The Storyteller's Daughter Read Online Free Page B

bursting into tears. I didn’t want to insult my dead father’s name. Is that what I was doing? I just wanted to know the truth, that was all. Not only was I angry and confused, but now I was overwhelmed with guilt. I was a terrible daughter. If my father was always with me then he must have heard me questioning his very existence. How hurt he must have felt! But my mother had clearly lied to me about their meeting, so how was I to know what other lies she had told me about him? Thinking about it logically, which was the way I tried to think about everything nowadays, was it likely that my mother had free-wheeled on her bicycle into Cambridge city centre one magical evening, and that the scent of my father had carried on the breeze, and that… oh, of course it wasn’t! Nothing about it seemed likely. I couldn’t believe that having so scrupulously monitored my habits, my words, and my very thoughts over the last couple of years, I had let the fantasy of my own father slip through the net. I had failed in my mission to rid myself of all non-sensible thoughts, and look what had happened. I had made myself a laughing stock once more. With tears streaming down my face I ripped the map of France from my wall and tore it to pieces. It was all a lie. There was no-one watching over me, and there never had been. The features that I saw reflected in the mirror could have been anybody’s. But even as I stamped on the shredded map and pinched myself for having been so deluded, I sobbed for the loss of my father like I had never sobbed before.
    â€˜Why don’t you ever bring your friends home for tea?’ my mother would ask me. ‘I’d love to meet them. I could make some lovely muffins. Or some little fairy cakes.’
    â€˜I don’t have any friends,’ I would tell her, grumpily, which wasn’t entirely true. I had Gary, Peter, and Sarah from the lunchtime science club, but they were all united in their love of Star Trek , and insisted in communicating in some made-up language they called Cling-On, which not only made me feel excluded, but also resulted in a lot of misunderstandings, making our lunchtime science experiments extremely hazardous. When they did speak English we often argued about the dangers of science fiction, but three against one made it a very uneven debate. I couldn’t understand how such sensible, intelligent and rational people could allow themselves to be corrupted by a fantasy world full of flying saucers and alien beings. The very fact that they insisted in speaking in a made-up language and appeared to worship someone called Dr Spot was evidence of their corruption. Their fictional world was destroying them day by day, like a maggot eating away at their brains.
    But the truth is that even if I had wanted to invite them home, I never would have dared. I had already made the mistake of inviting Lucy Higgins home after a few weeks at secondary school, and my mother had completely confused her.
    â€˜Those wretched hot dogs have been barking in the cupboard all afternoon,’ she told Lucy, placing our tea down on the table in front of us. ‘I expect they wanted to go out for a walk, but I’ve tried walking a hot dog before and it’s very difficult to get a collar that fits. Usually they slip off the lead and jump into a muddy puddle to cool themselves down. I’m sure your mother must have the same problem.’
    When Lucy asked me if my mother was ‘mental’ I decided that it was probably better not to invite people home again.
    Embarrassment, anger and guilt are the main feelings I recall from adolescence, but perhaps that isn’t so unusual. Parents’ evenings, particularly, were anticipated with dread. I still remember the time my mother told Mr Lees – the trainee biology teacher and object of my affection – that eating chilli con carne during her pregnancy was certainly the cause of my occasional temper