The Storyteller's Daughter (12 page)

“Oh, no,” I say, waving my hand in the air dismissively, “it's nothing. I'm sure of it.”

I haphazardly fold the paper and stuff it in my back pocket as casually as possible, as if I'm merely going to keep it there until I can reach a bin. I don't want Mark making a big deal out of this because I know exactly what will come next. He'll tell me to ask my mother, to search out the facts, to make her talk… but he just doesn't understand. And I don't need that kind of pressure right now. So it's better to be nonchalant and to pretend that finding a scrap of my mother's past is something that happens all the time, and that my heart's not pounding and that my mind's not whirring, and that I'm not having visions of myself knocking on a house in Gray's Inn Road and screaming ‘daddy!' before flinging my arms around the neck of my long-lost father.

“Right, shall we try that again?” I ask, quickly scrambling back up the ladder before any more can be said about the matter.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to come down next weekend,” Mark says, as we stand by his car, “James has got an award ceremony in London on Saturday evening and I promised I'd be there.”

“That's fine,” I reassure him, thinking that I could have done without this reminder of Mark's family. They are all incredibly sane and successful. His brother, James, is a geologist who seems to keep making amazing discoveries, and his parents are both doctors. I have only met his parents once. They were very smart and respectable, and neither of them felt the need to invent ridiculous stories about their son's childhood.

“I'll come down the following weekend though,” Mark says.

“That's fine,” I say again.

If the truth be told I am quite keen for Mark to get in his car and go, which is a terrible thing to admit. I really do appreciate everything Mark has done for me, and it was very good of him to pack up all my belongings and bring them down, but I can feel the flier in my back pocket, burning like a hot coal through the denim of my jeans, in need of urgent attention. I'm sure it's nothing. But what if it is? What if this could lead me to someone or something from my past? My mother is so scrupulously secretive. She has weaved her web of lies so carefully that no trace has ever existed for me to follow. But now I have something. A little scrap of paper with an address on. It might mean nothing. But then again…

Mark cups his hands around my face and plants a firm kiss on my lips. “Talk to your mother,” he advises me, wisely, “she really needs to start facing the truth about what's going to happen. Get some more advice from the doctor. And call a solicitor, won't you? You don't want to just leave things, you need to plan ahead. If you want, my parents have a great solicitor – ”

“It's fine,” I say quickly, squeezing his arm, “I'll sort it.”

He smiles at me.

“I know you will. That's the thing I really admire about you, the fact that – ”

“Oh Mark, look at the time! You're going to miss the car wash. It closes at five.”

Mark checks his watch, looking as panic-stricken as I have ever seen him.

“Does it? Right. Better go then.”

As Mark slowly drives down the road I wave to him and tap my foot restlessly on the hot pavement, feeling rather guilty for wanting him gone. By the time his car reaches the end of the road and stops at the junction, its indicator flashing, I have already pulled the flier from my pocket and am clumsily unfolding it with one hand whilst continuing to wave to Mark with the other. Even though there is never any traffic on these roads I know Mark will be checking – left, right, left again, right again – just like he always does. By the time he carefully turns the corner I have managed to convince myself that this little scrap of paper is the key to the universe and I can't wait a moment longer.

‘Right,' I tell myself, already half way up the garden path, ‘time for the truth.'

“I was never very good at making toad in the hole. I couldn't ever seem to get the toads to stay in the batter long enough to get the dish in the oven. They knew what was coming, you see. As you know, toads don't much like the heat, so the moment I opened the oven door they'd be off, hopping across the work surface, leaving little batter footprints everywhere.”

I hover behind the blackberry bush, listening to my mother's ravings. She must be talking to the gardener. I am surprised at how sociable my mother is being; usually she avoids other people like the plague. Unfortunately, it seems that finally she has found someone willing to endure her nonsense for hours on end.

“Trying to catch those toads was impossible!” she is saying. “They're slippery enough as it is, but when they're covered in batter you haven't got a chance!”

I close my eyes and resist the urge to scream. Or cry. It's bad enough having Mark think she's a lunatic, but when it's a complete stranger…

“Maybe you should have used frogs instead, Valerie. I know toad in the hole is more traditional, but the thing is toads are really smart creatures, whereas frogs, well, they're not so bright.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why do you think the French eat so many of them? They're easy to catch, no coordination. Toads on the other hand, they'll be off and out of sight before you know it.”

“Well, I never knew that. That would have saved me many an hour running around the kitchen after those wretched toads. Actually, to you tell the truth, even when I caught them I never put them in the oven. They had a way of looking at me with their big sad eyes – ”

“I know just what you mean. Toads are real emotional blackmailers.”

I put my hands over my face in despair. My God, they're both as crazy as each other! He's just encouraging her. Out of all the gardeners in the world who could have knocked on our door…

“Hi there.”

I peek through my fingers at the gardener who is standing in front of me with a bamboo stake and some twine in his hands, looking at me curiously.

“Are you okay?”

I take my hands away from my face and straighten my blouse.

“Yes, thank you. I was just looking for my mother.”

“Hello, Darling,” she says, emerging from behind the bush in an enormous straw sunhat and sunglasses that swamp her face. Her voice has lost the excitement of a moment ago, and she looks slightly nervous, as if she is waiting for me to tell her off again like I did this morning. I feel horrible. I didn't mean to make her feel bad. Seeing her looking so timid – and so ridiculous in those glasses – my heart softens, and I wonder whether I should question her about the flier after all. Wouldn't it be easier just to smooth over the events of this morning with a nice glass of lemonade and a chat, lying side by side on the sunloungers? I'm sure she's got some recipe she wants to tell me about, and it's such a lovely day… but no! If this could mean something, if this could be a link to the past, then I need to know.

