The Storyteller's Daughter Page 12

  I carefully pick up the knife. “Tell me what to do next.”

  If I could capture time I would put it in a bottle, and I would keep this Summer trapped forever inside. The flavour of our cookery lessons, the colour of the roses that bloom around our front door, the breeze that blows gently through the open kitchen window, the scent of the Columbian coffee my mother drinks in the mornings… I would keep it always bottled inside a glass prison, mine to keep for the rest of my life. Every now and then I would carefully lift the cork, just enough to hear my mother’s laugher as she listens to Jonathan Ross on the radio, or breathe in the heady scent of her perfume, or taste the strawberries that we pick from the garden and eat with French toast on the sun drenched patio in the mornings. But time is not a willing captive. The days pass too soon, slipping through my fingers like sand. I grab for a moment, only to find it is no longer there. I take a photo with my mind, only to find it is already fading. I try to slow the hands of time by doing less during the day, insisting that my mother and I only bake for two hours at the most. The rest of the time I make sure we sit in the garden, read, talk, eat, anything that might eke out the hours. My mother snoozes on her sun lounger, listens to the radio, reads a novel, pots plants, picks berries and flicks through recipes. I try to keep as still as possible, knowing that the moment my attention is diverted another hour will pass me by.

  It’s no good though. The sun continues to rise and set, the world continues turning, and in this battle against Old Father Time I know I am destined to lose.

  One day, out of the blue, my mother asks me, “When are you going back to university, Darling? Surely you’re missing too many lectures.”

  We are munching on our lunch of brie and grape baguette, sitting in front of the television watching Nigella prepare a three-course dinner party for thirty guests. Apparently it can be done in twenty minutes with no more than a packet of frozen prawns, some flat-leaf parsley and a seductive pout.

  “I’m not going back,” I say, as casually as possible, despairing that she should even ask me such a question.

  My mother looks genuinely shocked.

  “Not going back? Why ever not?”

  For a moment it goes though my mind that I could lie to her. I could tell her I’m not enjoying the course, that the university burned down, that I’ve decided to quit scientific research and join the circus. It would be easier for both of us, but it wouldn’t be right. Carefully, I put my plate down on the coffee table.

  “Because you’re sick, mother, and I’m staying here to look after you,” I tell her, calmly.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, I’m fine!”

  I dig my fingernails into my thigh.

  “No,” I state clearly, as if talking to a child, “you’re not fine. You’re very unwell.”

  “I’ve just been a little under the weather! You must go back to university. You’ve worked so hard. I won’t hear – ”

  “I’m staying here!” I snap, losing my patience.

  “Meggie,” she laughs, “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Mother, look at yourself!” I cry, unable to hold back my emotion. “You’re sick! How in God’s name can you go on pretending like this? Like nothing’s wrong? How do you do this? How do you make up these incredible lies and convince yourself they’re the truth?”

  She frowns and shakes her head slowly. “Lies? I have no idea… ”

  “You’re always lying! You never tell me the truth about anything! You’ve been doing it since I was tiny, telling me all these ridiculous stories. How my first tooth was so sharp you used me as a can opener. How I drank so much milk you bought a cow and kept it by my cot. We lived in a flat, Mother! As if the council would have allowed us a cow! You turned my whole infancy into a lie just like you’re turning your illness into a lie!”

  My mother’s cheeks have turned pink and her eyes are wide, full of hurt. She looks so fragile and childlike curled up on the big red sofa that I immediately regret my outburst, but I just can’t handle this anymore. I just can’t.

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” she says meekly.

  “The truth,” I plead, “just say the truth.”

  She runs her fingers through her brittle hair and looks contemplative. I swallow the lump in my throat and sit on my hands, afraid that I will either burst into tears or throttle her.

  “You’re right,” she says, sadly. “I haven’t been very honest with you.”

  When she draws her hand away six or seven dull auburn hairs are caught between her fingers. She examines them closely.

