From the Kitchen of Half Truth Read online

  “You can’t seriously believe that!” scoffs Mark.

  The gardener shrugs. “Sure. Just tell them you don’t want them around, that they’re your lettuce plants and you don’t appreciate other creatures eating them. Don’t get into any legal stuff about property boundaries, though; that just confuses them.”

  He looks Mark square in the eye, perfectly at ease. Mark, in turn, eyes him suspiciously, trying to work out if he’s joking or not. Slowly, a smile spreads across the gardener’s face.

  “Oh, I see. You’re kidding,” says Mark, clearly not amused.

  But the gardener shakes his head.

  I have no idea if he’s serious or not, and neither does Mark. The difference is that I’m not bothered, whereas Mark takes it as a personal insult if people manage to confuse him.

  “I’m surprised you have any time for chatting with slugs,” says Mark snidely. “Aren’t you too busy talking to apple trees?”

  I think the wine may also be going to Mark’s head. Until now he has managed to bite his tongue, contenting himself with quiet sniggers and scornful glances. He made no comment when the gardener suggested that envy can be cured with a mixture of lavender and lemon balm, or that native Indian chants encourage rain, or that spitting on a cabbage patch can rid it of ladybugs. But he has no patience with people who spout mumbo-jumbo.

  “You can talk to trees, Ewan?” asks my mother, slouching on the table, leaning close to him. “How fascinating.”

  “It’s not fascinating; it’s crazy!” Mark protests.

  “That depends on how you see it,” says the gardener.

  “I see it from the point of view of a sane person,” Mark says with a laugh, leaning back in his chair.

  “I’d like to talk to trees,” muses my mother dreamily.

  “You should,” the gardener tells her. “They like it. It helps them grow.”

  “No, Mother, you shouldn’t,” I say, angry about the suggestion. The last thing she needs is encouragement to act strangely.

  “But, darling, if they like it and it helps them grow—”

  “There is absolutely no scientific reason why trees should grow better just because you’re nice to them,” says Mark, interrupting.

  “Actually,” says the gardener, scratching at his stubble with jagged, grubby fingernails, “there’s been quite a few studies showing that plants respond to human emotion. Cleve Baxter’s report—‘Evidence of a Primary Perception in Plant Life’—is probably one of the most famous. You should read it. He tested his plants on a polygraph machine and found that they react to thoughts and threats. And over a thousand different species of plants have been shown to be sensitive to human touch. Darwin started the ball rolling by suggesting that plants possess a central nervous system, based on his observations of the Dionaea muscipula. That’s the Venus flytrap, by the way.”

  Mark and I stare at him, speechless.

  “I might sometimes have my head in the clouds,” he says, looking straight at me, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my feet on the ground.”

  I feel my face flush and look down at my plate. Mark, clearly annoyed at being shown up by the gardener’s knowledge, takes a swig of wine.

  “Isn’t it fascinating?” says my mother sweetly, entirely unaware that anything is amiss. “So what made you become a gardener, Ewan? You’re clearly a natural. Is your father a keen gardener?”

  “Nah, Dad’s not really one for gardening. He probably did inspire my love of being outdoors, though. Rocks are his thing. He often used to take me with him on his research expeditions, gathering rock samples, putting them in little bags, labeling them, taking them back and referencing them.”

  “Your father’s a scientist?” I ask, a forkful of chicken halfway to my lips.

  Ewan takes a sip of wine and gives me a wry little smile. “You sound surprised.”

  “Er…no, I just didn’t…I…

  “Well, I suppose geology is a type of science,” mutters Mark.

  While I hadn’t expected the gardener to come from scientific stock at all (couldn’t his father have talked some sense into him?), I really don’t feel the need to undermine his father’s choice of discipline by suggesting that it’s one of the lower forms of scientific study, which I know Mark is trying to imply.

  “And what about your mother?” I ask quickly, more to interrupt Mark’s line of questioning than out of genuine interest.

