The Storyteller's Daughter Page 18

  “Val?” I ask again, hopefully. “Was she called Val?”

  They all shake their heads.

  “No, not Val… ”

  “Valerie!” shouts Rocket.

  “Valerie!” Wizz and Beasty agree loudly, nodding their heads.

  “Oh, the lovely Valerie!”

  “Beautiful Valerie!”

  “Valerie with the baby! The little pink baby!”

  My heart is suddenly beating so fast in my chest that I can barely breathe.

  “And the baby,” I say, not even attempting to mask the urgency in my voice now, “was the baby called Meg?”

  “Meg!” they all shout at once.

  “Little baby Meg!”

  “Little Meggy!”

  “That’s me!” I suddenly shout, excitedly, “I’m Meg. I’m the baby! Valerie’s my mother!”

  They all stop shouting and look me up and down, confused.

  “You look vevy… very different,” says Rocket.

  “I’m older now!” I am so overcome with emotion that I don’t even care how ridiculous this comment is. This is it! I’ve done it! I’ve found a link to my mother’s past. To my past!

  “You’re the baby?” asks Wizz.

  “Yes! I have no idea why I was living with you, but I have this flier with your address on,” I say, snatching the flier from Rocket and waving it at them, “and this is the year of my birth, and my mother is called Valerie, and I’m Meg, and… ”

  Before I can even finish my sentence Wizz has thrown his arms around me.

  “Meg!” he yells in my ear. “Little baby Meggy!”

  “Little Meggy!” the other two shout, joining in. “Baby Meg!”

  I am squashed in a three-sided hug that smells of beer, cigarettes and body odour, my mind whirring. What does all this mean? Why were we living with these people? How did my mother know them? Who was my mother’s friend Gwennie?

  They all step back and examine me with wonder, as if they never knew a baby could grow up and turn into an adult.

  “Ahh, little baby Meggy,” drones Wizz patting me clumsily on the head.

  “How’s Valerie?”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Why did you leave us? You should have stayed and lizzed… lived with us forever.”

  They pat me and stroke my hair, squeeze my cheeks and ask me several questions all at once.

  “How did you know my mother?” I ask, desperate to get to the bottom of all this.

  “She lived with us,” declares Rocket.

  “Yes, but why? How did she – did we – end up living with you?”

  They all look thoughtful.

  “She came with her friend, Gwennie,” says Beasty, “I think they just, sort of, turned up one day.”

  “I do remember she didn’t stay that long,” says Wizz, pointing a finger in the air to indicate a thought. “It didn’t really work, I don’t think, having a baby there.”

  “She came to us,” says Rocket, swaying slightly, “because she was thrown out of home.”

  The others nod their heads in agreement, recalling this piece of information.

  “Sad, sad,” mutters Rocket.

  Thrown out of home? My mother was never thrown out of home. My heart sinks as I begin to wonder whether we really are all talking about the same person.

  “They didn’t like the fact she’d had a baby, did they?” asks Wizz, turning to the other two.

  Rocket and Beasty mutter confirmations of this, hazy memories coming back to them, while I rub my forehead, wondering what they are talking about. Perhaps it’s the drink. Perhaps they’re confusing her with someone else. My grandparents loved me. They helped raise me. For the first six months of my life we lived as one big, warm extended family.

  “So Valerie followed us here from Cambridge,” Wizz continues. “I don’t think she had anywhere else to go.”

  “You’re from Cambridge?” I ask.

  They all nod. Perhaps they are talking about the right person after all. They must be. But my grandparents never threw us out.

  Did they?

  “Where did we go after we left?” I ask. “My mother and I?”

  “That’s what I was asking you,” drawls Wizz, leaning on me and grinning. “Where did you go? You left us.”

  “You should have stayed!” says Beasty, stroking my face. “You should have stayed forever and we would have raised you.”

  “We should all move back in together!” says Rocket, his face lighting up.

