The Storyteller's Daughter (20 page)

Ewan gives me a brief nod, before turning to head off back down the garden. I lean my elbows on the kitchen work surface and place my face in my hands, rubbing my tired eyes with the heels of my palms. I feel exhausted. And I have a terrible headache. Why did I tell him about my nightmares? I feel like I just stripped naked and ran up and down the garden in front of him.

“You know the best thing about Digger?”

I look up with a start, surprised to see Ewan still there.

“What?”

“Digger. The dog. The best thing about him is he's a fantastic listener. If ever I've needed to talk about something, Digger's always been there. He's really quiet, never interrupts and he's very discreet.”

“I have nothing to talk about,” I say, conclusively.

I look at Digger, sitting on the patio panting, a thin line of drool hanging from his mouth.

“And even if I did, I certainly wouldn't waste my time talking to a mangy old dog.”

Ewan shrugs. “Suit yourself. Maybe I'll just leave him here for the moment anyway. Just in case you change your mind.”

“Why on earth would I want to talk to a dog? I'd have to be out of my… hey! Come back! Don't just leave him here!”

But Ewan is already half way down the garden path, whistling as he goes.

The dog and I stare at each other. “You're not coming in.”

It lets out a whining noise and lays its head on its paws. For a moment I imagine I might have hurt its feelings and even feel a tiny bit guilty.

“Oh, don't be so soppy,” I go to shut the kitchen door. “I'm not talking to you, I'm not as daft as your owner.”

The dog looks at me accusingly.

“Your new owner, I mean,” I say, hastily, “not Mr Gorzynski. I'm sure he was perfectly sane and didn't waste his time talking to you.”

Suddenly the dog lifts its head up and lets out a long, high-pitched wail.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” I ask, taken aback. “Stop being silly. What would Mr Gorzynski think if he could see you?”

The dog lets out another loud, long wail.

“Why do you keep doing that whenever I say the name Mr Gorzynski?”

Again, the dog wails and I cover my ears. I am about to shut the door when something occurs to me.

“Oh. You're missing Mr… your old owner.”

The dog lays its head back on its paws and looks depressed.

“Is that why you're howling all night? You miss him?”

I sit down on the back step and pick a leaf off the top of the dog's head cautiously in case it turns and bites me, but it just looks up at me with sad, dark eyes. Tentatively, I try stroking its ear. It is soft and warm. I stroke it some more. I peer down the garden to make sure Ewan is nowhere in sight, and look around me for any other people who might be lurking behind bushes just waiting for me to humiliate myself. When I am sure there is no-one about to witness my foolishness, I speak to the dog in a quiet voice.

“Don't be sad, you have to remember the good times. The times you went for walks together, and sat cuddled up on the sofa, and lay in the garden in the sunshine side by side. You have to remember playing together in the park and dozing in front of the fire, or just sitting in front of the telly together.”

I lay my head on my knees, both of us in similar dejected poses, and continue to fondle the dog's ear.

“All those nice things you used to do with Mr… with your old owner, no-one can take those away from you. You'll always have those memories stored up here.” I tap the top of the dog's head. “And when you feel sad, you can always snuggle up with one of his old jumpers, and, in a way, the person you've lost will be there with you.”

The dog closes his eyes.

“It's sad, isn't it, to lose someone you love so much? But you have to be strong, you have to be a strong dog. Because you have the rest of your life ahead of you and your old owner wouldn't want you to be sad. I know it's hard to imagine you will ever be as happy as you once were, but you have to carry on and try to make the best of your life.”

The dog starts to snore softly. I see a tear splash onto the patio by my feet and realise it must be mine.

“You just have to be brave,” I whisper.

“Bloody animal,” curses Mark, dropping his bag in the hallway and brushing down his neat, cream-coloured summer trousers.

“It's just a bit of mud,” I tell him, closing the front door, “he was just excited to meet you.”