  “My mum? She does a lot of acting. She loves the stage.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” shouts my mother, grabbing Ewan’s arm. “An actress! I love a good show. Meg used to adore the theater, didn’t you, darling?”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Do you remember we went to see that one, Meg, with the lion and the witch? And there was a big wardrobe in it. What was it called?”

  “Romeo and Juliet?” suggests the gardener.

  My mother looks thoughtful for a moment, and in spite of myself, I almost laugh.

  “Oh!” shrieks my mother, suddenly realizing the gardener is pulling her leg. She slaps him playfully on the arm, and the gardener gives a little chuckle while my mother hoots with laughter at her own foolishness.

  Mark coughs and shoots me a look that suggests I should try harder not to encourage such idiocy. I try to suppress my smile, busying myself by neatly folding my napkin.

  “Would you like some fruit salad, Ewan?” asks my mother once she has composed herself.

  “No, thanks,” he says, standing up and patting his stomach. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a bit of work to finish in the garden before it gets too late.”

  “Oh, no, you’ve worked so hard all day!”

  “Please,” he says, raising his hands in protest, “I don’t like to leave jobs half done. I’ll let myself out the back gate when I’m finished. Thanks a lot for dinner. It was fantastic.”

  By the back door he pulls his muddy boots on and thanks my mother again before heading back out into the garden.

  “Well, wasn’t that lovely!” she says, beaming.

  Mark and I sit in silence.

  My mother finally senses the tension and her smile fades. “Well, perhaps I’ll go and lie down for a while,” she says awkwardly, disappearing out of the room.

  I start to gather up the plates and run a sink full of water. Mark sits silently at the table, sipping his wine and nursing his bruised pride, before suddenly announcing, “I’ve never heard of this Baxter experiment, have you? I’ll look into it. Probably not a scientifically conclusive study. I’ll contact John Stokes at the university; he’ll know. Who is Baxter anyway? Not a name I’ve heard of.”

  I am barely listening. Instead, through the open kitchen window, I am watching the gardener digging in the dirt, pulling up weeds, and chucking them in a pile on the grass. The sun is just starting to go down, giving a golden glow to the sun-kissed skin of his sinewy forearms. I see him pick up a frog from among the beanpoles, hold it in the palm of his hand, and begin talking to it. He points at the garden gate, as if giving the frog directions, then sets the little creature gently down on the grass. It hops away and the gardener resumes digging, trusting that the frog will find its own way out of the garden. A crazy image pops into my mind of the frog packing up his little bag and shouting to all the other frogs that the gardener has politely requested they find somewhere else to hang out in the future. The other frogs would all shrug, I suppose, and off they would hop, too.

  “Meg?”

  I suddenly realize I haven’t been listening to a word Mark has been saying and that soapsuds are about to spill over the rim of the sink. I quickly turn the taps off, trying to remember how much wine I drank at dinner.

  “Sorry?”

  “He’s clearly a complete lunatic, isn’t he? That gardener bloke?”

  Gazing out into the garden again, I just catch a glimpse of
the little green frog as it hops out through the open garden gate as directed.

  I rub my forehead with wet, soapy hands, suddenly feeling a headache coming on.

  “Oh, yes,” I agree dutifully, “of course he is.”

  chapter six

  “What keeps the clouds up?” I asked you one day.

  “The sky, silly,” you told me.

  We were lying on our backs in our local park, side by side, finding patterns in the clouds. I remember pointing at one that looked just like a rabbit, although you insisted it was a birthday cake and that the rabbit’s ears were candles. Everything always looked like food to you.

  “Then what keeps the sky up?” I asked.

  You were quiet for a moment. “Air,” you said eventually, “like a soufflé.”

  “A soufflé?”

  “Yes, a soufflé. Place your hand in front of your mouth and breathe on it, like this.”

  You breathed into the cupped palm of your hand and I copied you.

