The Storyteller's Daughter (23 page)

“How could anyone forget them.”

“Now, that's why you join a band!”

“One of the girls had a baby,” I say, over the laughter.

They all stop laughing and look at each other.

“Really?” asks Beasty. “When?”

“Wasn't me,” says Wizz.

“Wasn't me,” says Rocket.

“Which one was it?” asks Beasty, “Suzy or Sarah?”

“No,” I sigh, shaking my head and wishing they were all a lot more sober, “there was a baby who lived with you at the time. That's what Tony said. Two girls lived with you and one had a baby.”

“Oh!” says Rocket. “Yes. There was a baby.”

“I don't remember a baby,” says Wizz. “I remember a cat. I think we had a cat.”

“What did it look like?” asks Beasty.

“It was ginger and white… ”

“Not the cat, the baby!”

“What do you mean, what diz it look like?” says Rocket, slurring his words, “it looked like a baby. It was very small.”

“All babies are small.”

“No, but it was
really
small. You remember. Too small. That's what I remember about it. She thought there was something wong… wrong with it.”

“Who did?”

“The mum. What was her name again?”

Too small?
My heart starts pounding in my chest as I wait for them to tell me the name. It couldn't be. Could it?

“I remember!” Wizz suddenly cries. “Little baby. Cried a lot. Ahh, she was a cute little thing. You remember, Beasty.”

“No, I don't. Are you sure? Why would a baby have been living with us? Are you sure you weren't hallucinating. Because you did used to hallucinate a lot, when you were, you know… ”

Wizz hiccups loudly. “No, we both remember it, don't we Rocket? You
must
remember, Beasty!”

“What was her name?” I ask, impatiently.

“It was small, Beasty,” insists Wizz, leaning heavily on Beasty's shoulder, “and noisy. I used to sing to it, but I don't think it liked it much.”

“But what was the name?” I almost shout.

“The mum or the baby?” asks Rocket.

“Either.”

“No idea. Hey, what was the name?” he asks, tugging on Wizz's tshirt.

“Oh, now zat's a diffcul… difficult question,” says Wizz, wagging a finger at me, “and you should ask someone who hasn't drunk so much.”

“Was it Val?” I ask, my heart in my mouth.

They all shake their heads.

“Val. No. Not Val,” says Rocket. “That wouldn't suit a little baby.”

“Babies are called things like… like Emily, and Lucy,” drawls Wizz.

“And Thomas,” adds Beasty.

Wizz slaps Beasty heartily on the back. “Thomas is an ess… excellent name for a baby.”

“Thank you, mate,” says Beasty, slapping him back.

“No, not the baby,” I insist, “the mother. Was the mother's name Val?”

“Gwennie!” Beasty suddenly shouts. “The girl was Gwennie!”

“No, no, no, no,” says Rocket, “not Gwennie. Gwennie was Bomber's bird.”

“His wife!” shouts Wizz, raising his bottle in the air as if celebrating the couple's union.

“Yes, later she became his wive… wife,” confirms Rocket, “but at the time she lived with us she was just his bird. It was her best mate who also lived with us, she was the one who had the baby.”

“Val?” I ask again, hopefully. “Was she called Val?”

They all shake their heads.

“No, not Val… ”

“Valerie!” shouts Rocket.

“Valerie!” Wizz and Beasty agree loudly, nodding their heads.

“Oh, the lovely Valerie!”

“Beautiful Valerie!”

“Valerie with the baby! The little pink baby!”

My heart is suddenly beating so fast in my chest that I can barely breathe.

“And the baby,” I say, not even attempting to mask the urgency in my voice now, “was the baby called Meg?”

“Meg!” they all shout at once.

“Little baby Meg!”

“Little Meggy!”

“That's me!” I suddenly shout, excitedly, “I'm Meg. I'm the baby! Valerie's my mother!”

They all stop shouting and look me up and down, confused.

“You look vevy… very different,” says Rocket.

“I'm older now!” I am so overcome with emotion that I don't even care how ridiculous this comment is. This is it! I've done it! I've found a link to my mother's past. To
my
past!