“Meg,” he says, in that tone that tells me he is about to make an important point and that I should listen carefully, “I've just spent four hours in traffic. I don't expect to have a dirty hound lunge at me the moment I open my car door. These are dry clean only, you know. And the dry cleaners is only open until five o'clock in the week, so I'll have to leave work early and – ”

He sneezes loudly.

“ – and you know I'm allergic to animals and – ”

A-choo!

“ – and what's that damn gardener doing letting his dog run riot anyway?”

A-choo!

“It's really quite a nice dog,” I say, trying to help Mark brush down his trousers.

“He's made holes all over your front garden, did you know that?” Mark asks, pushing my hand away.

“Yes, well he's a digging dog, hence the name. Apparently he comes in very handy, but I think Ewan's having a bit of trouble taming his enthusiasm.”

“Who on earth is Ewan?”

“The gardener.”

“Oh, him. Well, that mutt is definitely not a pedigree, and he's probably riddled with disease. Dogs carry fleas, ticks, mites, tape-worms, round worms… I can't imagine why anybody would want one. Unless you're a shepherd, owning a dog is completely unnecessary in this day and age.”

“Well, some people like having animals for company,” I say, tentatively.

“Company is what other human beings are for.”

“Perhaps some people find it easier to talk to animals rather than human beings. Perhaps when they're feeling down, or lonely... ”

“Meg,” says Mark, sternly, “only sad, desperate people talk to animals.”

I fiddle with a strand of hair, embarrassed, and try to block from my mind the long conversation I had with Digger this morning. What on earth got into me? I had only meant to say a few gentle words to the sorry-looking animal, and an hour later I still found myself sitting there rambling on about my mother, my childhood, my dreams, my anxieties, my fears for the future… It's all Ewan's fault. I would never have done something so ridiculous if it wasn't for him.

“People who talk to animals,” says Mark, checking his trousers closely for any remaining flecks of dirt, “are the same people to talk to God. Or fairies. Or themselves. They are people who are unable to relate to other human beings. Or who are unable to manage their feelings any other way. People like your mother.”

For a second I feel like I've been slapped in the face, but then I remind myself that of course Mark is absolutely right. I nod, silently chastising myself for my own behaviour. I certainly won't be talking to that damn dog again.

“Yes,” I agree, “it's just the sort of silly thing she would do.”

“And look at you,” he tuts, picking a few dog hairs from my blouse, “you're a complete mess as well. You must insist he leaves that mutt at home.”

I hastily examine myself for more offending hairs. I spent ages trying to make myself look nice, picking out clothes that Mark might like.

“You're right,” I say, feeling annoyed now at both Ewan and Digger, “I will tell him.”

“Anyway,” says Mark, forcing a smile, “let's forget all that.

I've brought you a little gift.” He unzips his bag. “Close your eyes.”

A gift? Mark doesn't buy gifts. He thinks they are ‘a gratuitous material substitute for affection'. The only thing he has ever given me was a ballpoint pen, which he felt would help tame my slightly unruly capital letters. I close my eyes, feeling quite excited. Will it be flowers? Chocolates? A second later I am bending over with the weight of a pile of books that have just been plonked in my arms.

“All the practical advice you need for the months ahead, so you don't have to worry about a thing.”

I look through the titles:
The Complete Guide to Inheritance
Tax; Financial Planning for the Under Thirties; So Someone Died
and Left you Their Stuff
… “I think that one might be a bit tongue-in-cheek,” says Mark, “but there's still some excellent advice in it.”

“Wow. Mark. I don't know what to say.”

Mark smiles proudly. “The other two are lighter reading. For when you just want to put your feet up and relax.
One Thousand
Things you Never Knew About Stem Cell Research,
and
Monkey
Man, Monkey Woman: Musings on Darwin's Origin of Species.

Plus, I thought this one might come in handy.”

He pulls another book out of his bag and waves it eagerly at me. On the front is a picture of someone in a black balaclava. The title,
TALK!,
is printed in bold red letters.

“It's by some guy who used to be in the SAS. It's all about interrogation techniques.”

