From the Kitchen of Half Truth (25 page)

But I always do. And slowly, without my even noticing, the agony turns to a pain that I can bear.

I receive letters from Gwennie, who is holidaying in the south of France. She tells me what a delight it has been to find me after all these years, and in page after page of scrawled notes she shares her fondest memories of her friendship with my mother. She offers up further snippets of information about my past, slowly and cautiously drip-feeding me the truth, some of which hurts and some of which helps. I learn, for example, that Robert Scott died some years ago, and this seems to help me lay the past to rest. Whether my mother knew of his death I can't be sure, but the fact that he died in a freak butchery accident involving a pork mincer makes me wonder.

I am grateful for Gwennie's honesty, but I don't ask her for information. There is always time, and besides, the truth doesn't seem so important as it once did. At the end of one of her letters, Gwennie invites me to stay with her for Christmas and to join her family at their home in Montpellier next summer. “Any daughter of Valerie's is a daughter of mine,” she writes before signing off, making me smile and cry at the same time.

In fact, the strange and subtle ways in which my mother touched the lives of others means I rarely feel alone. Dave, the plumber whose wife left him and whose kids survived on frozen additives until my mother stepped in, invites himself over to fix a problem with the water tank after spying a problem with my overflow pipe.

“Get away with yer!” he scoffs when I ask how much I owe him. “After what yer mum did for me, you'll be getting free plumbing for the rest of yer life, love! Cuppa tea wouldn't go amiss, mind.”

And so Dave becomes the first of our neighbors to ever be invited in for tea, followed by his cocky thirteen-going-on-thirty daughter, who I somehow end up agreeing to tutor in science on a Thursday after school. Underneath the makeup, bravado, and attitude, I see a girl who is insecure, lacking in confidence, and desperately trying to be someone she's not. There is definitely something about her that reminds me of myself, and oddly enough we strike up quite a friendship.

Beryl Lampard is my third guest, after she turns up on my doorstep with my mother's ceramic dish and a clump of knitting that she claims is a tea cozy.

“I made it for your mother, dearie,” she says, “but as I said before, I never had a chance to catch her. There should be a hole in it where the spout goes through, but I forgot to make one, so you might have to cut a hole in it yourself. Or I suppose you could wear it as a hat.”

I almost laugh, but it seems she is quite serious. Standing on my doorstep with her wig on back to front and earrings that don't match, she awaits my response to her suggestion.

“It seems a shame not to use it for its original purpose,” I say politely. “If you'd like to come in for a cup of tea, we could try it out.”

She beams at me, and I can't help but stare at her ill-fitting dentures, wondering if it would be too risky to offer her a biscuit.

It is through my conversation with Beryl that I learn Major William Jefferson Reece and I share a common interest in genetics, and so it is that the following week I find myself sitting in his front room surrounded by model tanks and airplanes while he shouts at me from his armchair and waves a newspaper article at me.

“A mouse with five legs! Bloody incredible! I want you to tell me how these scientists do it, young lady, because if there's something out there that can help me grow a new leg, I want some of it, I tell you! They gave me this metal one,” he says, banging his leg with a walking stick, “but it's not like having the real thing. What? No, not like a real leg. Now, with a new leg I could ask Beryl Lampard to go to the tea dance with me, what do you think? Don't look so surprised, my girl, there's life in this old dog yet!”

Although Major William Jefferson Reece was disappointed to learn that he cannot be genetically modified to grow a new leg, he did follow my suggestion that he should ask Beryl to go to the tea dance anyway. After all, I told him, a woman who wears her wig back to front is hardly going to notice that he has a limp. It warms my heart when I see them one day, tottering off down the street arm in arm, all done up to the nines, the major's blazer lapels covered in medals and Beryl in a smart coat wearing what appears to be a tea cozy on her head.

Love also blossoms for Dave the plumber, after he kindly drives me to St. Mary's Hospice to see the bench that has been dedicated to my mother. It's made of redwood and sits in the little rose garden there. It's a windy day when we go, and all the roses are dead, of course, but I can imagine it in the summer, full of color, and I think my mother would have loved it.

“She was such a generous lady, wasn't she, Alice?” says Margaret. “Always bringing cakes for the patients. Or lovely cookies.”

“Or little tarts, Margaret,” says Alice. “Don't forget those little tarts she used to bring. They always went down well.”

“The raspberry ones, were they?” pipes up Dave. “With crumbly pastry? They were bloody marvelous, they were. My favorite.”

“They were my favorite, too!” agrees Alice enthusiastically.

Dave smiles at her and she smiles back, blushing. Their eyes linger on each other just long enough to make Margaret and me exchange a knowing glance. The next thing I hear, they've been on a couple of dates and have decided to enroll in a cooking course together.

“In honor of yer mum!” winks Dave.

