From the Kitchen of Half Truth (11 page)

“London stinks.”

Under the bus shelter, perched on cold plastic seats, we watched the fine drizzle coming down against the dirty gray buildings and waited for the number 192.

“Does it, sweetheart?” asked my mother distractedly, rummaging in her purse, checking that we had enough coins to actually get us wherever it was we were going. As far as I knew, she hadn't brought any Jamaica cake with her this time, which meant she wouldn't be able to bribe the bus driver into letting us stay on board for an extra couple of stops. Had we been going in the opposite direction, then two pieces of coconut ice would have sufficed, but for the driver of the 192, it was Jamaica cake or walk the final mile. He drove a hard bargain.

“All you can smell when you live in London are cars and buses.”

Right on cue, an old BMW with blacked-out windows drove past, its stereo booming, spraying muddy puddle water at our feet, and coughing a cloud of black smoke from its exhaust pipe. The smell of gasoline and oil made my stomach queasy.

“But that's not all London smells of, is it, darling?”

My mother clipped her purse shut, looking disappointed. It looked like we would be walking that final mile after all.

“There are lots of other wonderful smells, once you get past the stench of the traffic. Aren't there?”

She turned to me and I shrugged. I was into shrugging lately. Shrugging and looking miserable. It seemed to be what all the kids were doing.

“Close your eyes,” my mother said.

“Nooo,” I whined. My mother was always telling me to close my eyes for one reason or another. To imagine this. To visualize that. To remember the other.

“Go on. I'll do it with you.”

“No!” I exclaimed, shocked by her persistent ignorance. “The last time we did that someone stole our shopping bags.”

“All right, then, you do it first. And then I'll do it.”

She looked so enthusiastic that I sighed and gave in, just to keep her happy.

“Now breathe in deeply,” she said, “and tell me what you can smell.”

“Cars and buses,” I said, opening my eyes again.

“No, try harder,” my mother said, giving my knee a gentle slap. “Breathe in slowly and deeply. And forget about the cars and buses. Go past that to the smells that linger beneath.”

I did as I was told, inhaling slowly. “Trash bins,” I said.

“And?”

I shrugged. It didn't feel as good with your eyes closed. I guessed that half the fun of shrugging was seeing the look of suppressed frustration in the adult you were shrugging at.

“More trash bins.”

“And?”

“Dog poo.”

My mother tutted. “Is that all?” she asked, disappointed.

“Well, what else is there?” I asked, opening my eyes and looking around me. This was Tottenham, not the Bahamas. What was she expecting me to smell? Suntan lotion and salty sea air?

My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I can smell hot chips,” she said, “straight out of the fryer. And pieces of crispy chicken from Mr. Donos's shop.”

“That's right at the other end of the main street,” I protested.

“And I can smell the chili and ginger on the jerk chicken they cook at the Jamaican food stall. And cumin, turmeric, and curry leaves from the Raja Tandori.”

“That's two roads away.”

My mother took another deep breath. “And I can smell the buttery potatoes and cabbage from O'Connell's pub. And pastrami and salami from the Italian deli. Parma ham, warm ciabatta bread, and bolognese sauce…”

I could feel my mouth starting to water.

“Juicy meat from Kebab Hut, jalapeno peppers, and warm pita bread. And sweet-and-sour chicken from the Ming Che takeout. Pork balls and shrimp fried rice. Spare ribs in sticky hoisin sauce…”

By now we were both licking our lips, lost in fantasies of hot food on this cold and wet day. My mother inhaled deeply once more. “And there's fried bacon from Mrs. Brand's B&B. And hot soup from the Helping Hand soup kitchen. Potato and leek today, I think. Jam roly-poly and custard from Saint Mary's Primary School. Sizzling burgers and hot dogs from the football stadium. Fried onions, mustard, tomato sauce…”

Bahhhh!

We both jumped in our seats as a passing car blasted its horn, startling us out of our reverie. We looked at each other open-mouthed, our eyes wide with shock, my mother clutching her heart.

And then we both burst into laughter.

***

Today, standing outside King's Cross station, I breathe in deeply and try to identify the mouthwatering scents of London's multicultural cuisine. But all I can smell are cars and buses.

It feels strange to be back here after almost three years. Since I moved to Leeds and my mother moved to Cambridge, I've had no reason to come back to London. The traffic. The chaos. The noise. The crowds. The stink.

I smile to myself.

It feels good to be home.

I weave my way through the crowds inside the station. People with briefcases, suitcases, bags on wheels, carryalls, cat baskets. Everyone is on their way to somewhere.

Five minutes later, I am meandering down Gray's Inn Road, wondering whether I am doing the right thing. I feel slightly sick. Perhaps it's just those stomach-churning traffic fumes, but I don't think so. I think it's nerves. I tell myself to stop being so pathetic. The chances are that nothing will even come of this ridiculous little mission. I will probably find that the house I am looking for was converted into student digs or a B&B many years ago, and then I will simply get back on a train and be back in Cambridge by dinnertime. Or maybe the house never existed in the first place. My mother is always scribbling things down incorrectly. I've never even trusted her to take down a telephone number, because she always manages to get at least one digit wrong. In fact, there are so many reasons why it might be impossible for me to find this house that when I find myself standing right in front of it, less than ten minutes from exiting the station, I am not entirely sure what to do.

It's a narrow three-story house with a grubby white exterior, wedged between a dubious-looking liquor store and a Greek café. Five or six smelly trash bags are piled up on the pavement outside, flies buzzing around them in the afternoon sun. I look at the flier I am clutching, checking the address three, four, five times. Yes, this is definitely number 15. I should already be standing on the doorstep, banging the rusty knocker. So why am I hesitating?

