The Storyteller's Daughter by Maria Goodin Read Free Book Online

someone, but no doubt he would have thought me strange and perhaps even a little unstable. I flop back against my pillow, sweat cooling against my back and my heart pounding in my chest.
    â€œMorning! I’m making pancakes. There’s fresh coffee on the table and the sausages and bacon are nearly ready. Now, how about eggs? Fried? Scrambled? Do you want some toast? It’s fresh bread, I made it this morning.”
    â€œMother, I can’t eat all this,” I say slumping down at the kitchen table in my pyjamas.
    â€œI want to feed you up while you’re here,” she says, pouring batter mixture into a sizzling frying pan, “you’re looking rather thin.”
    I watch her straining to lift the frying pan with both hands. How much must she weigh right now? Seven stone? Not even?
    As she tips the frying pan from side to side, spreading the batter round the pan, I see her body sway slightly. She places the pan back on the hob with a heavy clatter and stands motionless, gripping the handle as if for support.
    â€œMother? Are you alright?”
    No reply.
    â€œMother?”
    â€œI’m fine,” she says breathlessly.
    â€œLet me do that.” I stand up and approach the hob.
    â€œAbsolutely not!”
    She turns and glares at me as if I’ve attempted to assault her. By suggesting she may not be capable of cooking I have threatened her very way of life. She forces a little smile and takes a deep breath.
    â€œDo you want syrup or sugar with your pancakes?” she asks sweetly.
    Despite my protestations, my mother insists on getting out into the garden after breakfast and beginning her tidy-up. For the first twenty minutes I am surprised and encouraged to find that she appears to have more energy than I do. She is a whirlwind of pruning, snipping and trimming. As I work along side her, stumbling through the tangle of roots and leaves, gathering the cuttings into a black plastic sack, I am foolish enough to allow a tiny ember of hope to catch alight inside me. Maybe her earlier weakness was just a momentary lapse. Surely she can’t be that sick when she seems so full of beans? She chatters away while she works, and hums tunes from the Beach Boys, David Bowie and Abba.
    She picks various herbs and shoves them under my nose for me to sniff.
    â€œIsn’t that just delicious!” she beams.
    The morning is warm and bright and the rich, earthy smell of the soil mingles with the scent of rosemary, mint and lemon balm. The birds twitter in the trees and for a while it’s easy to forget that things aren’t perfect, that this isn’t just another Summer like all the others we’ve had before. That this may, in fact, be one of our last. But despite her zealous start, it’s not long before my mother starts to wane. She drags her feet and rubs her back, gazes forlornly at the overgrown garden as if overwhelmed by the prospect of having to contend with so much work. The light fades from her eyes, gradually replaced by fatigue.
    â€œMother,” I say tentatively, pulling weeds out from between a row of lettuces and deliberately avoiding her eye. “I was wondering, do you think that perhaps it might be good idea to get someone in to help you with the garden? Just for a couple of hours a week?” I hold my breath, waiting for her to snap at me like she did this morning.
    â€œWhy would I want to do that?” she asks, tying an unruly bunch of runner beans onto a pole with a piece of frayed green string.
    Immediately I go from being worried about upsetting her to wanting to slap her around the face. Her denial is starting to grate. I try to breathe deeply, but I feel like I am nearing the end of my tether.
    â€œBecause,” I say as calmly as possible, “it’s an awful lot for one person to manage.”
    â€œBut I’m perfectly capable – ”
    â€œI know you’re perfectly capable,” I say, clenching my teeth, “but