“You're the baby?” asks Wizz.

“Yes! I have no idea why I was living with you, but I have this flier with your address on,” I say, snatching the flier from Rocket and waving it at them, “and this is the year of my birth, and my mother is called Valerie, and I'm Meg, and… ”

Before I can even finish my sentence Wizz has thrown his arms around me.

“Meg!” he yells in my ear. “Little baby Meggy!”

“Little Meggy!” the other two shout, joining in. “Baby Meg!”

I am squashed in a three-sided hug that smells of beer, cigarettes and body odour, my mind whirring. What does all this mean? Why were we living with these people? How did my mother know them? Who was my mother's friend Gwennie?

They all step back and examine me with wonder, as if they never knew a baby could grow up and turn into an adult.

“Ahh, little baby Meggy,” drones Wizz patting me clumsily on the head.

“How's Valerie?”

“How old are you now?”

“Why did you leave us? You should have stayed and lizzed… lived with us forever.”

They pat me and stroke my hair, squeeze my cheeks and ask me several questions all at once.

“How did you know my mother?” I ask, desperate to get to the bottom of all this.

“She lived with us,” declares Rocket.

“Yes, but why? How did she – did we – end up living with you?”

They all look thoughtful.

“She came with her friend, Gwennie,” says Beasty, “I think they just, sort of, turned up one day.”

“I do remember she didn't stay that long,” says Wizz, pointing a finger in the air to indicate a thought. “It didn't really work, I don't think, having a baby there.”

“She came to us,” says Rocket, swaying slightly, “because she was thrown out of home.”

The others nod their heads in agreement, recalling this piece of information.

“Sad, sad,” mutters Rocket.

Thrown out of home? My mother was never thrown out of home. My heart sinks as I begin to wonder whether we really are all talking about the same person.

“They didn't like the fact she'd had a baby, did they?” asks Wizz, turning to the other two.

Rocket and Beasty mutter confirmations of this, hazy memories coming back to them, while I rub my forehead, wondering what they are talking about. Perhaps it's the drink. Perhaps they're confusing her with someone else. My grandparents loved me. They helped raise me. For the first six months of my life we lived as one big, warm extended family.

“So Valerie followed us here from Cambridge,” Wizz continues. “I don't think she had anywhere else to go.”

“You're from Cambridge?” I ask.

They all nod. Perhaps they
are
talking about the right person after all. They must be. But my grandparents never threw us out.

Did they?

“Where did we go after we left?” I ask. “My mother and I?”

“That's what
I
was asking
you,”
drawls Wizz, leaning on me and grinning. “Where did you go? You left us.”

“You should have stayed!” says Beasty, stroking my face. “You should have stayed forever and we would have raised you.”

“We should all move back in together!” says Rocket, his face lighting up.

The three of them raise their bottles in the air and clink glasses to celebrate this fantastic idea, excitedly discussing the logistics of this new arrangement.

“What else can you tell me?” I ask, trying to keep them on track. “What else do you know about my mother?”

They all shake their heads and shrug.

“She had long hair,” offers Beasty.

“We didn't know her that well really,” says Wizz, “she only stayed a few weeks.”

“And it was a very long time ago,” says Beasty.

“And we're all quite drunk,” adds Rocket.

“What about Gwennie?” I ask, “You said she was my mother's friend. Do you know what happened to her?”

They all shake their heads.

“Haven't seen her in years,” says Wizz.

“You said she married someone… ”

“Bomber,” says Rocket. “Our drummer.”

My mouth drops as I struggle to process this information. Hot Stuff? My mother used to be best friends with Hot Stuff!

“Your drummer? You mean the tall man who just left with… ”

“No, no, no,” says Rocket, “that's Wonky. That's not the drummer we had when we started. Bomber was our original drummer. He later married Gwennie. But it didn't last long.”

I wrack my brain trying to work out where to go from here.

“I think I need to get in touch with Gwennie,” I tell them.

