The Storyteller's Daughter (31 page)

“What is it?” I ask him, rubbing my eyes.

He lays his head on my mother's feet and looks unhappy. The clock on the wall reads nine o'clock and I check my watch, wondering if that can be right. The TV plays quietly, Marco Pierre White having been replaced by Delia, who is showing viewers the splendid Tuscan casserole dish that she bought on holiday last year.

My mother's breathing is shallow and difficult. I ease my aching body from the hard wooden chair which I am convinced has crippled me for life, and kneel on the rug by the side of her bed.

“Mother?” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

Slowly, she opens her eyes, just a little bit, and looks at me. “Hello, you,” she whispers.

I force a smile, trying to ignore the butterflies that have risen from nowhere in my stomach, and the way my heart has suddenly started thumping in my chest. “Hello,” I say back.

Her brow furrows as she takes a sharp breath.

“Are you alright?” I ask, “Should I call the doctor?”

My mother shakes her head almost imperceptibly and mouths the word ‘no', but I am starting to get scared. Maybe I should call the doctor anyway, after all, she's never known what's best for her. I need to make a decision. Perhaps she should go to the hospital. Perhaps I should call Dr Bloomberg. I rub my forehead trying to think straight.

“What will it be like,” whispers my mother, “where I'm going?”

Nestled against the pillows, she suddenly looks so small and vulnerable, like a child waiting to hear a bedtime story, longing to be comforted. I feel my throat burning and I have to swallow once, twice in order to feel that I can breathe.

I shake my head, tears rising and misting my vision.

I am about to tell her that I don't know, that no-one knows the answer to that, but when I open my mouth those aren't the words that come out.

“Close your eyes,” I whisper, “and I will tell you.”

Her eyes drift shut, and I reach out and stroke her hair, just as she stroked mine when I was a little girl.

“It's the most wonderful place you can possibly imagine,” I hear myself say softly. “There are clouds made of marshmallow and the rivers of wine, baked apples grow in the fields and the air is scented with spice. The ground under your feet is soft and bouncy like sponge cake, and your favourite lemon bonbons grow from the trees, lightly dusted in icing sugar which drifts down in a powdery haze when you pull the bonbons off the branch. Beautiful white swans lay chocolate eggs, whilst bees buzz amongst the flowers, making the sweetest honey. In the meadows grow the most delicious delicacies – apricot turnovers, strawberry tarts, raspberry meringues – all just waiting to be picked. The grass is made of liquorice, and the rain upon your tongue tastes like elderberry cordial. Flowers grow in abundance all year round, and in the Summer they smell like picnics on a warm beach, while in the Winter they smell like mince pies by the fireplace. On Christmas day, snow flakes made of sugar drift down from the sky, and in Spring the cows grazing in the meadows produce banana milk-shake. There are little bridges made of gingerbread, and picket fences made of pastry… ”

I gently touch my mother's shoulder. “Mother?” I whisper.

She is still and silent. The wheezing from her chest has stopped, her eyes no longer flickering beneath their lids. She looks peaceful in the warm glow of the lamplight, a faint smile resting on her lips. Digger crawls up the bed on his belly, his ears back, and lays his head on my mother's thighs, letting out a small, sad whimper. I lean forward and kiss her cold cheek, trying to inhale the scent of her skin, of her hair, expecting the familiar aroma of baking and sunshine, but there is nothing there. She has gone.

My head is empty, my body numb. I get slowly to my feet and walk over to the window. Outside it has grown dark, and I reach out to draw the curtains, just as I do every evening around this time. I notice Ewan's van is still in the lane below, parked under a street light. He is asleep, his head resting against the driver's window. I reach out and switch off the TV, just as Delia is saying goodbye for another season.

Chapter 18

Pots, pans and casserole dishes. Birds, trees and vegetable patches. Books, TV and Radio Four. These were my mother's friends, and now I understand why. None of these things hurt you in the way that people do.

It seems odd that such a kind-hearted, bubbly, vivacious woman should shy away from the world, but that's exactly what she did, ducking behind nearby bushes whenever she saw neighbours in the street, turning down every invitation, leaving the shelter of her home only when necessary and then scurrying back for cover. It breaks my heart to think that my mother's avoidance of others was not, as I had always thought, due to an inherent personality trait that made her an eccentric loner, but down to a mistrust of others that resulted from being burned one too many times.