  “There was no cow,” she sighs. “Keeping a cow next to your cot would have been ludicrous. I don’t know why I told you that. I suppose I thought it sounded more interesting than the truth.”

  I shift to the edge of the sofa, leaning closer, longing to hear her tell me something, anything about my infancy that’s real.

  “You were lactose intolerant, so drinking cow’s milk was never an option,” she explains.

  I nod encouragingly, wondering if finally, after all this time, her lies are about to give way to the truth.

  “So I bought a goat and kept her next to your cot. You were just so thirsty all the time that I couldn’t keep up. You would guzzle goats’ milk like there was no tomorrow, and it seemed the perfect solution until you began bleating and growing tiny horns out of your head… ”

  I stand up, walk out and slam the door behind me.

  Upstairs in my room I take the flier out from where I have hidden it between two books on the shelf. I am so angry right now that my hands are trembling, but I’m not sure whether I’m more angry at my mother or myself. I’m meant to be sensible and rational and pragmatic, so why do I keep kidding myself that my mother is ever going to tell me the truth?

  15 Gray’s Inn Road. I shouldn’t have to rely on a dubious clue to find out about my own life! I shouldn’t have to go off behind my mother’s back in search of an address to which my mother may, or may not, have had some vague connection! But then again, I shouldn’t have to lead the farcical life that I do. Maybe I’m just being stubborn, refusing to let go of the dream that one day my mother will give up her charade and finally be honest. Maybe a stubborn baby grows into a stubborn adult. But was I a stubborn baby? Who knows. And that’s just the point.

  I’ve tried to make her talk to me. I have tried and tried and tried. And I’m sick of trying.

  I pull my London A-Z down from the shelf.

  Mark was right.

  I’m running out of time.

  Chapter 9

  ‘London stinks.’

  Under the bus shelter, perched on cold plastic seats, we watched the fine drizzle coming down against the dirty grey buildings and waited for the number 192.

  ‘Does it, Sweetheart?’ asked my mother distractedly, rummaging in her purse, checking that we had enough coins to actually get us wherever it was we were going. As far as I knew she hadn’t brought any Jamaica cake with her this time, which meant she wouldn’t be able to bribe the bus driver into letting us stay on board for an extra couple of stops. Had we been going in the opposite direction then two pieces of coconut ice would have sufficed, but for the driver of the 192 it was Jamaica cake or walk the final mile. He drove a hard bargain.

  ‘All you can smell when you live in London are cars and buses.’

  Right on cue an old BMW with blacked out windows drove past, its stereo booming, spraying muddy puddle water at our feet, and coughing a cloud of black smoke from its exhaust pipe. The smell of petrol and oil made my stomach queasy.

  ‘But that’s not all London smells of, is it Darling?’

  My mother clipped her purse shut, looking disappointed. It looked like we would be walking that final mile after all.

  ‘There are lots of other wonderful smells. Once you get past the stench of the traffic. Aren’t there?’

  She turned to me and I shrugged. I was into shrugging lately. Shrugging and looking miserable. It seems to be what all the kids
were doing nowadays.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ my mother said.

  ‘Nooo,’ I whined. My mother was always telling me to close my eyes for one reason or another. To imagine this. To visualise that. To remember the other.

  ‘Go on. I’ll do it with you.’

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed, shocked by her persistent ignorance. ‘The last time we did that someone stole our shopping bags.’

  ‘Alright then, you do it first. And then I’ll do it.’

  She looked so enthusiastic that I sighed and gave in, just to keep her happy.

  ‘Now breathe in deeply,’ she said, ‘and tell me what you can smell.’

  ‘Cars and buses,’ I said, opening my eyes again.

  ‘No, try harder,’ my mother said, giving my knee and gentle slap. ‘Breathe in slowly and deeply. And forget about the cars and buses. Go past that, to the smells that linger beneath.’

  I did as I was told, inhaling slowly. ‘Bins,’ I said.

  ‘And?’

  I shrugged. It didn’t feel as good with your eyes closed. I guessed that half the fun of shrugging was seeing the look of suppressed frustration at the adult you were shrugging at.