  “You feel how warm your breath is? Well, with all the people in the world breathing at once, that makes a lot of warm air. And you know how warm air makes a soufflé rise?”

  I nodded solemnly, pretending to know.

  “Well, all the warm air from people breathing makes the sky rise in the same way.”

  I was young, too young to question you. You could have told me the sky was held up with safety pins, and I would have believed you. I believed everything you told me.

  “What would happen if everyone stopped breathing?” I asked.

  “I don’t think that would happen, sweetheart.”

  “But what if it did? What if just for a second we all stopped breathing at once? Would the sky fall down?”

  “I suppose it might.”

  “Then what would happen? Would we all get squashed? Would I get squashed like that ladybug when I dropped my book on it by mistake?”

  “No, I wouldn’t let you get squashed. I’d gather you up in my arms and run to the edge of the earth, and then I’d jump off the earth and out of the way of the falling sky.”

  “Would we make it in time?”

  “Of course. The sky would fall very slowly, like a soufflé when you stick your fork in it and all the air goes out. Plus, I’m a very fast runner.”

  “You’re not that fast,” I said. “I’m faster than you. And anyway, what if you weren’t there with me? What would happen to me then?”

  You rolled over onto your side to face me and tickled my chin with a daisy.

  “I’ll always be there with you, silly,” you said.

  And like always, I believed you.

  ***

  “The thing that attracted me to condensed-matter physics,” Mark is telling my mother, “is that it’s about the stuff that surrounds us every day. It’s not about dealing with the very tiny, like particle theory, or the very large, like astrophysics or cosmology, but about all the stuff that comes in between. The good old, everyday, run-of-the-mill stuff.”

  “Well, that sounds fascinating.” My mother smiles halfheartedly, tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “Ah, good morning, darling!”

  She looks relieved to see me as I join them at the kitchen table.

  “Mark’s just been telling me all about quantum conductivity and super mechanics.”

  “Quantum mechanics and superconductivity,” he corrects her.

  She laughs nervously. “Silly me! I’m not very good at all this science stuff, am I, Meggy? I never understand when Meg’s telling me about human gnomes.”

  “Human genomes, Mother, not human gnomes.”

  “I take it Meg didn’t get her scientific mind from you, then, Mrs. May?” Mark asks my mother. He says it with a charming smile, but I know he finds her lack of scientific knowledge frustrating. “How can people not be interested in the world around them?” he is always asking me, indignant. He can’t comprehend anyone who cannot grasp the complexities of physics as easily as he can.

  “Oh, goodness, no, she didn’t get it from me,” says my mother, absentmindedly adding sugar to her coffee. “Science was her father’s thing.”

  I stop pouring orange juice and hold the carton in midair, suspended over my glass.

  “My father liked science?” I ask, astonished at this revelation. “You said he was a chef.”

  My mother starts spreading butter onto her croissant with such ferocity that half of it breaks off and flies across the table, landing on Mark’s lap.

  “There is a scientific element to being a chef you know, darling,” she says hurriedly. “Weighing things. Mixing them together. Ovens. Ovens are scientific, aren’t they? All those metal bits and electricity and stuff. Who would like some toast? Coffee? I’ll make a fresh pot.”

  She stands up quickly, taking the coffee pot with her. Mark places the piece of croissant back on her plate and raises his eyebrows at me, inquiringly.

  I have told Mark very little about my father, other than the fact that he is a deceased pastry chef. I have failed to tell him that this is practically all I know. Mark’s family is so perfect that I’m sure he would find my ignorance about my own father shocking and confusing. He would tell me to demand details, access to family connections—where, when, who, why. “It’s your right,” he would tell me. But he doesn’t understand how hard it can be, making sense of my world. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to come up against one brick wall after the other, to live in the murky gray somewhere between black and white.

  “Well, wherever she gets her brains from, Meg will certainly be a great scientist,” says Mark, stroking the back of my head affectionately.

