The Storyteller's Daughter (24 page)

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 response 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.”

Protect you? Leave the past behind? What on earth is going on? I rub my forehead, not knowing where to start.

“I know this must be strange for you,” I say, “my phoning you out of the blue like this. It's just, my mother hasn't told me very much about my life around that time. And what she has told me, well, let's just say it's very unlikely to be the truth. And now I've started to find things out from other people, bits of information that simply don't make sense to me, and I didn't even know until last week that I had a stepfather, someone called Robert, and now you're telling me I lived in Brighton which I never knew… and… and someone else said my grandparents had thrown us out… and then it turns out we lived with a rock band and… and to be honest, I'm just really confused.”

There is a long silence, during which time I notice my hands are shaking. I clench my fists, trying to stop them, telling myself to get a grip.

“You mean Val hasn't told you anything?” says Gwennie, astonished.

I shake my head, which is not much use on the phone, but I am afraid that if I speak my voice will crack with emotion, and the last thing I need is some stranger thinking I'm a complete basket case.

“Can't you ask her?” says Gwennie.

I feel anger rising in my chest and I have to suppress the urge to shout
Now, why didn't I think of that!

“She's not exactly forthcoming,” I say, as calmly as possible.

“Gosh,” Gwennie says, and for a moment I can tell that she was married to Bomber, or Timothy, or whatever he calls himself. “Gosh, Meg, look, I'm not sure it's my place to go interfering. I'm sure Val – I mean, your mother – has her reasons for keeping certain things from you – ”

“I'm twenty-one!” I suddenly cry, and then, ashamed of myself for letting my emotions get out of control, I repeat more quietly, “I'm twenty-one. And I have a big gap in my life that no-one seems able, or willing, to tell me about. Please, if you can help me then please… ”

I can hear Gwennie's jagged breathing down the phone, and I can tell I am not the only one shaking. I have startled her, phoning her out of the blue like this, putting this pressure on her.

“Your ex-husband said you were the one who found me,” I tell her, calmly. “What did he mean by that?”

I can almost hear Gwennie's mind entering into a state of panic, wondering what she should and should not say.

“Meg, I don't think it's my place… you need to speak to your mother about – ”

“Then just tell me this,” I ask quickly, a lump suddenly rising in my throat, “am I hers?”

The question is out before I know it, and for a moment I have no idea where it came from, but as I hear my voice trembling I realise that this, this question, this is one of the many reasons why I have been unable to make this phone call.
She was the one who
found you.
Ever since Timothy said those words a thought has been playing at the back of my mind that I have not even allowed myself to acknowledge, that I have not even allowed myself to entertain. But it has been there, I see that now. I feel it in the shaking of my hands and the lump in my throat.
She was the one who found you.
What else could it mean?

Am I even her daughter?

Gwennie gives a short, shocked laugh. “Of course you're hers! Gosh… of course you are!”

Every muscle in my body relaxes slightly, but for some reason the lump in my throat just lodges itself harder and I feel even more like crying than I did a second ago. Pull yourself together Meg May! I tell myself, pinching my arm. Stop being such a fool!

“My mother's sick,” I tell Gwennie, “she's very sick.”

There is a long pause before Gwennie asks, “How sick?”

I can't say it. I just can't. I open my mouth but the words won't come out. I hear my own shaky breathing down the telephone line.

“How long does she have?” asks Gwennie, doing the work for me.

“Not that long,” I tell her, rubbing at the ache that rises beneath my rib cage. Is that the first time I have ever said it? Is that the first time I have let myself speak those words? It might be. Or it might not. How would I know? However many times I said it, it would always hurt the same.

“Oh,” breathes Gwennie, the air going out of her, “oh, I see. Gosh.”

“I'm worried I'm never going to know the truth,” I tell her, “and that nothing will ever be reconciled between us. It shouldn't be like this, it shouldn't have to end in a pack of lies. Whatever happened, I need to know, because she's not just my mother, she's my best friend, and if it wasn't for this… this gap, these lies, then the time we've had together would be perfect. And that's how it should end. Perfectly. Not like this. Not without any understanding or any closure. Not all in a mess.”

There is a long silence, during which time I think I can hear Gwennie crying quietly.

“She was my best friend, too,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

I don't know what to say. I've never known my mother to have any friends. None other than me, that is.

“She's a wonderful mother,” I tell her, sadly, as if this information sums up everything that Gwennie has missed in the last sixteen years.

“I know she is,” sniffs Gwennie. “I always knew she would be.”

It is silent for a long time. I look down from my bedroom window, holding the phone to my ear, watching my mother picking flowers from the garden border, assuming she is gathering a little bouquet for the kitchen table. But instead, she carries the flowers over to the compost heap. They are no good. It is too late for flowers now. From up here I can see that the array of colours that filled the garden has dwindled and faded without my ever noticing, and the flowers that remain are wilting, clinging to their last breath of life.

“Please help me,” I beg Gwennie.

Gwennie lets out a heavy sigh, clearly burdened by this decision. “Where are you living now?”

She is surprised to hear my mother is back where she started, in the house where she grew up, and even more surprised to realise that all this time the three of us have been so close.

“I'm just outside Cambridge,” she says, “isn't it funny how people go back to their roots?”