The Storyteller's Daughter Read online

  “These are flowers, Mother,” I tell her, as if she is a senile old woman. “Or they were, before you destroyed them.”

  “Now,” she says enthusiastically, picking up her knife and fork and ignoring me. “Here we have the flowers of chives, marjoram, nasturtium, and marigold. And underneath are gingermint, red orach, sorrel and rocket leaves. It looks rather pretty, doesn’t it? Seems quite a shame to eat it.”

  “Eat it? They’re flowers,” I tell her again.

  “Ewan says they’re all perfectly edible. Honestly darling, I’ve learnt so many fascinating things these last few weeks. Imagine growing all these lovely flowers in your garden and not even realising you could eat them.”

  I’m not surprised this was Ewan’s idea. It sounds exactly like the kind of thing he would suggest. At least that means my mother hasn’t got brain cancer, she sometimes just misunderstands things.

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “Oh yes. Lesson number four. Edible flowers. I wrote it all down.”

  Over the past few weeks my mother has taken to following Ewan around the garden asking him questions and scribbling down his so-called words of wisdom in a little notebook. She claims they are ‘gardening lessons’, although I’m not sure Ewan was ever consulted or given a choice in whether he wanted to be my mother’s teacher. He appears to have the patience of a saint, and tolerates her with infinite humour and kindness, for which I am secretly very grateful. It keeps her occupied, and gives me respite from her bizarre stories, which seem to have become increasingly frequent ever since her fainting fit.

  “Oh, hello there Mr Butterfly,” my mother chirps, as a red admiral flutters down into our lunch. “Have you come to join the feast?”

  “I’m not eating that bit,” I tell her, “he probably has dirty feet.”

  “Oh, and Mr Sparrow! You like the look of our lunch too, do you?”

  A little brown bird lands on the table and eyes the dinner plate, nervously hopping back and forth.

  “Of course they like the look of lunch,” I tell her, “they’re used to seeing it in the flower beds. Where it’s meant to be.”

  “Oh, this is just like Snow White!” beams my mother. “All we need now is a little deer to come trotting up to the table. Do you remember that, darling? Disney’s Snow White with all the animals in the forest? We watched it when you were a little girl. And there was a song. How did that song go again?”

  “I have no idea.”

  My mother starts to hum something with no apparent tune. She has never been a very good singer, but I remember I used to love it when she sang me nursery rhymes and made up silly songs.

  “A spoonful of sugar,” my mother warbles. “Oh no, I think that was Mary Poppins, wasn’t it? The birds and the bees are a-humming in the trees… no, that was something else. How did it go, Meggie? That song? La la la… ”

  I watch my mother, singing away to herself, lost in thought of times gone by, of fairy stories and cartoon characters and enchanted forests. The sun brings out the red tint in her unruly hair and makes her eyes sparkle. Today even her cheeks have a rosy tint which I haven’t seen in a while.

  Today is a good day.

  Today my mother got out of bed without a problem, and didn’t complain that every inch of her body ached. I didn’t once hear her say there must be something wrong with my mattress, it’s the only explanation, or, perhaps I’ve started sleepwalking and bumping into things. Today she’s not exhausted, which means she hasn’t had to say it’s the heat, it makes me sleepy, or if I have started sleepwalking that would explain the tiredness. Today she doesn’t feel sick or nauseous, so there has been no reason for her to ask me do you think there’s a stomach bug going around, Sweetie, or to tell me I think I ate too much cheesecake last night. Today there are no symptoms and no excuses to accompany them. Today, if I ignore how thin she looks, then it’s almost like nothing is wrong.

  But it’s not today that’s the problem. It’s tomorrow. Because there’s always a tomorrow yet to come.