It seems that love and friendship are blossoming all over the street. Several more neighbors who were not at the funeral turn up on my doorstep, offering their condolences and sharing their own stories of how my mother fed and watered them, offering them nourishment in times of hardship and skulking off like a thief in the night before they could thank her, never wanting anything in return. Through each other we share information, put people in touch with one another, and learn about the previously secret lives of those around us. The quiet little street takes on a new sense of solidarity and community, with people chatting on the pavement, offering each other a helping hand, waving good morning as they pass by. And it is all because of my mother, I think, all because her generosity gave us something in common. It seems incredible that a woman who kept herself so isolated could have engendered such warmth and community spirit.

I am so very, very proud of her.

***

Ewan comes and goes, sometimes when I am out, so I don't even realize he has been until I notice that the fence has been fixed or that he has harvested some pumpkins and left them on the back porch. I give him a key to let himself in the back door to make a cup of coffee if I am not there, and it makes me smile when one day I return from the supermarket to find a Post-it stuck to a packet of Custard Creams on which he has scrawled,
What
were
you
thinking? Chocolate Hob-Nobs next time, please
. I take a fresh Post-it and write,
Only
when
you've eaten all of these, greedy guts
, before sticking it to the Custard Creams and placing them back in the cupboard. At the end of the month, I leave the money he is owed in an envelope on the kitchen table and am confused to find it still there later that day, even though he has clearly come and gone, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs in his wake. I turn the envelope over in my hand thoughtfully and make a mental note to tell him he is a scatterbrain.

One morning, I find myself watching him through the kitchen window as he rakes up the fallen leaves, gathering them up in his arms and dumping them in a pile on one of the barren vegetable patches. It is a cold, bright day, and he is wearing a T-shirt with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, the light glistening on his hair. His niece is with him, dressed in a pink scarf and sweater, and she is helping, clumsily gathering up leaves and transporting them from one place to another, dropping most of them as she goes. They are chatting and smiling, and I think of all the carefree autumn days I have ever spent with my mother, toasting marshmallows over a candle, baking hot apple pie, carving out pumpkins for Halloween. I grab a scarf and my mother's old oversized green sweater from a peg by the back door, and pulling them on, I rush outside to join in, eager to forget the sadness that weighs on my heart and to experience being carefree once again.

Digger rushes to greet me, wagging his tail, but the little girl stops what she is doing and looks terrified. The last time she saw me I was telling her off for playing so irresponsibly, ranting about the horrors of tornado damage and ridiculing her pretend wedding arrangements.

“Hello,” I say to her with a smile. “It's nice to see you again.” My voice sounds formal, as if I'm meeting a business acquaintance. I never have been very at ease with young children. “Do you want some help?” I ask her, trying to look friendly.

She stares at me, scared and resentful. Clearly the scary lady has spoiled the nice morning she was having with Uncle Ewan.

“Just grab some leaves,” says Ewan, continuing his work, “and dump them on the pile. I'll sort them into pens later for rotting down to leaf mold.”

Pens? Leaf mold? I have no idea what he's talking about, but I want to join in and be helpful, so I do as I'm told. The little girl, glancing warily at me out of the corner of her eye, goes back to gathering leaves in silence, and I suddenly feel like an unwanted intruder in my own garden.

“What's your name?” I ask the little girl, trying to make conversation.

“Lucy,” she whispers shyly.

“That's a nice name. I'm Meg. I like the autumn, don't you? The leaves are so pretty.”

She doesn't respond.

“It's nice of you to help your uncle. Are your mummy and daddy out today?”

She nods solemnly and inches away from me.

“When I was little,” I say, “my mummy used to take me to the woods and we'd look for fairies among the fallen leaves. They love living in piles of leaves, because it's warm and no one can see them. If you're really careful and quiet, sometimes you can lift up a leaf and there will be a fairy sleeping underneath it.”

I crouch down and very carefully lift a golden leaf, pretending to be looking for a fairy. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lucy looking over, straining to see what might be there.

“There's no such thing as fairies,” she says suddenly.

“Oh, yes, there is.”

“I've never seen one.”

“Really?” I ask, feigning surprise. “I've seen several. Maybe you're not being quiet enough. They fly away at the slightest noise.”

Lucy frowns at me, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth. She glances over her shoulder at Ewan for guidance, but he's busy trying to pry the handle of his rake out of Digger's jaws.

“Oh, there goes one!” I exclaim, pointing into the air. “Did you see it?”

“No,” says Lucy, her eyes darting around. “Where?”

“I've lost it,” I say, searching the sky. “Oh, there! See, there she is!”

“I can't see her!” says Lucy, suddenly desperate to see the fairy. “Where is she?”

“She just ducked into the pile of leaves!” I say excitedly.

