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

this garden is really a lot to cope with on your own.”
    â€œMeg May,” she says, placing her hands on her bony hips and looking at me sternly, “I have been coping on my own since the day you were born. I have cooked, cleaned, scrubbed, tidied, washed and ironed. I have sewn your dresses, done the shopping and paid all the bills. I have fixed ovens, plastered ceilings, laid flooring and put up shelves. Do not tell me that I cannot cope on my own. I’ve managed to grow vegetables in the past with not a minute spare in the day and you clinging to the hem of my skirt, so if I could manage then I can certainly manage it now when I’ve got all the time in the world and no-one else to worry about.”
    I know not to push this matter any further. I am defeated. There is no making her see sense. Getting her to face reality is, and always has been, like swimming against the tide. No matter how hard you struggle to reach dry land, a huge wave always comes and washes you back to where you started. This is what Mark doesn’t understand. It’s all very well asking me why I put up with my mother’s ridiculous delusions, but he doesn’t know how exhausting it is trying to reach the distant shores of reality. Somehow it is just easier to float along side her in a sea of make believe.
    â€œFine,” I say, raising my hands in surrender, “it was just an idea. I’m going inside to make us some coffee.”
    Chastened, I throw my gardening gloves on the ground and follow the little brick path between the sprawling vegetable patches back towards the house. But before I reach the back door I stop, racking my brain to try and throw some light on my mother’s words.
    â€œWhen did you grow vegetables before?” I ask, turning around.
    My mother shields her eyes against the sunlight and squints at me, a trowel dangling from her hand.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou said you managed to grow vegetables with me clinging to the hem of your skirt. When? We moved from here when I was six months old and went to live in our flat in Tottenham. We didn’t even have a garden.”
    My mother stares at me like she can’t understand what I’m saying, as if she’s trying to process the words into some sort of logical order.
    â€œWe had a window box,” she says, quickly.
    â€œYou grew vegetables in a window box?”
    â€œOf course. Just small ones, obviously. Little carrots, a few radishes… ”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œWell, of course you don’t remember,” she says tersely, “but that doesn’t mean it never happened.”
    Rosy red patches have formed on her cheeks and she is anxiously picking little pieces of dried mud off her trowel.
    I shake my head, too hot and tired to think about whether there could be any truth in this, and turn to go inside, feeling that I have over-stepped an invisible boundary once again.
    As the coffee brews I open the front door and pick up the single pint of milk that has been left on the step. There is something comforting about villages where milk bottles still appear during the night as if by magic. It’s so much nicer than having to fight your way through the chaos of a twenty-four hour Tesco, and I’m glad my mother is being spared that one stressful chore.
    The little lane where she lives is quiet and peaceful. The cottages are small and modest, spaced just far enough apart to afford privacy without isolation. This is perfect for my mother who, despite her talkative energy and eccentricity, is very much a loner. She is happy with her pots, pans and vegetable garden, chattering away to the plants and animals or even to herself. She goes out only when it is essential, scurrying to and from the shops with her head down. I don’t think she’s ever spoken to any of the neighbours, insisting that all the people who lived in the lane when she was growing up have long died or moved away, and