  “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work we go… that was the other one from Snow White, wasn’t it? With the little people. Elves. No, dwarves. And there was Sneezy and Happy and Lumpy… no, was there a Lumpy? Bashful and Grumpy… ”

  I’m pleased I made the decision to stop running around after clues to my past. This is where I should be, sitting in the sunshine, listening to my mother babbling away, enjoying a beautifully prepared lunch of… well, sitting with her anyway. I feel better, less guilty, more relaxed. Less like a terrible daughter out to destroy the very essence of our lives together. These past weeks my mother and I have been enjoying our afternoons lazing in the garden, doing crosswords, playing monopoly and talking about all kinds of things from global warming, (which my mother blames on ‘farting cows’) to the Queen’s latest dress, (which I thought befitting of a lady in her position, but my mother would have brightened up with a tie-dye scarf). And when my mother aches, or feels tired, or has a headache, I’m glad I’m here to put the kettle on, or order her to sit down and rest, or to simply be around, just in case.

  I didn’t tell Mark what happened in London. I reasoned there was no need. After all, he would only tell me to track down Chlorine, to follow the next clue, to keep searching… and there really is no point. I am resolved now to just let things be. Instead, I told him a slightly amended version of what happened. In fact, I told him the house I was looking for had been knocked down and turned into a Chinese takeaway. There was very little he could say to that. Or at least I thought there would be very little he could say to that, but Mark being Mark actually told me to call the council, to demand to speak to someone in urban planning, or town housing, or something like that, and to quote some law that gives me the right to know who lived on that site previously. I haven’t done it because I no longer feel the need. I don’t even think about the information that might be out there waiting for me, or whether my real father might be one of the members of that band, or who the mother and baby were who lived in that house. It doesn’t cross my mind that this coming Friday night Chlorine will be playing at the Frog and Whistle, and that a mere forty minute train journey could be the only thing separating me from the truth. It’s not important. Because as I watch my mother’s smiling face, beaming at me over a plate full of flower heads, I know that all that really matters is that I’m here, watching out for her, sharing this final time together, just as it should be.

  “Eat up then, Darling. Don’t let your salad get warm.”

  She laughs. I don’t know why but she always finds that line amusing.

  “You go first,” I tell her.

  “Are you doubting my culinary skills with a flower bed?”

  “Not at all. I just want you to have first pick of these delicious geraniums, or whatever they are.”

  She eyes the plate of flowers as if she’s not entirely convinced herself, before plucking a large orange flower head from the plate and popping it in her mouth. She chews slowly, a look of intense contemplation on her face, and I try not to laugh at the sight of orange petals protruding from between her lips. She continues chewing for what seems like a very long time, running her tongue around the inside of her mouth, pulling the expression of someone who has just bitten into a lemon, before finally she swallows.

  “Was that nice?” I ask, innocently.

  “Umm,” she nods, trying to look convincing. “Lovely.”

  “Liar.”

  A smile breaks out on my mother’s face.

  “I’ll go and make us beans on toast,” she says, and we both start to laugh.

  Ewan comes twice a week. I hear him at the bottom of the garden, digging, mowing, sawing, hacking, singing Paul Weller or talking to the plants and the insects. I glimpse him from my bedroom window pulling up roots, trimming back bushes, dismantling the old shed and putting up a new one. I avoid him at all costs, the memory of the twenty-pound note and our last, frosty exchange clouding my mind, along with my shame. Each time he
comes I take him his coffee and cake, always with the intention of clearing the air, but instead of seeking him out among the orchard or between the rows of beanpoles I leave his snack nearby where he will find it, always making some excuse to avoid him for another day. My pride, stubborn as an ox, rarely allows the word ‘sorry’ to pass my lips.

  Today I leave his coffee and banana cake on the grass near his bag; an old, canvas satchel that has been left open revealing a lunchbox, a bottle of water and a Barbie doll dressed in pink knickers and a bra. I am staring curiously, wondering what my mother would think if she knew this young man she thinks is so wonderful has a fetish for busty blonde dolls, when I hear the voice of a little girl coming from somewhere among the orchard.

  Cautiously, I tiptoe into the trees, where I find a girl with honey coloured hair dressed in pink shorts, a pink tshirt and a pair of pink trainers with flashing lights on the heels. She doesn’t notice me, so absorbed in playing her game, so I hide behind a tree and watch, wondering who on earth she can be. The thought that Ewan – with his tendency to talk to trees, his holey socks and his clapped-out old van – might have a child is frankly terrifying. And he would make a very young father.