“Yes, we
do
need to find Gwennie,” agrees Rocket, “so we can tell her we're all moving back in together!”

They all cheer and clink beer bottles again.

“Okay,” I say, thinking it might just be easier to go along with this ridiculous idea, “so how do we find her?”

Rocket and Beasty look thoughtful, and then Beasty raises a finger in the air, having come up with the solution.

“We could call – ”

“Bomber!” shouts Wizz into his mobile phone before Beasty can even finish his sentence. “How are you? Guess what! We're all moving back into together! Me and you and Beasty and Gwennie and – ”

“Bomber, guess what?” yells Rocket, grabbing the phone out of Wizz's hand. “We have a surprise for you! It's the baby! Here she is!”

He holds the phone out to me, and I take it hesitantly.

“Hello?”

“Who's that?” a tired voice asks. He sounds like he has just been woken up.

“My name's Meg May,” I say, placing my hand over my free ear to block out the noise of the band drunkenly discussing our new communal living arrangements, “my mother is Valerie May. We lived with you for a short while on Gray's Inn Road when I was a baby. My mother was friends with your ex-wife, Gwennie.”

There's silence at the end of the line, before the voice says, “Gosh. Yes, I remember. Gosh. That was a long time ago. Wow. How are you?”

“I'm… I'm fine,” I fumble, slightly taken aback by his sensible tone and smart accent. From the sleep in his voice I suddenly realise it must be very late, and that Bomber has clearly left the rock and roll lifestyle well behind him. “I'm sorry about this, Bomber. We're not really all moving back in together – ”

He laughs quietly. “Too right we're not. And please, it's Timothy. People don't really want a lawyer called Bomber. It gives the wrong impression. Anyway, I really should learn not to answer the phone on a Friday night. I expect they're all slaughtered, aren't they?”

I glance at the three men, hugging each other and singing something about being reunited forever.

“They are a little drunk, yes.”

I take the phone over to the corner of the pub so that I can hear better. “I know this must all seem very strange, but I'm trying to get hold of Gwennie.”

“Ok-ay,” he says slowly, as if thinking this through, “has your mother decided to get back in touch with her?”

“Erm… sort of.”

“Gosh. That will be a surprise for Gwennie. She was absolutely devastated when your mother broke off contact with her, although she understood her reasons.”

I don't say anything, wondering what on earth he can mean.

“To be honest,” he continues, “I was always grateful your mother did what she did. You father was… well, I'm sure I don't need to tell you. Sorry, your stepfather, I mean.”

“My stepfather?”

“Yes. Robert.”

“Robert?”

There is a long pause, during which time we listen to the remaining members of Chlorine singing. I only realise I have been holding my breath when I start running out of air.

“Was my mother married?” I ask, shocked.

“Gosh. I'm sorry,” says Timothy, hesitantly, “maybe I shouldn't have said… I just… I thought you would know. I mean, I thought you would remember.”

My mind is completely blank. I can't think what to say. He thought I would remember? Suddenly nothing seems to make sense.

“Look, perhaps I should just give you Gwennie's number.”

“No, please! I need to know. My mother has hardly told me anything about my childhood. I had a
stepfather
? My mother was
married
?”

“Gosh. I'm sorry, it really would be better if you spoke to Gwennie,” says Timothy, apologetically. “She'll be able to tell you anything you want to know. After all, she was the one who – ”

“Time please people!” yells the flabby barman, banging a spoon against a pint glass. “Time please!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear that,” I say, clamping my hand over my free ear. “What did you say?”

The music is switched off. Outside I hear the thunder still rumbling.

“I said,” repeats Timothy, “she was the one who found you.”

Chapter 14

I am desperate to dial Gwennie's number, dying to question her, itching to hear everything she has to tell me, longing to finally hear the truth about my life.

And I will, once I have helped my mother defrost the freezer. And tidied the kitchen. And made that phone call to Dr Larry. And popped to the shops for some bread.

A day passes. And then another. And another.

All too soon a week has passed, and I simply cannot understand it.