The Storyteller's Daughter (32 page)

“Alice Boyle.”

“And Margaret Evans.”

“We're nurses at St Mary's Cancer Hospice, aren't we Margaret?”

“Indeed we are. And we were so terribly sorry to hear about Val, weren't we, Alice?”

“Oh, goodness yes! We didn't even know she was ill.”

“No idea at all. She used to come on the first of each month with a cake.”

“A cake or some scones.”

“And it cheered our patients up no end, didn't it Alice?”

“Absolutely! A little treat can make all the difference, can't it Margaret?”

“All the difference.”

“She never stopped for a chat, did she?”

“No, never stopped. Always rushing off somewhere, wasn't she Alice?”

“Yes, rushing, all the time. But a wonderful woman who will be very much missed.”

“Very much. We're going to dedicate a bench to her, aren't we Alice?”

“Yes, Margaret, a bench in the rose garden.
In memory of
Valerie May, who filled our hearts and stomachs
.”

“I am Tanek Kuklinksi. I am happy to meet you. I am in this country three month. I look for job, but I am told no job for you. I have no money for pay rent, so I live one month in door of shop. People give me money but is not enough for buying food, just chips, and I get tired and sick. Then I am too sick to look for job. Then woman come and give me food. Good food. Hot food that she make for me. I get well and I look for job. I find job and now I live in room of old man. I am rent boy. I pay him rent for room. I send money to my family. This I can do because of woman who gave me food. I thank her very much and I am very sad she die.”

“Hello, my name's Frankie Jack. Frankie's my first name and Jack's my second name. Some people get confused because they can both be first names, but with me they're not. I got the bus here today which was frightening because I've never been on a bus on my own and I didn't know where I was going. But I was able to do it, because I just asked the driver for the church and he told me it was two pounds ten and I gave him the money and then asked him to tell me when we were at the church so I could get off and he did. I wanted to come because Valerie was nice and she helped me by cooking good meals with all the right nutrients in so that I could be fit and healthy and not get sick and die, which is what would happen if you ate food that had no nutrients in it. Cooking was one of the things I found hard about living on my own, but I wanted to live on my own and not in what they call the ‘Community Scheme' because my gran always said I could do the same as most people if I tried hard, and most people don't live in the community scheme they live on their own. It can be hard living on your own because there are lots of things you have to do like cleaning and making the bed and taking the bin out on a Tuesday, and sometimes there are so many things to think about that I start to feel worried. But I haven't had to worry about getting sick and dying from no nutrients, and that's because Valerie helped me.”

One after the other people push forward to meet me, eager to tell me what a wonderful woman my mother was. They come from all walks of life. Whether they are old or young, rich or poor, they all have a tale to tell of how, when they found themselves most in need, my mother swooped in like an angel from heaven, easing their burden with a chicken pie or a sponge cake. Several times the vicar tries to usher the crowd into the church, nervously checking his wristwatch, until finally, with the help of the verger, they resort to physically rounding us up and steering us through the door, as if shepherding a flock of sheep. As I stand in the front pew, I barely hear a word of the dry, monotone speech the vicar delivers. I am too busy gazing over my shoulder at the rows upon rows of people who have come to say their goodbyes to my mother.

Afterwards, outside the church, Dr Bloomberg takes my hands in his, peering over his spectacles at me with concern.

“How are you, Meg?”

I'm worried he's about to whip out one of his leaflets for the counselling service again, one of those ones with a scary pair of eyes inviting me to see things from a new perspective.

“I'm okay,” I say with a smile.

