The Storyteller's Daughter (13 page)

“I'm sure I can make her change her mind.”

“You seem to want to change a lot of things about her.”

I gawp at him. “How dare you judge me! You don't know anything about me,”

“Don't I?” He points to the upstairs window. “I know you were born upstairs in that room and caught in a frying pan.”

“I wasn't! I mean, I was… I might have been. I – ”

“You don't know?”

“Of course I know! It's just… it's complicated.”

“How can it be complicated? You either were or you weren't. It's extremely simple if you think about it.”

I stare at him, outraged. How dare he use my own words to mock me? How dare he try and show me up? I open my mouth ready to spit a sarcastic comment back at him, but I can't think of anything. Infuriated, I do the only thing I can think of.

“I'm sure you must be finished by now,” I tell him, taking a twenty pound note out of my pocket and chucking it on the grass by his feet. “Keep the change.”

I turn my back on him and stride back towards the house, fuming.

“Mother!”

I burst into the kitchen, all guns blazing, but she isn't there. Fuelled by the gardener's insolence I am determined to say my piece. How can I not even be sure where I was born? I don't even know if I was caught in a frying pan or not! I will not be a walking target for other people's ridicule. I will not be made to look stupid. Not again. Forget the flier. Forget the address. I shouldn't need to be scrabbling around after clues like Sherlock Holmes. I deserve to simply be told the truth! It's my right!

“Mother!”

She can't do this to me! Mark's right, it's not fair. I have a right to know the truth about who I am. And the gardener's wrong; life is not a patchwork of shifting shapes. There are truths and there are lies, and I need to know which is which.

I burst into the lounge.

“Oh my God!”

I fall on my knees next to where she lies unconscious by the fireplace, her right arm twisted beneath her. My shaking hands fumble to push her long hair away from her face. Her skin is white, as if all the blood has drained from her body, and her face feels cold.

“Mother? Can you hear me?”

In a blind panic I run to the kitchen door and scream at the top of my lungs:

“Help!”

He is standing exactly as I left him no more than two minutes ago, turning the twenty pound note over in his hand.

“It's my mother! Please come quickly!”

He starts to run towards the house. I rush back through to the lounge, and seconds later he is there, crouching by my side, listening to my mother's heart.

“Has this ever happened before?” he asks me.

“I don't know what happened. I came in and she was just lying here. What do we do?” I shout, my voice shrill. “I don't know what to do!”

“Does she have any medical conditions?”

“Oh, my God! What's wrong with her?”

“Meg, does she have any medical conditions?”

I look at him blankly, unable to understand anything he is saying to me, such is my state of panic. All I can think is that his boots are getting mud all over the rug. “I… what shall I do? Mother?”

“Where's the phone?”

“Is she going to be okay?”

He calmly puts his hands on my shoulders. “Where – is – the – phone?”

“What? I don't know! Why are you asking me? What shall we do?”

I cover my face with my hands, my head spinning. When I look up, the gardener has the phone in his hand.

“Ambulance please.”

I watch him as he gives our address, calmly and coherently. He explains how she was found unconscious only moment ago. No, he doesn't know if she has any medical conditions. No, he doesn't know if she's taken anything. I am frozen, unable to do or say anything of use. I can only watch as events unfold around me in slow motion and someone else – the last person I would have expected – steps up to the mark and takes control where I cannot.

“Has she been ill at all?” the gardener asks me.

He holds the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he clasps my mother's wrist, monitoring her pulse.

I swallow hard and nod. “She's dying.”

He stares at me, speechless. I can hear the voice of the telephone operator coming from the earpiece.

“Please come quickly,” he tells them.

Chapter 7

I try and imagine a world without you in it. A world where I have no-one to call when I can't remember the recipe for chicken soup; where no-one bakes my favourite chocolate cake on my birthday; where no-one rings me on a cold Winter's morning just to check I have warm socks on. Where I have no-one to tell me my hair needs cutting, or to stand up straight, or that I'm working too late into the night. A world where no-one worries if I don't eat my greens, or if I read in a dim light, or if I don't take a rain coat. A world where no-one says ‘do you remember when?' or ‘when you were little…

' I try, but I can't imagine it at all.