  “Welcome to my castle, Prince Robbie!” exclaims the little girl, opening an invisible door. “What a beautiful unicorn! Leave him on the doorstep and I will ask Rosie, my servant, to feed him a carrot. Please, come inside. Rosie, will you fetch us some tea? The Prince has travelled from very far away to come and see me. But then, who can blame him? After all, I am the most beautiful lady in the world.”

  I roll my eyes. Princes? Castles? What a daydreamer! Easy to see how she might be Ewan’s, after all.

  “Now, I understand there is something you wish to ask me, Prince Robbie,” says the little girl, talking to a tree. She gasps and throws her hands up in surprise. “Oh, of course I will marry you!” She extends her hand, graciously. “What a beautiful ring! This must be the only pink and purple diamond in the world. It’s worth how much? One billion trillion zillion pounds? Oh, I am so lucky to be marrying the most handsomest, richest Prince in the world! Now, I must get some beauty sleep, for tomorrow is our wedding day and ten thousand guests will all be looking at me.”

  She lies down on the hard ground, closes her eyes and pretends to snore. I lament at the ridiculous ways in which children choose to waste their time. Only seconds after she has gone to sleep, the little girl jumps to her feet again, stretching and yawning. Eight hours has apparently gone by in less then eight seconds.

  “It’s my wedding day! Rosie, help me into my wedding dress.” She pretends to pull on various pieces of clothing before adorning her head with an actual daisy chain which she must have prepared for the occasion. “Oh, I look beautiful! Look at me! Are my forty bridesmaids ready? And are they dressed in pink like I ordered? Then fetch my unicorn who will fly me to the church. Come on Rosie, you can ride on my unicorn with me as you are my most best friend in the world.”

  She slings her leg over an invisible unicorn, checks over her shoulder (presumably to make sure Rosie is safely aboard), then runs about in circles, ducking in and out of the trees, dodging low hanging branches and shouting ‘giddy up!’ After a few seconds she grabs a tree trunk, swings herself around and around and screams something about a tornado. The foolish unicorn appears to have steered them into a storm on the way to the ceremony. I shake my head in despair, ready to step out from behind my tree and put an end to this silly game, but in spite of myself I continue watching, curiously. There is just a tiny part of me that wants to know what happens next.

  “Oh, Rosie, that was a terrible journey!” the girl exclaims, swaying dizzily from side to side. “Still, we are here at the church now and here are all my guests. Hello! Hello!” She turns in circles, shaking hands with apple tree branches. “Oh, thank you, yes I do look beautiful! Oh, and there is Prince Robbie waiting for me.”

  She starts to hum the wedding anthem, takes a few slow steps and then kneels solemnly in front of a tree trunk.

  “Do you Jennifer Lucy Green, take Prince Robbie Williams to be your husband? Yes, I do. And do you Prince Robbie Williams take Jennifer Lucy Green to be your wife? Yes, I do. And do you promise always to look after her, and buy her pretty things including the new Barbie hairbrush set, and give her the last of your Fizzy Fish, and let her watch Jessie and the Space Cadets whenever she wants to? Okay, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  She stands on tiptoe to plant a kiss on the imaginary Prince Robbie. Then, scooping up a handful of flower petals that she has stashed nearby, she throws them up in the air like confetti, letting them flutter down over her head. She turns slowly in circles, her face towards the sky, laughing happily as the petals fall on her closed eyelids and stick in her hair. Rays of golden sunlight pierce through the leaves of the apple trees, making her rosy skin glow and her honey hair shine. When all the petals have fallen she scoops them up and throws them in the air again, laughing. I watch her closely, a smile creeping across my face. In the hazy shafts of sunlight I can almost see her wedding dress covered in sequins, the forty bridesmaids dressed in pink, the handsome Prince Robbie, and the unicorn waiting to whisk the happy couple off on their honeymoon to a tropical island. I even find myself wondering where they will be going.