Dr Bloomberg looks pityingly at me, as if he thinks I'm lying for his benefit, but nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, I admit that I have a tendency to put on a brave face at times. Yes, it's true that I always want to be seen as calm, confident and in control, but I actually do feel a hundred times better than I thought I would. Honestly. My ability to just get on with things over the past few days has even surprised me. Ironically, I think Mark would be rather proud of me. Of course I feel sad. But I also feel surprisingly relieved that my mother's suffering is over, and that it wasn't nearly as acute or as prolonged as might have been expected. Besides, she wouldn't want me to be sad. Obviously I have shed a few tears here and there, standing in the silence of her empty bedroom, or bagging up her clothes for the charity shop – well, there's no point in hanging onto these things and it's got to be done at some point – but really I've been so busy that I haven't had time to wallow in self-pity. I am rather impressed by my own fortitude, and I would prefer it if Dr Bloomberg was too, rather than looking at me in the way one might look at a blind, three-legged abandoned puppy. People die all the time. He should know that.

“You know, just after you were born,” says Dr Bloomberg, “I came to the house to see you. You were a tiny little thing, and your mother was so very young. She looked confused and scared and I remember thinking to myself how on earth is this child going to manage with a child of her own? She was in quite a panic, your mother, worrying that you were so small she might break you. Do you know what I told her?”

You told her to spin on her head next time she found out she was pregnant, and that she should feed me bicarbonate of soda, and place me in the airing cupboard to rise… “No,” I say, “I have no idea.”

Dr Bloomberg smoothes down his big white moustache. “I told her that it takes the mighty oak tree no less than twenty years to produce an acorn.”

I stare at him, astonished. He actually said that? He really said those immortal words? So not everything my mother told me was a lie.

“I meant to imply that your mother was too young to care for you, but I was wrong. She may not have had the physical strength or age of a mighty oak tree, but she had the spirit of one. And that's something you've inherited. Her strength of spirit. But you know, Meg, even the mighty oak tree can be damaged by strong winds.”

As he shakes my hand I smile at him and thank him for coming. What on earth is he talking about? Why would I be interested in what happens to an oak tree in the wind? Honestly, I think Dr Bloomberg's going a bit funny in his old age.

“Hi.”

Just as I thought the last of the mourners had left, I turn to find yet another stranger in front of me, no doubt waiting to tell me how my mother used to leave cherry tarts and spicy chicken wings on their front porch. Don't get me wrong, I am delighted by the endless stories of her good deeds, but I am also utterly exhausted. The stream of people waiting to talk to me has been constant, and two hours after the service finished I am ready to go home. It takes me a moment before I recognise that the person in front of me is not a stranger at all.

“Ewan, hi, ” I say, sounding surprised.

He is wearing a smart black suit and tie, his hair has been slicked back and he is clean-shaven. He looks a completely different person. Really, he scrubs up rather well. It must be the embarrassment of failing to recognise him that's making my cheeks flush and my palms all sweaty.

The last time I saw Ewan was four days ago, when I walked calmly down the stairs and out of the back gate, knocked on the window of his van and told him that my mother had just died. He called an ambulance, while I angrily insisted that was a waste of NHS resources because she was definitely dead, and he showed the paramedics up to my mother's bedroom, while I walked round and round the garden in the dark humming the theme tune to
Ready Steady Cook
, before falling over a tree stump and scraping the skin off my arm. Looking back I suspect that I was in a state of shock, but after Ewan sat me down and made me drink a large mug of herbal tea that smelled of old socks, I fell asleep on the sofa and didn't wake up until the morning. I vaguely recall the next day finding Ewan slumped over the kitchen table asleep, and then ushering him out of the back door, insisting that I had several things to get on with, while he repeatedly asked if I was okay and told me to call if I needed anything. Since then we have spoken only once, briefly, when I rang to explain the funeral arrangements, telling him after two minutes that I had to go because I was rearranging the book shelf in alphabetical order and it was a task that required urgent attention. Half an hour later I noticed his number come up on the call monitor, but I couldn't answer because by that time I was busy organising buttons into piles according to their shape and texture.

“I've been waiting to say hello,” Ewan says, “but there was a quite a queue. I didn't realise your mother knew so many people.”

“It came as a surprise to me too.”

“It was a nice service. I thought your mother would have liked the bit when the vicar tripped over his lectern.”