  ‘More bins.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Dog poo.’

  My mother tutted. ‘Is that all?’ she asked, disappointed.

  ‘Well, what else is there?’ I asked, opening my eyes and looking around me. This was Tottenham, not the Bahamas. What was she expecting me to smell? Suntan lotion and salty sea air?

  My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I can smell hot chips,’ she said, ‘straight out of the fryer. And pieces of crispy chicken from Mr Donos’ shop.’

  ‘That’s right at the other end of the high street,’ I protested.

  ‘And I can smell the chilli and ginger on the Jerk chicken they cook at the Jamaican food stall. And cumin, turmeric and curry leaves from the Raja Tandori.’

  ‘That’s two roads away.’

  My mother took another deep breath. ‘And I can smell the buttery colcannon from O’Connell’s pub. And pastrami and salami from the Italian deli. Parma ham, warm ciabatta bread and bolognaise sauce... ’ I could feel my mouth starting to water.

  ‘Juicy meat from Kebab Hut, jalapeno peppers and warm pita bread. And sweet and sour chicken from the Ming Che takeaway. Pork balls and shrimp fried rice. Spare ribs in sticky hoi sin sauce… ’

  By now we were both licking our lips, lost in fantasies of hot food on this cold and wet day. My mother inhaled deeply once more. ‘And there’s fried bacon from Mrs Brand’s B&B. And hot soup from the Helping Hand soup kitchen. Potato and leek today, I think. Jam roly-poly and custard from Saint Mary’s primary school. Sizzling burgers and hotdogs from the football stadium. Fried onions, mustard, tomato sauce… ’

  Bahhhh!!!

  We both jumped in our seats as a passing car blasted its horn, startling us out of our reverie. We looked at each other open-mouthed, our eyes wide with shock, my mother clutching her heart.

  And then we both burst into laughter.

  Today, standing outside Kings Cross station, I breathe in deeply and try to identify the mouth-watering scents of London’s multicultural cuisine. But all I can smell are cars and buses.

  It feels strange to be back here after almost three years. Since I moved to Leeds and my mother moved to Cambridge, I’ve had no reason to come back to London. The traffic. The chaos. The noise. The crowds. The stink.

  I smile to myself.

  It feels good to be home.

  I weave my way through the crowds inside the station. People with briefcases, suitcases, carrier bags, bags on wheels, holdalls, cat baskets. Everyone is on their way to somewhere.

  Five minutes later I am meandering down Gray’s Inn Road, wondering whether I am doing the right thing. I feel slightly sick. Perhaps it’s just those stomach-churning traffic fumes, but I don’t think so. I think it’s nerves. I tell myself to stop being so pathetic. The chances are that nothing will even come of this ridiculous little mission. I will probably find that the house I am looking for was converted into student digs or a B&B many years ago, and then I will simply get back on a train and be back in Cambridge by dinner time. Or maybe the house never existed in the first place. My mother is always scribbling things down incorrectly. I’ve never even trusted her to take down a telephone number because she always manages to get at least one digit wrong. In fact, there are so many reasons why it might be impossible for me to find this house that when I find myself standing right in front of it, less then ten minutes from exiting the station, I am not entirely sure what to do.

  It’s a narrow three-storey house with a grubby white exterior, wedged in-between a dubious-looking off-license and a Greek café. Five or six smelly bin bags are piled up on the pavement outside, flies buzzing around them in the afternoon sun. I look at the flier I am clutching, checking the address three, four, five times. Yes, this is definitely number 15. I should already be standing on the doorstep banging the rusty knocker. So why am I hesitating?

  What if this is it? I think. What if the person who answers the door is a long-lost relative? An aunt or an uncle I never knew I had? A cousin? What if it really is my father? The minute I knock on that door my life could change forever. But that’s exactly what I want. That’s what I’ve always wanted.

  Isn’t it?