I am dreading the funeral for so many reasons, but mainly I am dreading the emptiness and the silence. Myself, Gwennie, Ewan and Dr Bloomberg can only fill so much space in the parish church, and the rows upon rows of empty pews will be a sad testimony to my mother's lack of connection with the real world, a depressing reminder of the relationships that she was too afraid to make. When I think that there will be so few people to send her on her way it makes me want to weep. It shouldn't have been that way. Not for someone like her.

It seems ironic, then, that on a grey day in mid October I somehow manage to turn up at the wrong funeral, the funeral of someone who must have had hordes of friends and family judging by the swarm of people milling around. As Gwennie and I crunch our way up the little gravel path that leads to the church, I curse the stupid vicar for timing two funerals so closely together. The fact that there are so many of them and so few of us only serves to make my mother's situation all the more tragic.

But cars appear to be pulling up, not leaving, and people in dark suits and dresses seem to be heading inside the church rather than coming out. I glance at my watch, making sure I have the right time, and mentally check the date.

“Who are all these people?” I ask Gwennie, as we pick our way through the crowd of unfamiliar faces.

“I wouldn't know. Those two gentleman there look rather bookish. Was your mother a member of a reading group at all?”

Sometimes I forget that Gwennie knows nothing about the past sixteen years of my mother's life. Over the past week I have tried to fill her in, but how do you sum up sixteen years in a nutshell? She talks about my mother as if no time has lapsed at all, as if it were only yesterday that they were listening to records together or going dancing at the Forum. Her affection for my mother has not waned in spite of their estrangement, and her loyalty has not dimmed. She understands why my mother cut her off and doesn't feel an ounce of bitterness. She seems to have taken me under her wing, believing it's what my mother would have wanted. Afterall, she keeps reminding me, she was the one who found me.

“Excuse me, Deary, are you Valerie's daughter?”

I turn to face an elderly woman with scraggy cheeks, bright blue eye shadow and lipstick that looks as if it has been applied in the dark. To my horror she is wearing what appears to be a dead stoat around her neck, and a little black hat with some straggly feathers sticking out the top. I think I recognise her.

“Yes, I'm Meg”, I say, confused, “I'm sorry, do I know you?”

The old lady reaches out and shakes my hand as best she can. Her fingers are all stiff and gnarled. “My name's Beryl Lampard, I live at number seventy-four. I was so sorry to hear about your mother, Deary. I didn't even know she was ill.”

“You knew her?” I ask, more than a little surprised.

“No, I didn't know her at all, Deary. I'm ashamed to say I didn't even know her name until a couple of weeks ago, and I only managed to find that out because I asked my neighbour, William, and he only knew because he asked the postman. I had tried to find out her name before, but she never stopped to talk, you see Deary, so it was rather difficult. And then I wondered if maybe she had told me at some point and I had forgotten, because I do tend to forget a lot of things these days, but I don't think she ever did. And when William told me I rushed inside – well, I say rushed, but I don't really rush anywhere these days – and wrote it down so that I would remember. But then I forgot where I wrote it down, so I had to go and ask William again.”

She smiles at me, displaying lipstick-stained dentures, while I wonder why she is here. Perhaps she just wanted a little outing, or maybe she came hoping to get a free plate of sandwiches afterwards.

“I did start to wonder if something was wrong a couple of weeks back, Deary, when I hadn't seen her around, but then I thought she could have gone on holiday, or to visit family, or on one of those mini breaks you can win from entering the
Woman's
Weekly
crossword competition. Those are very popular these days, aren't they, Deary? But then I spoke to William and he said she had passed away, although he only knew because he heard it from Dave, who heard it from Alice, who heard it from the postman. And William was able to tell me when the funeral was being held, and I decided there and then I would definitely go and pay my respects because your mother was such a wonderful woman, but then I forgot what day he said, and I had to go and ask him again. And William said that he wanted to come too, and that he would take me in his car, so we arranged that he would call for me up at eleven on the dot, but I forgot we had arranged that. It was alright though, because I came with Dave.”

Not only am I baffled as to why this old lady has come to my mother's funeral, now I'm also baffled as to why William and Dave have come.