I can't imagine coming home to a house that doesn't smell of stews and buns and pies, where you're not there to greet me with your cheery sing-song voice and breathless tales of what you've baked and what you've burnt. I can't imagine not curling up with you on the sofa in front of the fire, opening Christmas presents and feigning surprise as we both unwrap the gifts we asked for. I can't imagine not finding a hot water bottle has been secretly placed beneath my duvet, or that you have videoed my favourite programmes, or that you have that sewed up a hole in my jumper without me even mentioning it was there. I can't imagine not seeing my face in yours, sharing the life we made, having you here with me.

And the times when I can, the pain is almost too much to bear. “It's all a lot of fuss about nothing,” I hear her tell Dr Bloomberg, “I just had a little too much sun, that's all. I'll be right as rain in half an hour.”

“Even so,” he replies, “I'd rather you just stayed in bed for the rest of the day.”

I hover on the landing outside her room, listening to their conversation. The stress of my mother's collapse has given me a headache, and my hands still feel shaky. I stuff them in the pockets of my jeans and chastise myself for having failed to take control.

“You really must take it easy, my Dear,” I hear the doctor say.

“I don't need to take it easy, Doctor, I'm perfectly alright. Meg's the one I'm worried about. She looks rather drained, don't you think? And she's delayed going back to university until next week, which isn't like her at all. I think she works too hard, you know. She's forever studying and to be honest – ” She lowers her voice to a loud whisper. “ – I wonder if it might be her way of avoiding something.”

I roll my eyes heavenwards. My poor mother, thinking that
I
am the one who is avoiding something! I wait to hear the doctor tell her she's wrong, that I'm perfectly fine, and that
she's
the one who needs to face the truth.

“You could be right,” he says.

My mouth falls open.

“It's not necessarily unhealthy though,” he continues, “it's just her way of coping. I wouldn't worry about it, although I suppose you might try talking to her.”

I shake my head in disbelief. The things he will agree with in order to keep my mother happy!

“It's rather difficult to talk to her about certain things,” my mother tells him, “she is of a very particular mind set.”

“Yes, she's a determined girl, alright. Stubborn baby as well, I seem to remember. Just would not grow if I recall correctly.”

Oh mother, I think, please don't remind the doctor about how he advised putting me in the airing cupboard. He will probably whisk you away and have you locked up in an asylum!

“Doctor, would you like another cup of tea?” I ask, swiftly entering the room.

They both turn towards me, guilty to have been caught red-handed discussing me behind my back. My mother's face is pale and tired gazing up at me from her pillow, and the doctor peers sheepishly over his glasses at me from a chair by the bed.

“Thank you,” mumbles Dr Bloomberg, heaving his heavy old body off the chair and gathering up his battered leather bag, “but I'm just off.” He pats my mother's hand. “I'll come and see you in a few days,” he says, smiling gently.

“Oh, don't bother yourself. I'll be alright, Doctor,” says my mother.

“Will she be alright?” I ask, as I reach the bottom of the stairs. Dr Bloomberg is descending slowly behind me, clinging to the banister and treating each step as if it is a dangerous obstacle. By the time he joins me at the bottom he is breathing heavily, and for a second it occurs to me that at least my mother will never have to grow old.

“She'll be fine for now,” he says, “but you did the right thing calling the ambulance immediately. Good job you're so level-headed.”

I bite my lip, ashamed. Do I tell him what a failure I was? How I couldn't even compose myself enough to remember the location of the telephone? Surely he would find me ridiculous. After all, this is a man whose job consists of dealing with emergencies, saving lives, making life or death decisions. Perhaps I blurt out the truth because I am having a moment of weakness, or perhaps I am looking for reassurance. Either way, my confession is out before I know it. “Actually, I wasn't very level headed at all. I panicked. I couldn't think straight. I'm usually very much in control, I don't know what happened. It wasn't me who called the ambulance,” I stare at my feet and shuffle awkwardly, “it was the gardener.” As soon as it's out I wish I hadn't said it. He probably thinks I'm completely incompetent.