Lucy and I run over to the leaf pile and examine it. Her cheeks are rosy red, and her eyes are bright with anticipation and excitement.

“Is there really one in there?” she says.

“Yes, but you must be very quiet,” I whisper to her.

“What's in there?” asks Ewan, appearing beside us with a bent rake. “A frog?”

“No, a fairy,” whispers Lucy. “Be quiet or you'll scare her.”

Ewan smiles at me and raises his eyebrows questioningly. In the sunlight, I notice the chip in his front tooth and wonder what I ever found so annoying about it. In fact, this imperfection is rather endearing and somehow suits his cheeky smile. I loosen the scarf around my neck, feeling my face getting rather warm.

“Well, you know how to get the fairy to come out, don't you, Luce?” asks Ewan.

Lucy shakes her head and gazes up at him, adoring and intrigued.

“You have to take it by surprise!” he shouts, suddenly grabbing an armful of leaves and throwing them up in the air.

Lucy squeals with shock and excitement, covering her head as the leaves fall down over her, and then she suddenly delves into the pile, grabbing one armful of leaves after the other, throwing them into the air and searching for the fairy. Ewan and I both join her, throwing red and yellow leaves up into the sky, which Digger tries to catch in his snapping jaws as they flutter down around him. Then we are all throwing leaves at each other and laughing, Ewan lobbing fistfuls at Lucy and me with gusto, and the two of us mounting a counterattack against him as best we can, grabbing at his arms and trying to stuff handfuls of leaves down the neck of his T-shirt. Before I know it, he has turned on me, and I scream loudly as he pushes me onto the leaf pile, where I land and bounce softly, multicolored shimmering leaves falling down over me in the bright autumn sunlight, the sound of Lucy's childish laughter and Digger's barking filling the air.

 

The first frosts come too soon, reminding me of all the weeks that you have been gone. Those hazy summer days feel like a lifetime ago now, yet I still feel you with me in all that I do. You are the glowing candle inside the pumpkin I carve for Halloween and place in the front window, the only one on the street with a huge smile on its face rather than a menacing scowl, because you preferred them that way. You are the gloves I wear as I slide my first blackberry pie into the oven, ever cautious that a scalding-hot shelf could give me a nasty burn. You are the warm scarf that I wrap around my neck when I help Ewan in the garden, always aware that a chill autumn morning could lead me to catch my death of cold. You are the whispering breeze as I pick Brussels sprouts, telling me which ones are good and which ones to leave on the stem.

I am everything you ever taught me, even when you thought I wasn't listening.

***

Working in the garden keeps me busy and makes me feel closer to you. In the past two weeks, I have helped to dig over the empty vegetable plots, built a hibernation box for hedgehogs, strung up bird feeders, pruned the apple trees, and planted tulip bulbs ready to flower next spring. I never knew there was so much to learn. It turns out that gardening really is quite a science.

My back aches constantly, my hands are cracked and sore, but despite the cold and the wet and the pain, I find I am at peace in the garden, working quietly under Ewan's guidance, surrounded by the sound of his humming, the gentle snip of shears, the squeak of the wheelbarrow, and the muffled thuds of a spade against hard soil. I look forward to the days when he comes and I can work alongside him.

In fact, they are my favorite days.

***

Oh, and you would be pleased to know that we have found a good use for our abundant autumn harvest. After I have taken what I need and distributed some gifts among the neighbors—onions for the major, leeks for Beryl Lampard, rutabagas for Dave Brown—Ewan takes the surplus in his van and drops it off at an unmarked house in town, the address and location of which are kept secret for a very good reason, but which was disclosed to me in confidence by Dr. Bloomberg. It is a shelter for women and their children who are trying to escape domestic abuse. It provides them with somewhere to stay where they can feel physically safe, as well as providing counseling so that they do not have to feel ashamed or isolated, but instead can start to find the strength and confidence to deal with what has happened to them. You always said that a tasty, nutritious dinner was good for the heart as well as the body, so perhaps in our own little way we are helping to heal some broken souls. I like to think so, anyway.

***

“Isn't it sad?” I say to Ewan one afternoon as we sit on the upturned wooden crate at the far side of the garden. We have just finished dismantling the frames that supported the climbing beans and have packed them away in the shed for winter. Although it can only be about four o'clock, it is starting to grow dark already.

“Isn't what sad?” he asks, gazing distractedly up at the gray sky, reading the clouds for signs of rain.

“The way the summer has to end,” I tell him. “The trees lose their leaves, the flowers wither away…”

We both stare out at the brown turned-over earth.

“I don't think it's sad,” says Ewan. “It's just part of the cycle of life. Everything going around, keeping moving. That's what it's all about.”

I examine the mud underneath my fingernails thoughtfully. Digger comes trotting toward me for attention, wagging his tail, and I lean over to place my cheek against his soft head. My hair has grown long and unruly and hangs over his face as he licks my ear.