“Yes, and the bit when he talked about a fleet of socks, instead of a flock of sheep.”

“Yeah, that was unfortunate. Poor guy. I think he was nervous.”

“He's probably not used to seeing that many people in church.”

Ewan nods and we fall silent for a moment, both waiting for the other one to speak. Ewan pushes his hands deep into his trouser pockets and I fiddle with my bracelet.

“How's Digger?” I ask.

“Good. I think he was depressed for a few days after… you know, after I took him home. He had all the signs of depression, anyway. Wasn't eating, wasn't interested in exercising, started listening to Radiohead, that kind of thing.”

We smile at each other.

“How are you?” he asks.

“I'm fine,” I say brightly, then realising I might sound rather heartless I add: “under the circumstances, I mean.” I'm actually beginning to feel a little guilty for coping so well.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks, but everything's under control. In fact, my feet haven't really touched the ground this past week. There's been so much to do. I've been sorting through my mother's belongings, and signing all the paperwork for the house and finances, and then there's been solicitors and funeral directors to see. Plus I suddenly noticed that the house was looking a bit shabby, so I painted the banisters, varnished the windowsills, washed all the windows, cleaned out all the cupboards, polished all the silverware… ”

“Wow. Sounds like you've been busy.”

“Rushed off my feet! But I thought I might as well get on with it all. No point hanging about.”

Ewan eyes me carefully. “No, I guess not. Well, listen, you have my number, so if you need anything – ”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback, “you mean you're not coming to do the garden anymore?”

It had never occurred to me that Ewan would stop doing the garden twice a week. I had assumed, for some reason, that things would just carry on as normal. He runs a finger inside his shirt collar, clearly uncomfortable in a suit and tie.

“I guess I just wasn't sure what the arrangement would be now that… well, you know.”

“Now my mother's dead,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Well, I haven't got a clue about gardens so somebody's going to have to look after it. I don't see why things shouldn't just carry on as before. Plants don't just stop growing when somebody dies, do they? There's still work to be done.”

Ewan looks rather taken aback by my no-nonsense approach. “Meg,” he says, falteringly, “you don't think maybe… ”

“What?” I ask.

He studies my face closely and then shakes his head. “Nothing. I'll see you Wednesday then. Just… just look after yourself.” Ewan turns and starts crunching his way along the gravel path, but after a few steps he stops. “You're not going to be alone when you get home, are you?”

“Yes, but I'll be fine,” I smile. “To be honest, I'd quite like to just have some time alone.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking concerned.

I nod. “Yes. Quite sure. Besides, I really should defrost the freezer and scrub the patio.”

In fact, I probably would have liked some company, but my choices are somewhat limited. I have no family now. It might have been nice to have brothers or sisters, aunts and uncles, even distant cousins to support me at this time, but the fact is that I'm alone. Gwennie did offer to return home with me after the funeral, and I was almost tempted to agree, but she has her own family to care for – three teenage kids and a disabled husband as it transpires – and I really don't want her to feel sorry for me. No, I'm just going to have to manage alone, it's as simple as that. And that's fine, because despite the pitying looks I have been receiving all day long, frankly I think I'm coping rather well. In fact, as I say goodbye to Ewan, waving the order of service that I am still clutching in my hand, I am already thinking about getting home and bagging up some of my mother's cookery books to give to the charity shop. Really, she always did have far too many of them.

Chapter 19

In my dream I am running.

I can't see what's behind me, but I have a sense that it is a huge, dark, shadowy creature and that if it catches up with me I will be swallowed whole, gulped down into the black pit of its stomach from where I will never return. I run and run, willing myself to go faster, panting, sweating, my heart pounding, but all the time I am barely moving and the shadowy beast is gaining on me. I can hear its footsteps at my back, its breath upon my neck, telling me I can't escape, telling me that however hard I try I will never outrun it, and then its huge mouth opens wide like a cave, engulfing me, sucking me in, and I am being swallowed down.