“It's very kind of you to want to pay your respects,” I say quickly, before she starts talking again, “but I don't really understand. I mean, if you didn't know my mother… ”

“Because of the stews of course, Deary! Every Monday and Thursday without fail. I can barely lift a milk bottle with my arthritic hands, let alone cook a meal, but your mother kept me going. I really don't know what I'm going to do without her. She was like a mysterious guardian angel, one that left beef stew on your doorstep and then vanished without a trace. By the way, I still have a ceramic dish of hers. It's a lovely blue one with little flowers on. I wrote a note to remind myself to bring it with me, and then I lost the note. I did write another one, but I forgot where I put it.”

“Major William Jefferson Reece, I live at number seventy-two, pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady. What a shame it needs to be on such a solemn occasion. Your mother really was one damn fine woman, you know, an absolute trooper. Let me tell you, I've been shot twice in the leg, almost run over by a tank, and had a bomb go off so near to my head that I'm deaf in one ear. What? Yes, completely deaf. After surviving all that I thought I was pretty much invincible, but nothing prepared me for being told I was diabetic. Nothing at all. Didn't fit with my view of myself, you see. I was in totally unfamiliar territory. A good soldier is always prepared, but I couldn't have prepared myself for this. I've always been a stiff-upper-lip sort of chap, after all it's what makes us Brits great, but I sunk into a bit of a low mood there for a while, I'm afraid to say. What? Yes, a low mood.

“Anyhow, one day I said to myself, ‘Come on William, old chap, snap out of it! No-one ever won the war by sitting around feeling glum! Life goes on.' So I contacted this special shop that sells diabetic food, and I was amazed to find you could buy chocolate, biscuits, sweets, all kinds of things, so I ordered a whole hamper. Bloody revolting it was! Worse than army rations. But then your mother saved the day, swooping in just in time like the best of allies. Don't have a bloody clue how she knew about my predicament, but all these wonderful little cakes and sweets started appearing on my doorstep, with a little note to say that were suitable for people such as myself. Well, I hadn't been so surprised since Corporal James Matterson declared he wanted to be a lady and started calling himself Gloria! I marched straight over to her living quarters and knocked to say thank you, but there was no reply, and every time I tried, it was always the same. I thought maybe your mother wasn't keen on strangers infiltrating her territory, but hoped I might manage to meet her on neutral terrain, such as in the street one day. She kept a very low profile though. What? Low profile, yes. In the end I wrote a note and dropped it through the letterbox, inviting her for tea at fifteen hundred hours the next day. She didn't come, but she kept on leaving the cakes for me all the same. Such generosity of spirit is what makes this country great! I salute you, young lady. Your mother made me proud to be British!”

“Dave Daly. Live at number seventy, Love. I wasn't sure whether to come 'cause I didn't really know yer mum, but old Beryl said she was comin' so I thought it would be alright. I'll tell yer somthin', your mum, absolutely flippin' fantastic she was. I dunno whether old Colonel Mustard there filled you in, but last year, me old lady left me. Three kids I've got. Three flippin' kids! Kevin, he's four and a little terror. You've probably seen him tearin' about the street on his bike. Lee, he's nine, and thinks he's bloody David Beckham, and Stacey, she's thirteen going on thirty, if yer know what I mean. And Paula just buggered off and left me with the whole herd of them! Ran off with me best mate, Steve, she did.

“Well, I didn't know whether I was comin' or goin' for a while there. We spent the first three weeks eatin' Pot Noodles and beans on toast. I can't cook for turkey, and I 'aven't got time anyway, I work as a plumber, always on the go. God knows how your mum got wind of all this – I thought old Beryl there must have opened her trap but she swears she didn't – but anyhow, your mum started leavin' all this food on our step. Potato wedges and chicken wraps and homemade burgers and little pork balls on sticks… bloody 'ell, the kids thought they'd died and gone to 'eaven! They love all that. Anyway, I had no idea where all this food was comin' from 'till old Beryl told me your mum was cookin' for her too. I didn't know what to make of it at first. I mean, I never even met your mum. But she seriously saved my bacon, Love, 'cause at last the kids were goin' to bed on full bellies, and not only that but their behaviour bucked up too. Once they stopped eatin' all those additives and stuff, they were like different kids. Nice ones. The sort I always wanted. Still cheeky and always givin' me lip, but much better than they were. Anyways, we was all gutted to hear what had happened to yer mum, ‘specially 'cause I never managed to thank her properly. Proper hard to get hold of she was, but amazin' all the same. Even restored my faith in women. Now, if I could meet a good woman like yer mum, I'd make sure I never introduced her to any of my mates.”