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

that she can see no point in getting to know anybody new.
    â€˜What would I want to talk to people for?’ she always says, ‘I already have everything I need.’
    Back in Tottenham she used to connect loosely with people through food, leaving casserole dishes or baskets of muffins on our neighbours’ doorsteps, but what they took for an invitation to friendship was no such thing; it was merely a desire to see others eat well. Comforting, nutritious soups were left for Mr Ginsberg who had lost his wife and also his teeth. Re-heatable curries were left for the medical student from India who pored over his books late into the night. Healthy vegetable stews were left for Mrs Wallace who needed to lose weight so that she could undergo a hip-replacement but who had no idea about calorie control. Cakes and biscuits were left for the painfully thin girl in the flat below who my mother assumed had an eating disorder but who was in fact a heroin addict. Yet when any of these people tried to engage my mother in conversation she always had an excuse at the ready, some reason why she had to dash away and couldn’t possibly stop. I think it made them feel awkward at first, not to mention confused. They weren’t sure what my mother wanted if it wasn’t their friendship, and their efforts at paying her back in some way were always rebuked. But after a while my mother’s ways were simply accepted. Freshly washed dishes would appear on our doorstep every other day, sometimes with a thank you note and sometimes without. If ever anybody ventured to knock on our door my mother would open it with a warm smile on her face, chatter and laugh energetically for a few minutes and then shut herself away again without inviting them in. I heard her being described as ‘lovely’, ‘wonderful’, ‘peculiar’ and even ‘mad’, but generally people learnt to accept her dishes without a fuss and offer nothing in return. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
    As I take the milk into the house I absentmindedly give the bottle a quick shake and examine the contents, just to make sure there are no fairies trapped inside, before I realise what I am doing and curse myself for being so stupid. When I was small my mother and I often used to try and catch fairies in the park, tip-toeing softly around the bushes in the early morning, empty milk bottles at the ready, but logic soon taught me that this, too, was nothing but make believe, and the next time my mother asked me to go hunting for fairies I snapped, ‘Stop being silly! I’m not a baby!’ I thought she was doing it for my entertainment, but in fact she still went without me. And it’s not just fairies she believes in, it’s all things other-worldly. She’s fascinated by spirits and crystals and leprechauns and aliens… anything that sparks her wild and unruly imagination. Growing up I always connected her bright, crumpled, flowing dress-sense with the mystical nonsense she believed in, and in reaction deemed only ever to wear plain clothes in neutral colours so that no-one could ever accuse me of being anything less than perfectly sensible. Unlike my mother’s flowing cotton skirts and brightly coloured shapeless tunics, I choose neat blouses, plain t-shirts, flat shoes and neutral v-neck sweaters. I keep my mousy brown hair at shoulder length, wear only stud earrings and use a hint of make-up only in emergencies. I buy my mother sensible clothes, too, clothes that I think are more suitable for her, and over the last couple of years she has actually started to wear them. Her wardrobe these days is a strange mixture of new-age hippy meets Marks and Spencer.
    That evening we eat fresh salad with gorgonzola cheese, crispy bacon and slices of avocado.
    â€œOne of Jamie’s recipes,” my mother explains. She’s on first name terms with all the celebrity chefs, so much so that for while I thought Jamie,