The Storyteller's Daughter Read Online Free

had always described it to me, whilst they hung on my every word, clutching their hearts.
    â€˜ Où est l’hôtel de ville ,’ they would repeat dreamily at the end of the story, ‘that’s sooo romantic.’
    In order to truly embrace my cultural heritage, I would occasionally wear a red beret to school.
    â€˜Paris is the most beautiful and romantic city in the world,’ I would tell my friends, ‘and as soon as I’m old enough I’m going to go and study there. I’ll probably find my father’s family and live with them. They will be so excited to meet me!’
    I had a map of France pinned over my bed, with a little flag stuck right in the heart of Paris. I would imagine my father – young, strong and handsome – in a stripy tshirt and a beret like mine, cycling through the Parisian streets on his way to work at the most prestigious bakery in France. I didn’t like to think too much about the tragic pastry-mixing incident, but I had a sense that his death had been heroic. He had died in his quest to create the finest cherry tart and name it after my mother, and that was as heroic a death as I could imagine. Somewhere I had heard a phrase about the brave dying young, and I imagined whoever said it must have been talking about my father.
    My mother said that, in spirit, my father was always there with me, and that was comforting, but also scary.
    â€˜Will he be there when I’m on the toilet?’ I asked her.
    â€˜No, darling, he won’t be with you then.’
    â€˜Will he be there when I’m taking a bath?’
    â€˜No, darling, not if you don’t want him there.’
    â€˜Will he be there when I’m doing something naughty?’
    â€˜Yes, he certainly will. So you’d better behave yourself.’
    I would often talk to him. Seeing as he was always there (apart from when I was on the toilet or in the bath) it seemed rude not to, and I would imagine I could hear him talking back to me. No, he didn’t think Tracey Pratt was as pretty as me, or that Mrs Partridge was right for making me sit next to smelly Scott Warner in assembly, and yes, he did agree that my mother should let me stay up until gone nine o’clock. He always agreed with everything I said, which was very endearing and made me love him all the more.
    And I did love him, I think, in the idolising, dreamy way that makes it possible to love someone you have never met. He might not have been there in person, but he was part of me, and I was part of him, and somehow that gave me strength and a sense of belonging. I would look in the mirror and see a small nose and pointy chin which – because they definitely hadn’t come from my mother – must have come from him. He was there in my beret, my map of France, my love of cheese triangles, and he was there in the mirror’s reflection, looking right back at me.
    One day, inevitably, the mirror broke. Smashed into a thousand tiny, painful, splinters. If I hadn’t loved him so much then perhaps it wouldn’t have been so hard, but losing the respect of my peers was nothing compared to losing my father.
    It happened in my first week at Millbrook Comprehensive, in Madame Emily’s French class. I had never had the opportunity to learn French before, but I knew I was bound to be a natural. After all, it was in my blood.
    â€˜Right class, who already knows some French?’
    My hand shot up. I did! I did!
    Finally, away from the rest of Red Class, I had the opportunity to make new friends, to impress people with my knowledge instead of spouting ridiculous stories. It had been some time since I had turned my back on fiction in the pursuit of all that was good and true, but my reputation had followed me around Elmbrook Primary like a bad smell until the very end. I heard the words they whispered about me: liar, fibber, tittle-tattle. Now I had the chance to start again. After an agonising wait while