From the Kitchen of Half Truth Read online

  It takes me a moment to absorb the fact that, firstly, he is obviously completely serious, and secondly, if he is completely serious then that means…

  “I wasn’t trying to chat you up,” he says. “Sorry if you got the wrong end of the stick.”

  Despite the fact that he is trying to sound sincerely sorry for my discomfort, I can see him battling with a smile, and it is clear that, once again, my mistake has provided welcome fodder for his amusement.

  “I didn’t think…I just,” I stammer, wondering how I can cover up my mistake. I can’t believe I thought he was saying those things to me! But hang on, why am I the one feeling silly? He’s the one who’s been talking to a tree!

  “Who in their right mind talks to trees?” I ask rather harshly, trying to turn the focus back onto him and divert attention from my embarrassing mistake.

  “Lots of people,” he says matter-of-factly. “People have always done it. All over the world people believe they can communicate with trees. Tree spirits play a role in all kinds of cultures. Native American, Hindu, Celtic…”

  “That’s only because those cultures still cling to primitive ideas,” I tell him authoritatively, determined that he will be the one who comes out of this feeling silly, not me. “This is twenty-first-century Britain. If you want a tree to grow, try using chemicals; don’t waste time talking to it.”

  “Chemicals are nowhere near as effective as a few gentle words of encouragement and some stroking.”

  “Stroking? You’re kidding.”

  He shakes his head. “Honestly, you can’t beat it.”

  “And how exactly does that help a tree grow?”

  He shakes his head and looks thoughtful, as if this is a question that has been a source of fascination and confusion to him for a long time. “I don’t know how exactly—”

  I let out a loud sigh of despair. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s these new-age hippy types, people who go around hugging trees and banging on about vibes and spirits and souls and energy, as if they have any idea what energy—in the true scientific use of the word—actually means. People who claim that ghosts exist and telepathy works without ever being able to back up their argument with any proper data or scientific explanation and who base their “knowledge” on nothing more than a hunch or a feeling.

  “Trees don’t have souls or spirits, and they certainly can’t understand you,” I tell him. “It’s all nonsense.”

  Rather than defend himself, as I would in his position, he just shrugs. Clearly my opinion doesn’t matter much to him either way, and he is happy enough to persist in his unfounded beliefs in spite of me. I have never understood how people can be like that, and I find it both confusing and frustrating. Surely if someone challenges your ideas, then the aim of the game is to prove that you are right and they are wrong.

  “Well,” he says casually, “there’s nothing wrong with a bit of nonsense now and then. I reckon we all need a bit of nonsense in our lives from time to time, don’t you?”

  He looks at me with a slight smile, his chestnut eyes twinkling playfully in the bright sunlight. Of course we don’t need nonsense in our lives, I think. What would be the point in that? He is being ridiculous. And yet for some reason I find that I am the one who is blushing!

  “The whole garden’s in chaos,” I tell him quickly. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time worrying about one tree. I’m sure my mother isn’t bothered about a few measly apples.”

  “Measly!” he exclaims in mock outrage. “How can you say that? Apples are never measly.”

  He gently twists off one of the small green apples hanging from the branch of a nearby tree and holds it up, watching the sunlight glisten on its waxy skin.

  “Look at that,” he says in the way that anyone else might marvel over an original Monet. “Perfect.”

  He holds it out to me in his grubby palm and I take it reluctantly, looking at it with contempt.

  “People have journeyed far and wide for ‘a few measly apples,’ as you call them,” he says. “Just look at Hercules.”

  “I’m not interested in comic books,” I tell him.

  For some reason he seems to find this comment amusing. In fact, he actually laughs. I have no idea what I might have said that’s so funny, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people laughing at me. Particularly when I don’t even know why.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, annoyed.

  “It’s not a comic book,” he explains. “Hercules was a divine hero from Greek mythology who was given twelve labors, and his eleventh labor was to fetch some apples that grew in a walled garden in a far western land.”

  He watches my face for a sign of recognition as if I should know what he’s talking about. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and look bored to show that these silly stories are beneath me. I am hardly going to feel embarrassed that I don’t know about some fairy tale. In fact, I see my lack of knowledge in these areas as a sign of superior intellect, evidence that I have had far more important things to be thinking about. Anyone who knows fairy tales by heart has clearly had a wasted youth.

  The gardener strokes the sickly looking branches of the timid tree and continues his story, although I’m not entirely sure if he’s telling it for my benefit or talking to the tree again.

  “Hercules was given a test to fetch some apples that grew in a walled garden in a far western land. On his way, he came across Prometheus, who had been chained to a rock by the god Zeus as punishment for giving fire to man. Every single day an eagle would come and eat Prometheus’s liver, which would then grow in the night only to be eaten again the next day. Hercules was appalled by such suffering, so he fired an arrow at the eagle, killing it, and released Prometheus from his chains. Prometheus was eternally grateful, and he warned Hercules to be careful in his quest to fetch the apples. Any mortal man who entered the walled garden, he said, would certainly be killed by the dragon who lived inside. He advised Hercules to ask Atlas to enter the garden on his behalf, as Atlas was immortal and so could fetch the apples without fear of death.