  The three of them raise their bottles in the air and clink glasses to celebrate this fantastic idea, excitedly discussing the logistics of this new arrangement.

  “What else can you tell me?” I ask, trying to keep them on track. “What else do you know about my mother?”

  They all shake their heads and shrug.

  “She had long hair,” offers Beasty.

  “We didn’t know her that well really,” says Wizz, “she only stayed a few weeks.”

  “And it was a very long time ago,” says Beasty.

  “And we’re all quite drunk,” adds Rocket.

  “What about Gwennie?” I ask, “You said she was my mother’s friend. Do you know what happened to her?”

  They all shake their heads.

  “Haven’t seen her in years,” says Wizz.

  “You said she married someone… ”

  “Bomber,” says Rocket. “Our drummer.”

  My mouth drops as I struggle to process this information. Hot Stuff? My mother used to be best friends with Hot Stuff!

  “Your drummer? You mean the tall man who just left with… ”

  “No, no, no,” says Rocket, “that’s Wonky. That’s not the drummer we had when we started. Bomber was our original drummer. He later married Gwennie. But it didn’t last long.”

  I wrack my brain trying to work out where to go from here.

  “I think I need to get in touch with Gwennie,” I tell them.

  “Yes, we do need to find Gwennie,” agrees Rocket, “so we can tell her we’re all moving back in together!”

  They all cheer and clink beer bottles again.

  “Okay,” I say, thinking it might just be easier to go along with this ridiculous idea, “so how do we find her?”

  Rocket and Beasty look thoughtful, and then Beasty raises a finger in the air, having come up with the solution.

  “We could call – ”

  “Bomber!” shouts Wizz into his mobile phone before Beasty can even finish his sentence. “How are you? Guess what! We’re all moving back into together! Me and you and Beasty and Gwennie and – ”

  “Bomber, guess what?” yells Rocket, grabbing the phone out of Wizz’s hand. “We have a surprise for you! It’s the baby! Here she is!”

  He holds the phone out to me, and I take it hesitantly.

  “Hello?”

  “Who’s that?” a tired voice asks. He sounds like he has just been woken up.

  “My name’s Meg May,” I say, placing my hand over my free ear to block out the noise of the band drunkenly discussing our new communal living arrangements, “my mother is Valerie May. We lived with you for a short while on Gray’s Inn Road when I was a baby. My mother was friends with your ex-wife, Gwennie.”

  There’s silence at the end of the line, before the voice says, “Gosh. Yes, I remember. Gosh. That was a long time ago. Wow. How are you?”

  “I’m… I’m fine,” I fumble, slightly taken aback by his sensible tone and smart accent. From the sleep in his voice I suddenly realise it must be very late, and that Bomber has clearly left the rock and roll lifestyle well behind him. “I’m sorry about this, Bomber. We’re not really all moving back in together – ”

  He laughs quietly. “Too right we’re not. And please, it’s Timothy. People don’t really want a lawyer called Bomber. It gives the wrong impression. Anyway, I really should learn not to answer the phone on a Friday night. I expect they’re all slaughtered, aren’t they?”

  I glance at the thr
ee men, hugging each other and singing something about being reunited forever.

  “They are a little drunk, yes.”

  I take the phone over to the corner of the pub so that I can hear better. “I know this must all seem very strange, but I’m trying to get hold of Gwennie.”

  “Ok-ay,” he says slowly, as if thinking this through, “has your mother decided to get back in touch with her?”

  “Erm… sort of.”

  “Gosh. That will be a surprise for Gwennie. She was absolutely devastated when your mother broke off contact with her, although she understood her reasons.”

  I don’t say anything, wondering what on earth he can mean.

  “To be honest,” he continues, “I was always grateful your mother did what she did. You father was… well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. Sorry, your stepfather, I mean.”

  “My stepfather?”

  “Yes. Robert.”

  “Robert?”

  There is a long pause, during which time we listen to the remaining members of Chlorine singing. I only realise I have been holding my breath when I start running out of air.

