The Storyteller's Daughter Read online

  “Yes. Yes, I think I do understand.”

  “Good,” I say, satisfied that for the first time he has backed down and reason has prevailed. “Well, I’ll leave you to deal with the situation as you see fit then.”

  I don’t know why, but as I turn and stride victoriously back up the garden path I can’t shake the creeping feeling that somehow I have said too much, and that perhaps I am not the winner after all.

  Chapter 11

  It’s the White Giant who tries to strangle me in my dreams. He looms over me, faceless, his shoulders so far above me that his head disappears into the clouds. He’s the one who smells of raw meat. A bloody steak that sits on the chopping board. A red lamb chop before it’s laid on the grill. Pink worms of pork that churn out of the mincer. The innards of a chicken. I hold my breath as he comes near me, afraid that I might be sick.

  I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’ve made him angry. Very angry. He swoops down on me, blocking out the light, and grabs me with his enormous hands that tighten around my throat. I try to scream but there’s no air in my lungs. I can feel his calloused fingers digging painfully into my windpipe, below my jaw, under my ears, squeezing. I try to swallow, once, twice, but I can’t, and suddenly I am gulping like a goldfish on dry land and there’s a pressure in my head like it’s going to explode. I imagine my eyes popping out of my head and shooting out across the room on springs, like in a cartoon. I try to prise the giant hands away but they are stuck to my skin like glue. The world around me is turning grey, the colours draining away like chalk drawings on the pavement when the rain drops start to fall. The light is fading, disappearing down a narrow tunnel that keeps on shrinking until it is no more than a little white pinprick.

  It is going.

  Going.

  Gone.

  “Out! Out! Out!”

  The scruffy dog sits down in the middle of the kitchen floor and wags its tail at me expectantly.

  “What are you doing, you stupid creature? Get out!”

  I make a move to grab it by the collar but it seems to think we’re playing a game and rolls over on its back, its long pink tongue dangling out the side of its mouth.

  “Stand up!”

  My experience with animals has been fairly limited to date and I have very purposefully kept it that way. Aged thirteen, I became unreasonably attached to a hamster by the name of Jeremy that my mother bought me as a birthday present. For weeks after Jeremy’s death, whenever I thought of his beady black eyes and his tiny pink nose, I would feel tears welling in my eyes, and I had to repeatedly pinch myself to re-gain control. It was ludicrous that I should be so upset over a little animal who did nothing other than sleep all day and run around in its wheel all night keeping me awake. It made no sense to keep thinking about him, and I hated the fact that my feelings seemed so disproportionate to what I had lost. I decided there and then, that as animals obviously evoked irrational feelings in me, I was clearly not cut out to own one.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” I tell the dog. “You’re all dirty, please go back outside.”

  I point at the open kitchen door, and try to think of the command to make a dog go away.

  “Leave! Go! That way!”

  The dog rolls onto its front, wags its tail furiously and barks at me.

  “I see you two have made friends.”

  I turn to find Ewan leaning in through the open back door, an amused smile on his lips. He looks like he hasn’t shaved or slept in about a week, and his hands are covered in scratches and what appear to be teeth marks.

  “I assume this is yours,” I say, pointing at the scruffy animal.

  Ewan covers his mouth with his hand and tries to stifle a yawn.

  “Yeah. But he seems to like you. I don’t suppose you ever fancied owning a dog?”

  “Absolutely not. Get him out of here, please.”

  “Are you sure? The two of you really seem to be hitting it off.”

  Seeing I am not in the mood for jokes, Ewan emits a short, sharp whistle and the dog flies out through the open door, sits down on the patio at Ewan’s feet and gazes adoringly up at him. Ewan rubs his eyes and yawns again, and I am so tired myself that I find myself starting yawning too. Ewan catches my eye and smiles.

  “Mine’s down to a dog that howls all night long. What’s your excuse?”

  “Nightmares,” I say, sleepily, before I even think to stop myself. Immediately I wish I could take the words back. I have never told anybody about my nightmares. I don’t want people thinking there is something wrong with me, that I can’t control the crazy thoughts that invade my head night after night. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m disturbed in some way.