  “After a hard trek through the mountains, Hercules finally reached the walled garden. Outside he found Atlas, who was holding the heavens on his shoulders as punishment for waging war against Zeus.

  “‘If you go into the garden and fetch the apples for me,’ Hercules told him, ‘then I’ll hold the weight of the heavens on my shoulders for you while you go inside.’

  “Atlas liked the idea of handing over the weight of the heavens for a while, so he agreed. He handed the heavens over to Hercules before going into the walled garden, where he fought the dragon and fetched the apples. But when he came back and saw Hercules struggling to hold up the heavens, he realized he would be mad to take that burden back.

  “‘You can keep the heavens,’ he told Hercules, ‘and I’ll keep the apples.’

  “Hercules had to think quickly. He pretended to agree to the deal and promised Atlas that if he would just take the heavens back for a minute while he went and got a pillow to make himself comfortable, then he would come straight back and take the weight of the heavens forevermore. Atlas, trusting that Hercules was good to his word, agreed to take the heavens back for a moment, but as soon as he did, Hercules grabbed the apples and ran away, leaving Atlas cursing after him.”

  The gardener strokes the tree dreamily, seemingly lost in thought. I watch him closely, registering the faraway look in his eyes, and briefly wonder what it must be like to indulge one’s imagination to such an extent you are no longer conscious of the present moment. What must it be like to get lost without the fear of never being able to find your way back? To float without the anxiety of falling? Just for a second I feel the tiniest pang of something like envy. And then I wonder how, and why, people allow themselves to do it.

  The gardener turns to me and smiles, back from his reverie, and I look away quickly.


  “That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard,” I tell him.

  He shrugs, as if being called ridiculous is no big deal, as if it doesn’t even matter to him that I find him absurd.

  “It just shows what some people will do for a few measly apples,” he says.

  “It doesn’t show anything. In fact, it doesn’t even make sense. There are so many inconsistencies. For a start, there’s no evidence for the existence of gods. Or dragons. And even if you believed that heaven existed—which I don’t—it certainly wouldn’t exist in a tangible form that could be held on one’s shoulders. Plus, nobody’s liver regrows overnight. It’s anatomically impossible. In fact, that Prometheus fellow would have died the first time the eagle came and attacked his liver, and if he hadn’t died, he would certainly have been in need of urgent medical attention. Hercules should have been fetching the paramedics instead of worrying about a load of old apples.”

  The gardener is smiling, clearly finding something amusing. His eyes flit curiously across my face, as if he’s trying to figure me out.

  “You’re right,” he says, with mock approval, “those are all very sensible points. I guess whoever came up with that story hadn’t really thought things through.”

  “People who find pleasure in such stories rarely do think things through,” I tell him.

  “It wouldn’t make much of a story, though, would it, if you took out the gods and the dragon and the eagle and heaven? You’d really just be left with a bloke going out to pick some apples and then going home again.”

  “Well, what would be wrong with that?” I ask, not seeing the problem. “If people feel the need to tell these stories, then the least they can do is make them reflect real life.”

  The gardener frowns as if I’ve missed the point. “But stories are meant to take you away from real life. To help you escape from reality.”

  “Why would you want to escape from reality?” I ask him, feeling myself becoming annoyed.

  The gardener scratches his head. “Well, because life can be tough. Sometimes it’s good to escape, to just let yourself get lost in your imagination—”

  “Yes, you could get lost,” I tell him, adamantly. “That’s exactly what could happen. Lost and not able to find your way back.” I can feel my heart starting to beat faster, my voice becoming louder.

  The gardener looks a little wary, and I sense this is not quite the reaction his story was meant to evoke.

  “I’m not sure indulging in a bit of fantasy now and again can do much harm,” he says.

  I can feel anger welling up in my chest. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! If he thinks a little fantasy can’t do any harm, that it’s simple enjoyment, then he should try living my life for a day! If he thinks you can’t get lost somewhere between reality and fiction, then he should try living with my mother! But what’s the point in telling him? How could I expect a man who talks to trees to possibly understand? He’s already well on the wrong side of the breach between sanity and madness. I’m not going to waste any more of my time trying to make him see sense. I push the apple back into his hand.

  “Keep it,” I say rather haughtily. “I don’t want it.”

  He turns the apple over in his hand, clearly baffled by my abruptness, and I turn, furious at his ignorance, ready to stomp my way out of the orchard.

  Instead, I immediately fall over and end up lying facedown between the trunks of two trees, having completely forgotten about the netting tied around my feet.

  “Are you—”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I say before he even has time to approach me.

  In frustration and embarrassment, I tear angrily at the netting, which rips loudly. I manage to free one leg so that the wad of netting is now only wrapped around one foot, where it remains stuck. Lifting myself off the ground, I dust myself off, hold my head high, and make my exit from the orchard as if sporting a trendy new fashion accessory.