  But what on earth am I thinking? Unicorns? Fake weddings? What a load of nonsense!

  “You can’t just marry someone the day after you’ve met,” I say stepping out from behind my tree, “it doesn’t work like that.”

  The girl almost jumps out of her skin. She stands ten feet in front of me, wide-eyed and frozen, a yellow flower petal stuck to her bottom lip.

  “Churches have to be booked well in advance, for one thing. And how can you have organised such a big wedding when you had no time? And anyway, you can’t love someone you only met yesterday. Plus, who’s ever heard of a flying unicorn?”

  The girl looks around her anxiously, looking for an escape.

  “And I really don’t think you would go ahead and get married only moments after escaping from a tornado. Do you know the havoc tornados wreak? People lose their homes. They die. Whole families are wiped out. One minute they’re in bed asleep, and then next their roof has been ripped off and they find themselves being flung into the air, everyone screaming, everything crashing down around them, blood everywhere – ”

  The girl suddenly flees as fast as she can out of the orchard, an expression of horror on her face.

  “Hey, come back!” I call. “I want to talk to you about the use of servants and social inequality!”

  By the time I fumble my way out of the orchard, Ewan has come to the little girl’s rescue and is crouching down by her side, wiping away her tears with the back of his grubby hand. He settles her down on an upturned wheelbarrow and hands her a half-eaten slice of banana cake, before striding purposefully towards me.

  “Why have you been telling my niece about people being ripped screaming from their beds?”

  “She seems to think tornados are some sort of game. Hasn’t she ever watched the news?”

  “She’s six!”

  “Then it’s about time someone set her straight. She seems to think people just walk out of tornados unscathed, and that unicorns actually exist.”

  “It’s make believe!” he says, incredulously.

  “Well, of course it is! That’s the problem. Aren’t you worried about the damage this sort of rubbish can do?”

  Confused, he rubs his forehead, leaving a streak of mud across his brow.

  “Why on earth would I be worried?”

  Glancing at the little girl, now happily munching on her cake, I take a step closer to Ewan and lower my voice.

  “Look, it might be fake weddings and flying unicorns today, but tomorrow she’ll be telling people she saw a marrow dancing in the moonlight, or a cauliflower racing a lettuce down the garden path. And then what will happen?”

  Ewan frowns.

  “People will laugh at her, that’s what. Th
ey’ll call her a liar and a telltale and no-one will want to be her friend. All the kids at school will shun her, and she’ll have to sit and eat her lunch on a table all by herself because the other children will think she’s odd. They’ll call her a baby and won’t let her join in their games, and she’ll always be confused about what she’s done wrong because as far as she knows unicorns do fly and marrows do dance in the moonlight because nobody ever set her straight. And she won’t be able to understand why nobody believes her, until she realises that everyone else must be right and that things can’t have happened as she thought and then she’ll feel stupid and more confused than ever. ”

  Ewan stares at me, bewildered. “Are you drunk? What’s wrong with you? She’s six, for God’s sake. I know you were probably studying the periodic table at her age, but it really is very normal for her to be playing like this. It’s called imagination.”

  “No, it’s called confusion. And if it’s allowed to continue she’ll always be confused. And when she’s grown up and she tries to remember her childhood all she’ll be able to remember is castles and unicorns and dancing cauliflowers, and she’ll never have any idea what really happened because her mind will be all muddled up. And she’ll resent you because you encouraged her fantasies, and that will lead to even more confusion because even though she’ll resent you she’ll love you at the same time!”

  Ewan narrows his eyes and peers at me, thoughtfully.

  “And I guess,” he says, slowly, as if testing out a theory, “that maybe she’ll react to her confusion by trying desperately to ground herself in reality. Am I right?”

  “That could well happen!” I blurt out, pleased he’s finally understanding.

  He studies me carefully, his face softening as his annoyance seems to fade.

  “If you want to contribute to the poor child’s confusion then fine,” I tell him, “but she’ll be the one to suffer and she won’t thank you for it. Do you understand?”

  He nods slowly, looking at me with what appears to be sympathy.