“Do you know how the ancient Greeks explained the changing of the seasons?” Ewan asks.

“No,” I say with a smile, “but Digger and I both have a feeling that you're going to tell us, don't we, boy?”

Digger barks in amusement.

“Fine, I won't tell you, then,” says Ewan, pretending to be offended. “I wouldn't want to bore you.”

“Oh, go on!”

“No. Not if you're not interested,” he says stubbornly.

“Pleeeease.”

“No.”

“Go on!” I say, shoving him so that he loses his balance and almost falls off the crate.

“Crikey, woman!” he says, laughing and gathering himself up. “No more digging for you. Any more muscles and you'll be dangerous.”

“Tell me the story,” I say, elbowing him gently. “You know you want to.”

“Okay, but only because you're insisting. It started when Demeter found out that her daughter, Persephone, had been kidnapped. Demeter was distraught and vowed to never rest until Persephone was back home again. She searched the entire world, covering mountains and deserts, seas and forests, and when she discovered that Hades had kidnapped Persephone and taken her to the underworld to make her his bride, her despair turned to anger. In her rage, Demeter decreed that no fruit would grow on Earth until Hades returned Persephone to her, which he agreed to do, but on one condition. Because Persephone had eaten a handful of pomegranate seeds belonging to him, he declared that she would forever have to spend part of the year with him in the underworld. So, once a year, Persephone is allowed to return to Earth, and when she returns, spring arrives: green shoots appear, trees blossom, fruit grows, and new life flourishes. But when the time comes for her to go back to the underworld, winter arrives: leaves drop, fruit falls, and new growth is suspended until she returns to Earth again.”

Digger wags his tail appreciatively and nuzzles his head against his master's leg.

“And that's why we have spring and autumn, isn't it, pal?” Ewan says, giving Digger's head a vigorous rub.

I think about Persephone coming and going, the seasons changing, life and death, love and loss.

“I guess nothing ever stays the same for very long,” I say, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down over my cold hands.

“The world has to keep turning,” he says. “Six months from now, this garden will be full of birds singing in the trees and flowers blossoming once again.”

I shiver in the chill air, wrapping my arms around my body and burying my chin inside my scarf. I know he's right, that in six months' time the garden will be full of life again, but I wonder whether it will ever really feel the same now that my mother is gone.

“She'll always be with you, you know,” says Ewan. “All you have to do is close your eyes.”

I let my eyelids drift shut, listening to the sound of the breeze playing with the crisp autumn leaves. Wisps of my hair blow gently around my ears, tickling at my cheeks. I can feel the warmth of Ewan's thigh pressed next to mine, the solidness of his body against me.

“She's wherever you want her to be,” I hear Ewan say, his voice deep and soothing. “You just have to imagine.”

In my mind's eye, an image slowly comes into focus. I can see her there, standing by the apple orchard, her long auburn hair shining in the bright autumn sunshine, thick and luscious as it used to be, her crowning glory. She is strong and healthy, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling with glee. She is smiling at me. In the air I can smell spiced apples, cinnamon, warm chocolate cake, hot vanilla custard, mulled wine, nutmeg…all the scents that ever filled our kitchen on a brisk autumn day. She looks vibrant and happy, full of energy once again. I smile back at her, and she waves. She is wearing the purple cashmere gloves I bought her for Christmas last year, the ones she said she would save for a special occasion and then tucked carefully away in a drawer. I smile and raise my hand slightly, waving back. Slowly, her colorful figure blends with the red and yellow autumn leaves and the sparkling golden sunshine, and the image starts to fade away.

I open my eyes. The clouds are gray and the sky is growing dim. I look toward the apple orchard, where the trees stand huddled in the fading light, their remaining leaves rustling gently in the breeze, their branches already looking sparse. It doesn't matter to me that the orchard will soon be bare, like a huddle of gnarled skeletons against a winter sky. I know that whenever I close my eyes my mother will be there, waving to me, and that it will always be a sunny day.

When I look down into my lap, I find Ewan's hand, rough and warm, enveloping mine.

And it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

***

It's not like you said it would be. No bolt of lightning shoots across the sky, and no nightingales spontaneously burst into song. I do not find myself engulfed in a dreamy, magical cloud or swept away in a whirlwind of glittering stardust. Instead, I suddenly feel real, as if all the splintered parts of myself have simultaneously come together. I am the child I once was and the adult I am today. I am all of my good points and each of my bad. I am brave but afraid, healed but damaged, strong but helpless. I am everything I have admitted and all that I have denied. The person I am right now in this moment is the product of everything I have ever been—the truth, the lies, and everything in between.

When his lips touch mine, I don't feel myself falling, weightlessly, like you promised.

Instead, for the first time ever, I feel myself become me.