  I hear my phone ringing inside my bag, and rummage around trying to find it before the answerphone kicks in. What if it’s my mother? What if she’s had another turn? What if it’s the doctor saying she’s collapsed? Perhaps I should just go home. Perhaps this just isn’t the right time to be doing this.

  But the name that flashes up isn’t my mother, or the doctor. It’s Mark.

  I hold the ringing phone in my hand, but I can’t bring myself to answer it. I know that Mark would not be impressed by my hesitation. In my position he would be banging on that door, running through a list of pre-prepared questions with the owner, ticking things off, interrogating, noting down clues, getting to the bottom of things. I hear Mark’s words echoing in my mind. You need to do something – anything – to bring this ridiculous situation to an end, Meg. And you need to do it now. Because soon –

  “I know,” I hear myself say out loud. “Don’t say it.”

  The owner of the house balances a screaming baby on one hip and eyes me suspiciously.

  “I don’t really get what it is you want,” she shouts in an American accent over the noise of the bawling baby.

  That makes two of us, I think.

  She must be wondering if I’m mentally unstable, turning up here out of the blue, showing her a twenty-one-year-old scrap of paper with her address scrawled on it, asking her if she ever knew my mother, or – seeing as she’s barely any older than myself – whether her mother might have known my mother. Or her father, for that matter. Or anyone she’s related to. Or maybe it was the person who lived here before her who knew my mother. Does she know who they were? Has she ever heard of Valerie May?

  It turns out that all her family live in Texas and have never been to England, (which seems to be the source of some anger) that she has lived in the house for six months and has no idea who previously lived here, and that Valerie May is not a name she has ever heard of, although she does think it’s very pretty.

  “Are you trying to track down your mother?” she asks, looking sorry for me.

  “Oh no, I live with my mother. I’m trying to find out if she once knew someone who lived in this house.”

  “So can’t you just ask her?”

  “It’s quite complicated.”

  “Has she got memory loss?”

  “Erm… something like that.”

  “That’s terrible,” she shouts, patting the baby’s back quite hard, “my grandmother had that. She kept telling everyone she was a hula dancing champion.”

  I smile and give a little laugh to be polite. But then I think it might be impolite to laugh at her senile grandmother so I stifle th
e laughter instead.

  “Sounds like she was confused,” I comment, just to sound interested.

  “Oh no, she really was a hula dancing champion. It was just the fact she kept telling everyone that got annoying.”

  The baby lets out an ear-piercing screech, but the woman seems unperturbed and just pats its back even harder.

  “Oh! Is it your father you’re trying to track down?” she shouts, her face suddenly lighting up as if she now understands the situation. “Not really. Although that would be great. It’s more… anyone really. Anyone who might know… anything.”

  “Anyone who might know anything,” she repeats, looking confused.

  This is ridiculous. I sound like a complete idiot.

  “I’m not sure I can help you,” the woman shouts over the noise of the baby. I nod gratefully to communicate that I had already worked this out, but that I am thankful for her patience anyway.

  What do I do now? I wonder. It would seem logical to say thank you and walk away, leaving this poor woman to get on with her day. But instead I just stand there, awkwardly.

  So that’s it. It’s all over already. There was no-one at this address who could tell me anything. I didn’t find my father. Or anyone who could help me. I didn’t find anything at all. No matter how many times I told myself this was probably a pointless exercise, no matter how much part of me wanted to give up before I had even started for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I realise now how much hope I had. Deep down I realise I really did believe this would lead me to some answers.

  “Have you come far?” the woman asks, spying the sadness in my face.

  “Cambridge.”

  “Oh, wow! Where the university is, right? I’ve never been there. You’ve come such a long way!”

  When I tell her Cambridge is only forty minutes on the train from the station at the end of her road she doesn’t believe me, so I end up getting my train timetable out and showing her. She still doesn’t seem to believe me.

  “I always forget what a tiny country this is!” she shouts.

  She asks me about the university, and the cathedral and the famous Crown Jewels. I tell her she’s thinking of the Tower of London. It turns out she hasn’t been there either.