  “Was my mother married?” I ask, shocked.

  “Gosh. I’m sorry,” says Timothy, hesitantly, “maybe I shouldn’t have said… I just… I thought you would know. I mean, I thought you would remember.”

  My mind is completely blank. I can’t think what to say. He thought I would remember? Suddenly nothing seems to make sense.

  “Look, perhaps I should just give you Gwennie’s number.”

  “No, please! I need to know. My mother has hardly told me anything about my childhood. I had a stepfather? My mother was married?”

  “Gosh. I’m sorry, it really would be better if you spoke to Gwennie,” says Timothy, apologetically. “She’ll be able to tell you anything you want to know. After all, she was the one who – ”

  “Time please people!” yells the flabby barman, banging a spoon against a pint glass. “Time please!”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that,” I say, clamping my hand over my free ear. “What did you say?”

  The music is switched off. Outside I hear the thunder still rumbling.

  “I said,” repeats Timothy, “she was the one who found you.”

  Chapter 14

  I am desperate to dial Gwennie’s number, dying to question her, itching to hear everything she has to tell me, longing to finally hear the truth about my life.

  And I will, once I have helped my mother defrost the freezer. And tidied the kitchen. And made that phone call to Dr Larry. And popped to the shops for some bread.

  A day passes. And then another. And another.

  All too soon a week has passed, and I simply cannot understand it.

  This is what I have waited for my entire life; a flashing arrow pointing straight to the truth. I have pleaded and begged, argued and insisted, struggled and searched, and now here I am, hesitating. The beer mat with Gwennie’s phone number on sits patiently in my bedside drawer, waiting for me to come to my senses, pull myself together and do what needs to be done. It’s like finding the Holy Grail and tucking it away in a shoe box for a rainy day. It just isn’t the way it’s meant to be.

  What is it that’s holding me back, I wonder, as I watch my mother crumbling some old pastry onto the bird table, cheerfully telling me about the day we scattered pastry crumbs in Hyde Park and thousands of birds suddenly swooped down from above, surrounding us in a cloud of beating wings, before trying to carry me off into the sky?

  “You were such a tiny thing that they mistook you for a pastry crumb,” she chuckles, her breath catching in her chest and making her cough.

  What is it that makes it so hard to pick up the phone, I think, as my mother hands me the whisk and a bowl of egg white, telling me not to over do it like she once did?

  “I filled the entire kitchen with bubbles of egg white,” she laughs, her face tired and pale, “and I had to burst one of the bubbles in order to get you out.”

  What is it that makes me hesitate, I ask myself, as she tells me how I once stuck my nose in a sachet of curry powder and sneezed non-stop for seven days and seven nights?

  “The neighbours complained about the noise,” she chortles, as she rubs her aching back, “but there was nothing I could do. I just had to wait until all the sneezes were out.”

  What is making me find excuses, day after day, for why I can’t dial Gwennie’s number? Is it the way my mother smiles, the way she laughs, the way her face lights up when she remembers when, and recalls the time, and recollects the day… ? Is it the way her pain seems to vanish when she tells a story of our past?

  Is it the way mine does, too?

  It never occurred to me that one day I would find myself standing at the cliff edge wondering whether to jump. It never occurred to me that when the key to the universe was offered up to me I wouldn’t know whether to take it. It never occurred to me that this life – this stupid, humiliating, ridiculous life – could mean more to me than I had ever imagined.

  It never occurred to me that once she is gone, it will be all I have left of her.

  I hate myself for being weak, for being anything other than rational and strong, logical and brave. I hate my indecision and my procrastination. ‘Stop being so pathetic!’ I tell myself. ‘Stop being such a baby!’

  But I need to hear that I am weak, otherwise I will never pick up the phone. I need to feel that I am pathetic in order to spur me on. I need someone to tell me this has nothing to do with feelings and emotions, and everything to do with logic and reason, and that it is perfectly clear cut, and perfectly simple, and that all I have to do is pick up the phone because there is only one objective in all this and that is to find out the truth.

