and BBC Radio 4. These were my mother's friends, and now I understand why. None of these things hurt you in the way that people do.

It seems odd that such a kindhearted, bubbly, vivacious woman should shy away from the world, but that's exactly what she did, ducking behind nearby bushes whenever she saw neighbors in the street, turning down every invitation, leaving the shelter of her home only when necessary, and then scurrying back for cover. It breaks my heart to think that my mother's avoidance of others was not, as I had always thought, due to an inherent personality trait that made her an eccentric loner, but due to a mistrust of others that resulted from being burned one too many times.

I am dreading the funeral for so many reasons, but mainly I am dreading the emptiness and the silence. Gwennie, Ewan, Dr. Bloomberg, and I can only fill so much space in the parish church, and the rows upon rows of empty pews will be a sad testimony to my mother's lack of connection with the real world, a depressing reminder of the relationships that she was too afraid to make. When I think about how there will be so few people to send her on her way, it makes me want to weep. It shouldn't have been that way. Not for someone like her.

***

It seems ironic, then, that on a gray day in mid-October, I somehow manage to turn up at the wrong funeral, the funeral of someone who must have had hordes of friends and family, judging by the swarm of people milling around. As Gwennie and I crunch our way up the little gravel path that leads to the church, I curse the stupid vicar for timing two funerals so closely together. The fact that there are so many of them and so few of us only serves to make my mother's situation all the more tragic.

But cars appear to be pulling up, not leaving, and people in dark suits and dresses seem to be heading inside the church rather than coming out. I glance at my watch, making sure I have the right time, and mentally check the date.

“Who are all these people?” I ask Gwennie as we pick our way through the crowd of unfamiliar faces.

“I wouldn't know. Those two gentleman there look rather bookish. Was your mother a member of a reading group at all?”

Sometimes I forget that Gwennie knows nothing about the past sixteen years of my mother's life. Over the past week, I have tried to fill her in, but how do you sum up sixteen years in a nutshell? She talks about my mother as if no time has lapsed at all, as if it were only yesterday that they were listening to records together or going dancing at the Forum. Her affection for my mother has not waned in spite of their estrangement, and her loyalty has not dimmed. She understands why my mother cut her off and doesn't feel an ounce of bitterness. She seems to have taken me under her wing, believing it's what my mother would have wanted. After all, she keeps reminding me, she was the one who found me.

“Excuse me, dearie, are you Valerie's daughter?”

I turn to face an elderly woman with scraggy cheeks, bright blue eye shadow, and lipstick that looks as if it has been applied in the dark. To my horror, she is wearing what appears to be a dead weasel around her neck and a little black hat with some straggly feathers sticking out the top. I think I recognize her.

“Yes, I'm Meg,” I say, confused. “I'm sorry, do I know you?”

The old lady reaches out and shakes my hand as best she can. Her fingers are all stiff and gnarled. “My name's Beryl Lampard. I live at number seventy-four. I was so sorry to hear about your mother, dearie. I didn't even know she was ill.”

“You knew her?” I ask, more than a little surprised.

“No, I didn't know her at all, dearie. I'm ashamed to say I didn't even know her name until a couple of weeks ago, and I only managed to find that out because I asked my neighbor, William, and he only knew because he asked the postman. I had tried to find out her name before, but she never stopped to talk, you see, dearie, so it was rather difficult. And then I wondered if maybe she had told me at some point and I had forgotten, because I do tend to forget a lot of things these days, but I don't think she ever did. And when William told me, I rushed inside—well, I say rushed, but I don't really rush anywhere these days—and wrote it down so that I would remember. But then I forgot where I wrote it down, so I had to go and ask William again.”

She smiles at me, displaying lipstick-stained dentures, while I wonder why she is here. Perhaps she just wanted a little outing, or maybe she came hoping to get a free plate of sandwiches afterward.