What
if
this
is
it?
I think.
What
if
the
person
who
answers
the
door
is
a
long-lost relative? An aunt or an uncle I never knew I had? A cousin? What if it really is my father?
The minute I knock on that door my life could change forever. But that's exactly what I want. That's what I've always wanted.

Isn't it?

I hear my phone ringing inside my bag and rummage around trying to find it before voice mail kicks in. What if it's my mother? What if she's had another turn? What if it's the doctor saying she's collapsed? Perhaps I should just go home. Perhaps this just isn't the right time to be doing this.

But the name that flashes up isn't my mother or the doctor. It's Mark.

I hold the ringing phone in my hand, but I can't bring myself to answer it. I know that Mark would not be impressed by my hesitation. In my position, he would be banging on that door, running through a list of prepared questions with the owner, checking things off, interrogating, noting down clues, getting to the bottom of things. I hear Mark's words echoing in my mind.
You
need
to
do
something—anything—to bring this ridiculous situation to an end, Meg. And you need to do it now. Because soon—

“I know,” I hear myself say out loud. “Don't say it.”

***

The owner of the house balances a screaming baby on one hip and eyes me suspiciously.

“I don't really get what it is you want,” she shouts in an American accent over the noise of the bawling baby.

That
makes
two
of
us
, I think.

She must be wondering if I'm mentally unstable, turning up out of the blue, showing her a twenty-one-year-old scrap of paper with her address scrawled on it, asking her if she ever knew my mother or—seeing as she's barely any older than myself—whether her mother might have known my mother. Or her father, for that matter. Or anyone she's related to. Or maybe it was the person who lived here before her who knew my mother. Does she know who they were? Has she ever heard of Valerie May?

It turns out that all her family live in Texas and have never been to England (which seems to be the source of some anger), that she has lived in the house for six months and has no idea who previously lived here, and that Valerie May is not a name she has ever heard of, although she does think it's very pretty.

“Are you trying to track down your mother?” she asks, looking sorry for me.

“Oh, no, I live with my mother. I'm trying to find out if she once knew someone who lived in this house.”

“So can't you just ask her?”

“It's quite complicated.”

“Has she got memory loss?”

“Erm…something like that.”

“That's terrible,” she shouts, patting the baby's back quite hard. “My grandmother had that. She kept telling everyone she was a hula-dancing champion.”

I smile and give a little laugh to be polite. But then I think it might be impolite to laugh at her senile grandmother, so I stifle the laughter instead.

“Sounds like she was confused,” I comment, just to sound interested.

“Oh, no, she really was a hula-dancing champion. It was just the fact that she kept telling everyone that got annoying.”

The baby lets out an ear-piercing screech, but the woman seems unperturbed and just pats its back even harder.

“Oh! Is it your father you're trying to track down?” she shouts, her face suddenly lighting up as if she now understands the situation.

“Not really. Although that would be great. It's more…anyone really. Anyone who might know…anything.”

“Anyone who might know anything,” she repeats, looking confused.

This is ridiculous. I sound like a complete idiot.

“I'm not sure I can help you,” the woman shouts over the noise of the baby. I nod gratefully to communicate that I had already worked this out but that I am thankful for her patience anyway.

What do I do now? I wonder. It would seem logical to say thank you and walk away, leaving this poor woman to get on with her day. But instead I just stand there awkwardly.

So that's it. It's all over already. There was no one at this address who could tell me anything. I didn't find my father. Or anyone who could help me. I didn't find anything at all. No matter how many times I told myself this was probably a pointless exercise, no matter how much part of me wanted to give up before I had even started, for reasons I still don't fully understand, I realize now how much hope I had. Deep down I realize I really did believe this would lead me to some answers.

“Have you come far?” the woman asks, spying the sadness in my face.

“Cambridge.”

“Oh, wow! Where the university is, right? I've never been there. You've come such a long way!”

When I tell her Cambridge is only forty minutes on the train from the station at the end of her road, she doesn't believe me, so I end up getting my train timetable out and showing her. She still doesn't seem to believe me.

“I always forget what a tiny country this is!” she shouts.

She asks me about the university and the cathedral and the famous Crown Jewels. I tell her she's thinking of the Tower of London. It turns out she hasn't been there either.

“It's been so lovely to meet you,” she says ten minutes later, as if this has been a well-organized social occasion. “I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help.”

“It doesn't matter,” I say, and by this time I am so sick of listening to the baby screaming that I actually mean it. Any sadness about my failed quest for information has been put on hold, my main concern being to get away with my eardrums still intact. I am tempted to ask if there's something wrong with the child.

Just as I am descending the steps, the woman shouts, “You could try the landlord. Tony.”

I stop and look back at her.

“You rent?” I ask.

She pulls a rubber pacifier out of her pocket and puts it in the baby's mouth. Finally he is quiet.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, jigging the now-contented baby up and down. “It's not actually my house. Didn't I mention that?”

***

Sheltering from the noise of the traffic in the doorway of Chicken King, I dial the number for Tony the landlord. It's not an ideal place to make a phone call, with people going in and out, the smell of fried chicken sporadically wafting out the door, but I don't dare wait any longer, because I know exactly what will happen. I will start doubting myself again, telling myself there is no point to this, that it won't lead anywhere, that I should be at home. Or, alternatively, I will start getting overexcited, believing that it is the key to everything and that one single cell phone connection is all that is separating me from the long-awaited truth. I really have no idea why I have so many confusing feelings about this, and I'm getting increasingly annoyed with myself. It should be perfectly simple. I want some information. Tony the landlord might be able to give me that information. And in order to speak to Tony, I need to make this call.

“What now? I'm trying to take a shower!”