  And so I call Mark, because I need to hear that life is not about shifting patterns and shades of grey. It is about black and white, and that is all.

  I don’t tell him that I lied about the house on Gray’s Inn Road having been converted into a takeaway, or about the council offices refusing to help me, or about having reached a dead end weeks ago in my search for another clue. He would never understand my need. Instead, I tell him that I happened to stumble across a poster for one of Chlorine’s gigs on a recent trip to the British Library, went along to watch them play, and from that point on I tell him the truth. He is impressed by both my determination to seek out the band, and my dedication to academic study in this difficult time. Other than that, thankfully Mark is as harsh and critical as I hoped he would be.

  “Meg, why on earth have you not called this woman? What’s the matter with you? This is it. This is your chance to find out the truth!”

  “I know. And I need to do it now, don’t I?” I ask, willing him to tell me what I need to hear.

  “Of course you need to do it now! You want to be able to verify things with your mother, to clarify facts. Once you know the truth there will be questions you’ll need to ask her. The first one being why on earth did she feel the need to keep things from you all these years. And you don’t have time to waste. She’ll be dead soon!”

  There is a silence on the line while I struggle with these last words, taking a deep breath and trying to control my emotions. He’s right, I remind myself, he’s only telling the truth. Mark, more than anyone else in my life, always tells me the truth. And that’s a good thing. It’s what I need to hear.

  “I’m not sure why I’ve been putting if off,” I tell him, embarrassed by my own lack of fortitude. I feel vulnerable admitting my confusion. I feel weak. And I hate myself for being weak in front of Mark, but I don’t know what else to do. There is clearly something wrong with the way my brain is functioning right now and Mark is the smartest person I know. If anybody can tell me why I am failing to think and behave in a rational manner then surely it is him.

  “I have no idea why you’re putting it off either,” he says, bluntly, “there’s no reason for it. It’s not like you at all.”

  This isn’t quite the respon
se I wanted, but it is the response I need. When Mark says it’s not like you at all I know exactly what he means. He means this isn’t the girl I fell in love with. He means I thought you were better than this. He means show me you’re as strong and as logical as you have always been, because a weak, irrational girl just isn’t for me.

  By the time I come off the phone to Mark, my mind feels eased of its burden and things seem straight forward again. I know where I need to get to, I know what I have to do, and I know that there is only one way forward.

  I look down on my mother from the bedroom window as she potters round the garden talking to plants, and as I dial Gwennie’s number I chastise myself for having wasted so much valuable time.

  “I can’t believe it’s really you,” says Gwennie, quite emotional, “you sound so grown up.”

  Unlike my first encounter with Chlorine, this time I don’t excitedly point out that I’ve grown older since I was a baby. The excitement has gone now, replaced by something far more uncomfortable. Trepidation? Anxiety? Dread?

  “The last time I saw you was the day before your fifth birthday. I gave you a princess dolly. You probably don’t have that anymore though, do you? I suppose you might not have even taken it with you when you left. I know you didn’t take much.”

  “Left where?” I ask.

  “Your home. Your home in Brighton.”

  My home in Brighton? I never lived in Brighton. We were living in our flat in Tottenham when I was five.

  Except obviously we weren’t. And that’s exactly the point. Why do I keep thinking that I know anything about my life?

  “I’ve thought about your mother – about both of you – so much over the years,” continues Gwennie, “and several times I thought about trying to find you. I almost tried, a couple of years ago, after my father said he thought he passed Val in Tottenham on his way to a football match, but he wasn’t sure if it was her, and I didn’t quite know where to start, and I suppose, in all honesty, I was never sure if she would want to see me again. She wanted to leave the past behind, and I can understand that. I just always wished I’d had the chance to say goodbye, that’s all. I understand why she couldn’t tell me where she was going, though, when she left. She was trying to protect me. I understand that.”