Dr Bloomberg smiles sympathetically at me. “Sometimes we all need a little help, Meg”, he says, gently, “whatever form that help might come in.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and nod, feeling foolish.

“Give my regards to the gardener then,” he says, turning the doorknob, ready to leave.

“Ewan,” I say, quickly.

“I'm sorry?”

The name sounds strange on my tongue and I realise this may be the first time I have ever said it.

“Ewan,” I repeat. “His name is Ewan.”

Ewan may have been the one who saved the day, but I can't help feeling annoyed by his sudden disappearance shortly after the ambulance arrived. Admittedly, it hadn't taken long for my mother to regain consciousness, but the moment she did Ewan was gone, leaving me to contend with two paramedics, a disorientated mother and a phone call to Dr Bloomberg. Obviously his helpfulness only stretches so far.

I am therefore rather surprised when I walk into the kitchen to find him at the stove, boiling something in a steaming saucepan. It smells familiar, slightly herby, like something from my university halls.

“Are you cooking yourself Super Noodles?” I snap, annoyed by his audacity and still hurt by his abandonment.

He frowns at me over his shoulder. “Super what? No, I'm making herbal tea.”

“You're making herbal tea? Now? I don't know if you realise, but there's just been a rather distressing incident, so if you want a cup of tea – ”

“It's for your mother,” he interrupts, “I've been out gathering herbs from the garden. Everything's so overgrown though it took forever to find what I wanted.”

I peer suspiciously at the boiling yellow liquid in the saucepan. “What on earth is that?” I ask, thinking there is no way I am letting my mother drink some gypsy concoction full of leaves and twigs.

“Mint to ease her headache, marjoram and thyme to give her strength, and lemon balm to help her relax.”

I sniff it doubtfully.

“And before you say anything,” he adds, “no, this recipe has not been scientifically proven, and no, I don't have a PhD in the medicinal properties of plants.”

“I wasn't about to ask you either of those things,” I tell him defensively, wondering how he read my mind.

He pours the steaming liquid from the saucepan into a cup.

“You do know what you're doing though, don't you?” I ask, cautiously. “It won't hurt her, will it?”

He turns to me, his face serious with no trace of his usual cheeky smile. “Why don't you just stick to your science and leave me to mine?”

And before I have a chance to even argue with him, he has picked up the cup and walked out of the kitchen.

When I was little and I'd done something wrong, I'd go to the garden and pick my mother a bunch of flowers. I'd leave them on her bedside table in a jam jar, and not another word would be said about it. The awkward silence would be broken, the crime and punishment forgotten. The flowers I take her this evening, though, are not only to say sorry for snapping at her; they are for so many other things that I can't find the words to say.

Ewan is sitting on the chair by her bed in grubby frayed jeans and an old red tshirt that bears the slogan ‘Max Out'. I have no idea what it's supposed to mean. Outside the light is fading, casting a serene yellow glow into the bedroom. He has opened the window a little bit, just the way my mother likes it, and a cool breeze is blowing a ripple through the net curtain. I hover by the doorway, unseen by them both, and listen. Ewan is telling her a story, his voice deep and soothing.

“In the beginning there was only blackness, and because nobody could see anything everybody kept bumping into each other. So they said ‘What this world needs is some light.' Fox said that he knew some people on the other side of the world who had plenty of light, but they were too greedy to share it with anyone else.

‘I'll go and steal it and hide it under my bushy tail,' said Possum.

“So Possum trekked to the other side of the world and there he found the sun hanging in a tree. He picked out a tiny piece of light and hid it in his tail, but the light was hot and burned all the fur off, revealing him as a thief.