  ***

  “He’s an absolute idiot,” I tell Mark when he arrives that evening. “I mean, who in their right mind talks to trees? And then he started telling me some fairy story about apples and dragons and who knows what else!”

  “He sounds like a complete fool. And how much is your mother paying him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Too much. And he doesn’t seem to actually be doing anything of any use. Apparently he just knocked on the door looking for work. He probably doesn’t know anything about gardening. Probably just some traveler from that site near the A10. He could be a criminal, for all we know!”

  Mark uncorks the expensive wine he has brought and places the bottle on the kitchen table, while I slam knives and forks down into wonky place settings. Mark follows me around, straightening them.

  “Well, you did say you wanted your mother to get a gardener.”

  “Not this one.”

  He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me toward him.

  “Forget him. How are you doing?”

  I sigh and let myself fall against Mark’s broad chest. I feel so safe in his arms, so protected, although of course I would never want him to know that. I barely like to admit it to myself. At twenty-one years old, I shouldn’t need anyone to protect me. I don’t need anyone to protect me. It’s just that sometimes…

  “I’m doing fine,” I tell him, pulling myself up straight.

  He smiles proudly. “Of course you are,” he says, patting my back heartily. “You’re the most capable girl I know.”

  A thought enters uninvited into my mind: And what if I weren’t capable? What if I fell apart at the seams? Would you still want to be with me? I push the thought out of my head, wondering where it came from.

  “Mark! Lovely to see you!”

  My mother enters the kitchen, drying her hair with a pink towel. Since Mark arrived she has been upstairs taking a very, very long bath. Although she insists otherwise, I have always had the impression that she isn’t hugely fond of Mark, not in the all-embracing future-son-in-law way that I would like. I don’t understand it. He’s clever, tall, handsome, and from a good (fairly wealthy) family. What else could she want for me?

  “You look wonderful!” she beams, drawing him in for a kiss.

  “So do you,” he says unconvincingly, barely making an effort to disguise his shock at her altered appearance. He quickly draws away from her embrace, looking uncomfortable and slightly fearful. Mark has never been good with illness. It is linked in his mind with weakness, which is something he can’t abide. I admire him for the importance he places on strength and resilience and like to think they are values we share, but he could be a bit more tactful.

  “The flowers are for you,” he says, pointing at some beautiful, delicate white lilies he has neatly arranged in a glass vase on her behalf.

  “Oh, lovely!” she says, although I know she’s not a fan of lilies. “It’s so nice of you to bring Meggy’s things down, although I can’t understand why she needs quite so much. She’s only extended her stay for a week, after all.”

  As she opens the oven door, flaps at the smoke with her towel, and examines the roast chicken, I feel Mark glaring at me. I refuse to meet his eye. I have not, as he insisted, managed to confront my mother’s delusion. It has not occurred to her that I won’t be going back to Leeds, given that in her eyes everything here is just hunky-dory. I know Mark thinks I should force her to face reality, but he doesn’t understand how hard it is. Still, I sense his disappointment in me.

  “Lay another table place, won’t you, Meg?” my mother asks, prodding the chicken with a fork. “Ewan’s joining us for dinner.”

  “The gardener! Why?”

  “Because he’s been working hard all day, and I insisted he should stay for a meal, that’s why. And he does have a name, you know. He wasn’t christened The Gardener.”

  “But we don’t invite people for din
ner. We never have.”

  “Well,” she says, shoving the chicken back in the oven and slamming the door, “it’s about time we started, isn’t it?”

  ***

  I don’t know what makes me feel more uncomfortable, the fact that my mother gets on so fantastically well with the gardener, or the fact that Mark so blatantly hates him. Having asked the gardener to remove his boots at the back door, Mark then made no effort to disguise his horror at the state of the man’s tatty socks, or the mud under his fingernails, or the rip in his faded T-shirt. There is something about Mark’s manner that makes me feel uncomfortable. Yes, the gardener is scruffy, a daydreamer, naïve, and no doubt extremely uneducated, but I would never intentionally make anyone feel inferior. I would never try to make myself feel better by asserting my intellectual superiority. Would I? No, I’m sure I would never do that.

  To be fair, the gardener is surprisingly polite, and for most of our meal, Mark and I appear to be superfluous. My mother is fascinated by his accounts of growing fruit and vegetables, and unless he is a very good actor, he is fascinated by my mother’s accounts of cooking them.

  “I never use chemical pesticides,” he tells her, chewing on a mouthful of roast potato.

  “I completely agree!” she exclaims, banging her wine glass down on the old oak table and sloshing wine over the rim. She is rosy-cheeked and louder than usual. Definitely tipsy. “But how do you keep slugs off your lettuce without pesticide? I’ve tried the trick with egg shells, but it can be a bit hiss and mit.”

  Past tipsy, in fact.

  “Slugs respond well to honest explanations,” the gardener tells her. “They have soft hearts and soft brains. They don’t mean to do any harm; they just don’t realize they’re intruding on your turf.”

  My mother nods understandingly, as if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. “I see.”

  Mark and I exchange looks of indignation.