“Mother, what is this?” I ask, holding the piece of paper out to her. “It was in the lining of your old suitcase.”

My mother takes the paper from my hand and examines it, turning it over and reading the address. An expression I have never seen before suddenly clouds her face. She looks like she's just opened her own death warrant. Her hand flutters at her throat and the colour seems to drain from her rosy cheeks.

“I don't… I really… I have no idea,” she stammers.

“Whose address is that?”

My mother touches her lips nervously.

“I don't know, darling. I really don't know. Is it yours?”

I stare blankly at her.

“Oh no, no you don't live in London. Not now. You did. We did. But now I live here. And you live in Leeds. What was the question again? I'm sorry, I seem to be getting a bit confused. I think it's the heat… ”

“Are you alright?” asks the gardener, stepping forward.

My mother takes her enormous glasses off and rubs her forehead. I notice her hands are shaking.

“I'm feeling a little light-headed. Too much sun, probably. Maybe I'll go inside for a bit.”

She takes a couple of unsteady steps, veering into the blackberry bush.

The gardener is at her side before I am, steadying her by the elbow.

“Do you need to sit down?” he asks.

“Goodness no!” she laughs, rather too shrilly. “I'm fine. Just the heat getting to me. It's such a hot day, isn't it? What's this?”

She looks at the flier in her hand again as if she has never seen it before.

“Is this yours, Darling? Does it need signing?”

“I'll take that,” I say gently, taking the paper from her, suddenly very worried.

“Are you sure you're alright?” asks the gardener.

“Yes, yes,” she says wandering off down the garden path, “don't you worry about me. It's just the heat. It gets to me sometimes. I'll be back out to help you soon!”

“That's really not necessary – ”

“Nonsense! Two pairs of hands are better than one!”

If I had my wits about me I would follow her, but I am so baffled that instead I just stand there, gazing after her. I turn the flier over in my hands. Did this little piece of paper cause that reaction? Surely not. My mother does sometimes suffer in the sun, after all. And she has been out here all day, trying to keep out of my way. But then again, she also tends to go a bit funny when there is any mention of the past, so maybe…

“She's some woman, your mother,” says the gardener, breaking the silence. “She's been telling me the most incredible stories.”

Baffled, I fold the flier up and put it back in my pocket. “I bet she has,” I say, distractedly.

He nods up at my mother's bedroom window. “She was telling me how you were born up there. Caught in a saucepan, I hear.”

“It was a frying pan.”

He laughs. “And the first thing you did was cluck like a chicken. Too many eggs, she said. And then the gasman – ”

“Please don't encourage her,” I interrupt.

He stops laughing. “Encourage her?”

“Yes. I heard you telling her all that rubbish about how frogs are easier to catch than toads, and how toads are really smart… ”

“I was just telling her the truth.”

I fold my arms and roll my eyes. “Oh, please… ”

“A recent study from the American Institute of Zoology showed that in general, frogs have a slower reaction time than toads when faced with the threat of predators.”

“Oh,” I say, slightly taken aback, “I see. Well, anyway, I'd rather you didn't pretend you're interested in my mother's ridiculous stories. If you do, she'll just keep telling them.”

“But I am interested. They're cool stories.”

“They're lies,” I correct him.

He shrugs. “Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters. People can't just go around lying.”

“There's a very fine line between the truth and a lie, isn't there?”

“No, there isn't. One is real, the other is not. It's extremely simple if you think about it.”

I am aware that sounded patronising, but it's turning out to be a bad day and I am already upset and annoyed without some gardener talking nonsense at me. He smiles, his eyes half closed against the late afternoon sun. I notice that one of his teeth is slightly chipped and for some reason it annoys me that he hasn't had it fixed. There's no need for imperfections when cosmetic dentistry is so widely available.

“I don't think that's the way life is,” he says, thoughtfully. “I think life is a mass of lines that are always being crossed. A patchwork of shapes that are constantly shifting. There are so many different ways of seeing the world. How can we say where fiction ends and reality begins, who's right and who's wrong?”

“Well, the person with the correct information is right,” I tell him, tersely “and the person with the incorrect information is wrong. Look, I understand that to someone who enjoys talking to trees my mother's stories must seem quite amusing, but I really would appreciate it if you'd try not to indulge her. She can get a little… well… out of control.”

“And what's wrong with that?” His hazelnut eyes flit over my face, flecks of gold glistening playfully in the light. “Don't you ever want to get out of control?”

For the first time I notice the tiny dimples that appear at the corner of his mouth when he smiles. Suddenly I am starting to feel rather warm.

“No,” I tell him, forcing myself to look away, “I don't.”

He chuckles. “Now, why doesn't that surprise me?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I just think you're a very self-controlled person, that's all. I suppose I have difficulty imagining you really letting go.”

“I can let go!” I snap.

“I'm sure you can,” he says. “I can just imagine you running wild with a pie chart, going crazy with an encyclopaedia, blowing off steam with test tube – ”

“At least I don't waste my time talking to lumps of wood!” I exclaim, pointing towards the apple trees.

“You could have fooled me,” he mumbles.

“Sorry? Are you referring to Mark?”

He tries to suppress a guilty smile, and holds his grass-stained hands up in apology.

“Sorry, that was – ”

“I'll have you know that Mark is a very intelligent, articulate and educated man, who is held in very high esteem.”

“So I see.”

“Not just by me! Everybody in the faculty knows how bright he is.”

“Brightness can be blinding.”

“And insolence can be annoying.”

“I'm starting to get the impression that everything about me annoys you. Am I right?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“In which case I have nothing to lose.”

“Except your job, obviously.”

“To be fair, you don't employ me, your mother does.”