  “Oh, nightmares are horrible things,” sympathises Ewan. He crouches on the patio rubbing the dog’s head so hard between his palms that I think he might do some damage, but the dog is wagging his tail furiously. “Last year I kept having this really bad nightmare where I was falling down a well. I had it for months.”

  “Really?” I ask, suddenly flooded with relief that I am not alone.

  “Yeah, it was scary. I would wake up in a cold sweat, grabbing at the side of the bed to stop myself falling. And I could smell the slime on the walls of the well, and feel cold water round my feet.”

  “You could smell the slime?” I ask, feeling reassured that other people can smell their nightmares.

  “Yeah, it was horrible. And even when I woke up, I could still smell slime all morning.”

  Me too! I almost blurt out. All day, I smell raw beef and pink sausages and uncooked chicken…

  “What was your nightmare about?” asks Ewan.

  Should I tell him? I can’t. I’ll sound crazy. But here he is telling me about his slimy nightmares and asking me about mine, and I am so tired and I just want to get the images out of my head, to tell somebody…

  “This giant man is trying to strangle me and he smells of meat,” I blurt out, “and I can feel his fingers on my throat and they’re squeezing and my eyes are about to pop out and fly across the room when everything goes dark and I think I’m dead.”

  Ewan looks startled. I stare at my feet, suddenly wishing I had a rewind facility. What on earth must I sound like, talking about meat and giant men? Ewan may also have had crazy dreams, but then Ewan’s a man who talks to trees. With him, it’s to be expected. He spends most of his waking life having crazy thoughts.

  “That sounds terrifying,” says Ewan, gazing up at me from where he is crouched with the dog. He looks genuinely bothered on my behalf.

  It is! I want to shout. I feel like I’m dying, like I’m leaving my body and I can’t prise these hands away, these huge calloused hands…

  “It is a bit frightening,” I admit, modestly, and even as I say the words they feel alien in my mouth. I never admit to being frightened of anything. Ever.

  “I think I’d be frightened too,” says Ewan, empathically.

  We look at each other. I notice how tanned his face has become over the past few weeks, and the slight reddish glow to the bridge of his nose where his skin has burnt. His hair, too, has bleached in the sun, a few honey strands running through his chestnut locks. I feel my cheeks flush and look away.

  “Anyway,” I say, quickly, “how have you ended up with a dog that keeps you awake all night?”

  Realising that the conversation has swiftly changed track, Ewan stands up and peers down at the dog.

  “His owner was one of my clients, Mr Gorzynski, an old guy who lived a couple of roads from here. He died last week. He always said he wanted me to have the dog, so here we are. A new team.”

  “Why did he want you to have the dog?” I ask, incredulous that anybody would entrust Ewan with permanent responsibility for a living creature.

  “Let’s just say he’s got a special skill that comes in handy in my line of work,” he says, intriguingly.

  “You mean he likes sitting on his backside drinking coffee?”

  Ewan raises one eyebrow at me and pretend
s to be shocked.

  “Why Miss May, did you just make a joke?”

  I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling.

  “I’ll have you know,” he says, “that we’ve been out here since nine o’clock without so much as a cup of coffee and a slice of -” he peers over my shoulder at the cake that is sitting on the work surface, “ – a slice of chocolate cake to keep us going.”

  “How tragic,” I say, mockingly, half startled and half amused by his audacity. “You’ll just have to hope somebody takes pity on you and brings you some refreshments before you wither away.”

  Ewan smiles. “One can only hope.”

  I wait for him to go, but he remains on the patio, looking thoughtful.

  “You know, I can make you a tincture for your nightmares if you like. Lemon balm, lavender, chamomile – ”

  “No, thank you,” I say, quickly, not wanting to get back on the topic. I already feel as if I have said too much.

  “It can help, in times of stress. I know things are hard, with your mother – ”

  “I’m not stressed. I’m fine. Thank you. I’ll bring your coffee down to you,” I say as way of ending our conversation.

  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 fairi
es. 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.