“I did start to wonder if something was wrong a couple of weeks back, dearie, when I hadn't seen her around, but then I thought she could have gone on holiday, or to visit family, or on one of those mini breaks you can win from entering the
Woman's Weekly
crossword competition. Those are very popular these days, aren't they, dearie? But then I spoke to William, and he said she had passed away, although he only knew because he heard it from Dave, who heard it from Alice, who heard it from the postman. And William was able to tell me when the funeral was being held, and I decided there and then I would definitely go and pay my respects because your mother was such a wonderful woman, but then I forgot what day he said, and I had to go and ask him again. And William said that he wanted to come too and that he would take me in his car, so we arranged that he would call for me at eleven on the dot, but I forgot we had arranged that. It was all right, though, because I came with Dave.”

Not only am I baffled as to why this old lady has come to my mother's funeral, but now I'm also baffled as to why William and Dave have come.

“It's very kind of you to want to pay your respects,” I say quickly, before she starts talking again, “but I don't really understand. I mean, if you didn't know my mother—”

“Because of the stews, of course, dearie! Every Monday and Thursday without fail. I can barely lift a milk bottle with my arthritic hands, let alone cook a meal, but your mother kept me going. I really don't know what I'm going to do without her. She was like a mysterious guardian angel, one who left beef stew on your doorstep and then vanished without a trace. By the way, I still have a ceramic dish of hers. It's a lovely blue one with little flowers on it. I wrote a note to remind myself to bring it with me, and then I lost the note. I did write another one, but I forgot where I put it.”

***

“Major William Jefferson Reece. I live at number seventy-two. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady. What a shame it needs to be on such a solemn occasion. Your mother really was one damn fine woman, you know, an absolute trooper. Let me tell you, I've been shot twice in the leg, almost run over by a tank, and had a bomb go off so near to my head that I'm deaf in one ear. What? Yes, completely deaf. After surviving all that, I thought I was pretty much invincible, but nothing prepared me for being told I was diabetic. Nothing at all. Didn't fit with my view of myself, you see. I was in totally unfamiliar territory. A good soldier is always prepared, but I couldn't have prepared myself for this. I've always been a stiff-upper-lip sort of chap; after all, it's what makes us Brits great. But I sunk into a bit of a low mood there for a while, I'm afraid to say. What? Yes, a low mood.

“Anyhow, one day I said to myself, ‘Come on William, old chap, snap out of it! No one ever won the war by sitting around feeling glum! Life goes on.' So I contacted this special shop that sells diabetic food, and I was amazed to find you could buy chocolate, cookies, sweets, all kinds of things, so I ordered a whole hamper. Bloody revolting it was! Worse than army rations. But then your mother saved the day, swooping in just in time like the best of allies. Don't have a bloody clue how she knew about my predicament, but all these wonderful little cakes and sweets started appearing on my doorstep, with a little note to say they were suitable for people such as myself. Well, I hadn't been so surprised since Corporal James Matterson declared he wanted to be a lady and started calling himself Gloria! I marched straight over to her living quarters and knocked to say thank you, but there was no reply, and every time I tried, it was always the same. I thought maybe your mother wasn't keen on strangers infiltrating her territory but hoped I might manage to meet her on neutral terrain, such as in the street one day. She kept a very low profile, though. What? Low profile, yes. In the end, I wrote a note and dropped it through the letterbox, inviting her for tea at fifteen hundred hours the next day. She didn't come, but she kept on leaving the cakes for me all the same. Such generosity of spirit is what makes this country great! I salute you, young lady. Your mother made me proud to be British!”

***

“Dave Brown. Live at number seventy, love. I wasn't sure whether to come, 'cause I didn't really know yer mum, but old Beryl said she was comin', so I thought it would be all right. I'll tell yer somethin', your mum, absolutely flippin' fantastic, she was. I dunno whether old Colonel Mustard there filled you in, but last year me old lady left me. Three kids I've got. Three flippin' kids! Kevin, he's four and a little terror. You've probably seen him tearin' about the street on his bike. Lee, he's nine and thinks he's bloody David Beckham, and Stacey, she's thirteen going on thirty, if yer know what I mean. And Paula just buggered off and left me with the whole herd of 'em! Ran off with me best mate, Steve, she did.