  He smiles proudly at me, and I feel my heart flutter, just like it always does when I win his approval. I have sat in on a couple of the lectures Mark has given at the university, discussing the findings of his research, and I have seen how the female students gaze at him as if he is the source of all knowledge, the oracle. I have seen the way their hands shoot up when he asks a question, desperate for his attention, dying to impress him with their intelligence. But I am the one he has chosen. I am the one whose mind has impressed him and continues to do so day after day. This is the ultimate commendation. With Mark I know I am smart enough, bright enough, good enough. There is no way any girlfriend of Mark Daly—soon to be Dr. Mark Daly—could ever be considered laughable.

  “She’ll be wonderful at whatever she does,” agrees my mother, pouring hot water into the coffee pot. “She has so many skills. She used to love writing and painting, you know. And craft work and acting—”

  “I was dreadful at all those things!” I scoff, knowing Mark has very little time for the arts. “I was terrible at anything that involved any sort of creativity at all.”

  “Only once you stopped trying. When you were very little you used to adore dressing up and playing at make-believe. Don’t you remember?” She sits down at the table again, smiling at the memories that are flooding back to her. “You used to dress up in green tights and my frilly red blouse and pretend you were a rose. You looked so pretty!”

  I frown at her, a warning to be quiet. I don’t want Mark thinking I was some sort of idiot child, the sort who have imaginary friends and believe the bogeyman lives under their bed.

  “I must have looked ridiculous,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t have encouraged me.”

  “One Christmas, you knocked on every door in our block dressed as Santa Claus and told all our neighbors that you’d come from Bethlehem to find the baby Jesus.”

  “I was obviously confused. You shouldn’t have let me wander around on my own like that talking such rubbish.”

  “I didn’t even notice you’d gone until old Mr. Ginsberg brought you back by the hand. Oh, poor Mr. Ginsberg! One day you startled the life out of him by dressing up in my big, brown woolly sweater and growling at him as he stepped out of the elevator. Apparent
ly he thought you were a bear, although I’m not sure why he thought a bear would be wandering around on the fourth floor!”

  Suddenly I can’t help myself. I clamp my hand over my mouth and let out a loud snort as I try to suppress my giggles.

  “Oh, you do remember, don’t you?” laughs my mother, grabbing my arm.

  I nod and cover my face with my hands as tears of laughter spring to my eyes. I have vague memories of that itchy brown sweater pulled up over my head and Mr. Ginsberg’s look of terror as I pounced at him. I peek through my fingers at Mark, who isn’t laughing at all.

  “You could have given the poor man a heart attack,” he says seriously.

  I bite my lip hard. “It was very silly. I was only little, though. And it was funny.”

  “It wouldn’t have been funny if the poor man had dropped down dead. Over two hundred and thirty thousand British people die of heart attacks every year,” he informs me.

  I compose myself and nod seriously. “You’re right. It wouldn’t have been funny at all if I’d killed him.”

  My mother stops laughing and takes a sip of her coffee. Mark takes a bite of his croissant and chews slowly while I fold my napkin into little squares.

  “Anyway,” says my mother, “you suddenly lost interest in anything creative. Just like that. One day you came home from school, put all your toys in a box, and declared it was time to grow up.” She shakes her head and smiles wistfully. “You must have been all of eight years old. I really don’t know what happened.”

  I gaze into my coffee, suddenly feeling rather sad. Eight years old sounds so young to want to grow up, to want to put aside the magic of childhood.

  “Waste of time, the arts,” declares Mark.

  I see my mother’s lips tighten. She loves art, music, theater, poetry. She says they “take her out of herself,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  “Oh, I don’t think they’re a waste of time,” she says with a polite smile.

  “No artist is ever going to find a cure for cancer, and no actor is ever going to discover the secrets of the universe. Meg, on the other hand, is going to be able to make a real difference to the world.”