Mark plonks the book on top of the stack that I am already struggling to hold.

“Parts of that one might be a little extreme for domestic purposes though, and I wouldn't recommend reading it right before going to bed.”

I gaze at the scary looking military man on the front cover and wonder what on earth Mark is expecting me to do. Wire my mother's extremities to the microwave? Threaten her with an electric mixer? I know exactly what has brought this on, and in a way it's my own fault. I may have slightly deceived Mark by suggesting that, as agreed, I contacted Camden Council (when I didn't) and said I wanted to speak to someone about a Chinese takeway (which doesn't exist) and that I quoted the law that Mark told me to quote (which I can't even remember) and that after many, many attempts I hadn't got anywhere and was forced to give up. This resulted in much indignation on Mark's part about the state of local government offices, and an adamant decision that if one method for obtaining the truth doesn't work, rather than wasting time you simply find an alternative. I am assuming that donning a balaclava and threatening my mother into submission is the alternative.

He smiles at me, awaiting my response.

“What can I say?” I smile. “Thanks.”

“I knew you'd be pleased. I thought long and hard about the kind of books that would be both practical, and keep your spirits up.”

He leans his face toward me and I kiss him quickly on the lips, whilst struggling under the weight of the books.

“It's a good job you know me so well,” I say, gratefully.

“Shall we take our dessert outside?” I ask, after Mark and I have eaten a rather poor example of a vegetable lasagne, prepared all by myself in my mother's absence. Having been in rather good spirits all morning, she suddenly seemed to take a turn for the worse as soon as Mark arrived and immediately took to her bed, leaving me to put four weeks of intensive cookery lessons into practice. I have to admit, I may not be a natural. Fortunately, when it came to transferring ice-cream into two bowls I fared much better.

“It's a little chilly outside,” says Mark.

He's right. Today is the first of October. The long, hot days have gone, the evenings are drawing in, but I refuse to believe the Summer has ended. I am determined that I will not let it go.

“No, look, it's still warm,” I insist flinging open the back door, a chill breeze immediately bringing me out in goose bumps. “We could snuggle up under a blanket on a sun lounger. It will be romantic.”

“It's not good for the digestion, eating like that.”

“Ok, we'll sit on the bench then.”

“You know I'm not keen on eating outside. All those little flies... ”

“It's too late in the Summer for flies.”

“It looks like it might be starting to spit rain.”

“What harm will that do?” I ask, suddenly feeling strangely impulsive. “It's just a little water. It will dry.”

Mark looks at me as if I have gone mad, and for a moment I wonder if I have. I feel desperate to eat outside, just like my mother and I have done almost every day during the Summer. French toast in the bright morning sunlight, bacon and avocado sandwiches in the midday heat, linguine with seafood watching the sunset…

“Let's make the most of the Summer,” I plead.

“The Summer's over,” says Mark, tucking into his ice-cream at the kitchen table. “It's nearly dark.”

I gaze outside and realise that I can't see the end of the garden. The apple trees are no more than murky silhouettes in the fading light. I pull my cardigan closer around me, shivering. My heart sinks. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by a foreboding sense of change. I cannot recall having ever felt so powerless. I have always prided myself on being capable and strong and in control. But what good are these things to me now? I cannot stop the light from fading, nor the breeze from cooling; I cannot stop the flowers wilting nor the leaves from falling from the trees. Autumn will come, followed by Winter and Spring, and when Summer finally comes round again I won't recognise it. There will be no scent of baking wafting out of the open windows of this house, no tubs of homemade ice-cream stacking up the freezer trays. There will be no berry-picking as my mother and I chatter about our lives, no lazing in the garden side by side. There will be no nonsense stories about Summers gone by, how July of '85 was so hot we baked a steak and Guiness pie on the windowsill and all the houseplants started sprouting pineapples and mangoes. There will be no-one to ask me again and again
Have you got enough sun lotion on?
or
Don't you think you should be wearing a hat?
Without all this, how will I even know it is Summer at all?