“Well, I didn't know whether I was comin' or goin' for a while there. We spent the first three weeks eatin' Pot Noodles and beans on toast. I can't cook for turkey, and I 'aven't got time anyway. I work as a plumber, always on the go. God knows how your mum got wind of all this—I thought old Beryl there must have opened her trap, but she swears she didn't—but anyhow, your mum started leavin' all this food on our step. Potato wedges and chicken wraps and homemade burgers and little pork balls on sticks…bloody 'ell, the kids thought they'd died and gone to 'eaven! They love all that. Anyway, I had no idea where all this food was comin' from till old Beryl told me your mum was cookin' for her too. I didn't know what to make of it at first. I mean, I never even met your mum. But she seriously saved my bacon, love, 'cause at last the kids were goin' to bed on full bellies, and not only that but their behavior bucked up too. Once they stopped eatin' all those additives and stuff, they were like different kids. Nice ones. The sort I always wanted. Still cheeky and always givin' me lip, but much better than they were. Anyways, we was all gutted to hear what had happened to yer mum, 'specially 'cause I never managed to thank her properly. Proper hard to get hold of she was, but amazin' all the same. Even restored my faith in women. Now, if I could meet a good woman like yer mum, I'd make sure I never introduced her to any of me mates.”

***

“Alice Boyle.”

“And Margaret Evans.”

“We're nurses at St. Mary's Cancer Hospice, aren't we, Margaret?”

“Indeed we are. And we were so terribly sorry to hear about Val, weren't we, Alice?”

“Oh, goodness, yes! We didn't even know she was ill.”

“No idea at all. She used to come on the first of each month with a cake.”

“A cake or some scones.”

“And it cheered our patients up no end, didn't it, Alice?”

“Absolutely! A little treat can make all the difference, can't it, Margaret?”

“All the difference.”

“She never stopped for a chat, did she?”

“No, never stopped. Always rushing off somewhere, wasn't she, Alice?”

“Yes, rushing, all the time. But a wonderful woman who will be very much missed.”

“Very much. We're going to dedicate a bench to her, aren't we, Alice?”

“Yes, Margaret, a bench in the rose garden.
In
memory
of
Valerie
May, who filled our hearts and stomachs
.”

***

“I am Tanek Kuklinksi. I am happy to meet you. I am in this country three month. I look for job, but I am told no job for you. I have no money for pay rent, so I live one month in door of shop. People give me money, but is not enough for buying food, just chips, and I get tired and sick. Then I am too sick to look for job. Then woman come and give me food. Good food. Hot food that she make for me. I get well and I look for job. I find job and now I live in room of old man. I am rent boy. I pay him rent for room. I send money to my family. This I can do because of woman who gave me food. I thank her very much, and I am very sad she die.”

***

“Hello, my name's Frankie Jack. Frankie's my first name and Jack's my second name. Some people get confused because they can both be first names, but with me they're not. I got the bus here today, which was frightening because I've never been on a bus on my own and I didn't know where I was going. But I was able to do it, because I just asked the driver for the church and he told me it was two pounds ten and I gave him the money and then asked him to tell me when we were at the church so I could get off and he did. I wanted to come because Valerie was nice and she helped me by cooking good meals with all the right nutrients so that I could be fit and healthy and not get sick and die, which is what would happen if you ate food that had no nutrients in it. Cooking was one of the things I found hard about living on my own, but I wanted to live on my own and not in what they call the ‘community scheme,' because my gran always said I could do the same as most people if I tried hard, and most people don't live in the community scheme, they live on their own. It can be hard living on your own, because there are lots of things you have to do like cleaning and making the bed and taking the bin out on a Tuesday, and sometimes there are so many things to think about that I start to feel worried. But I haven't had to worry about getting sick and dying from no nutrients, and that's because Valerie helped me.”