The Storyteller's Daughter (9 page)

“Lots of people,” he says, matter-of-factly. “People always have done. All over the world people believe they can communicate with trees. Tree spirits play a role in all kinds of cultures. Native American, Hindu, Celtic… ”

“That's only because those cultures still cling onto primitive ideas,” I tell him, authoritatively, determined that he will be the one who comes out of this feeling silly and not me. “This is twenty-first century Britain. If you want a tree to grow try using chemicals, don't waste time talking to it.”

“Chemicals are nowhere near as effective as a few gentle words of encouragement and some stroking.”

“Stroking? You are kidding… ”

He shakes his head. “Honestly, you can't beat it.”

“And how exactly does that help a tree grow?”

He shakes his head and looks thoughtful, as if this is a question that has been a source of fascination and confusion to him for a long time. “I don't know how
exactly –
”

I let out a loud sigh of despair. If there's one thing I can't stand it's these new-age hippy types, people who go around hugging trees and banging on about vibes and spirits and souls and energy, as if they have any idea what energy – in the true scientific use of the word – actually means. People who claim that ghosts exist and telepathy works without ever being able to back up their argument with any proper data or scientific explanation, and who base their ‘knowledge' on nothing more than a ‘hunch' or a ‘feeling'.

“Trees don't have souls or spirits, and they certainly can't understand you,” I tell him. “It's all nonsense.”

Rather than defending himself, as I would in his position, he just shrugs. Clearly my opinion doesn't matter much to him either way, and he is happy enough to persist in his unfounded beliefs in spite of me. I have never understood how people can be like that and I find it both confusing and frustrating. Surely if someone challenges your ideas then the aim of the game is to prove that you are right and they are wrong.

“Well,” he says casually, “there's nothing wrong with a bit of nonsense now and then. I reckon we all need a bit of nonsense in our lives from time to time, don't you?”

He looks at me with a slight smile, his chestnut eyes twinkling playfully in the bright sunlight. Of course we don't need nonsense in our lives, I think. What would be the point in that? He is being ridiculous. And yet for some reason I find that
I
am the one who is blushing!

“The whole garden's in chaos,” I tell him, quickly, “you shouldn't be wasting your time worrying about one tree. I'm sure my mother isn't bothered about a few measly apples.”

“Measly!” He exclaims in mock-outrage. “How can you say that? Apples are never measly.”

He gently twists off one of the small green apples hanging from the branch of a nearby tree and holds it up, watching the sunlight glisten on its waxy skin.

“Look at that,” he says, in the way that anyone else might marvel over an original Monet. “Perfect.”

He holds it out to me in his grubby palm and I take it reluctantly, looking at it with contempt.

“People have journeyed far and wide for a few measly apples, as you call them,” he says, “just look at Hercules.”

“I'm not interested in comic books,” I tell him.

For some reason he seems to find this comment amusing. In fact, he actually laughs. I have no idea what I might have said that's so funny, and if there's one thing I can't stand it's people laughing at me. Particularly when I don't even know why.

“What's so funny?” I ask, annoyed.

“It's not a comic book,” he explains, “Hercules was a divine hero from Greek mythology who was set twelve labours, and his eleventh labour was to fetch some apples that grew in a walled garden in a far western land.”

He watches my face for a sign of recognition, as if I should know what he's talking about. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and look bored to show that these silly stories are beneath me. I am hardly going to feel embarrassed that I don't know about some fairytale. In fact, I see my lack of knowledge in these areas a sign of superior intellect, evidence that I have had far more important things to be thinking about. Anyone who knows fairy tales off by heart has clearly had a wasted youth.

The gardener strokes the sickly-looking branches of the timid tree and continues his story, although I'm not entirely sure if he's telling it for my benefit or talking to the tree again.

“Hercules was set a test to fetch some apples that grew in a walled garden in a far western land. On his way, he came across Prometheus, who had been chained to a rock by the God Zeus as punishment for giving fire to man. Every single day an eagle would come and eat Prometheus's liver, which would then grow in the night only to be eaten again the next day. Hercules was appalled by such suffering, so he fired an arrow at the eagle, killing it, and released Prometheus from his chains. Prometheus was eternally grateful and he warned Hercules to be careful in his quest to fetch the apples. Any mortal man who entered the walled garden, he said, would certainly be killed by the dragon who lived inside. He advised Hercules to ask Atlas to enter the garden on his behalf, as Atlas was immortal and so could fetch the apples without fear of death.

“After a hard trek through the mountains, Hercules finally reached the walled garden. Outside he found Atlas, who was holding the heavens on his shoulders as punishment for waging war against Zeus.

“‘If you go into the garden and fetch the apples for me,' Hercules told him, ‘then I'll hold the weight of the heavens on my shoulders for you while you go inside.'

“Atlas liked the idea of handing over the weight of the heavens for a while, so he agreed. He handed the heavens over to Hercules before going into the walled garden, where he fought the dragon and fetched the apples. But when he came back and saw Hercules struggling to hold up the heavens he realised he would be mad to take that burden back.

“‘You can keep the heavens,' he told Hercules, ‘and I'll keep the apples.'

“Hercules had to think quickly. He pretended to agree to the deal, and promised Atlas that if he would just take the heavens back for a minute while he went and got a pillow to make himself comfortable then he would come straight back and take the weight of the heavens forever more. Atlas, trusting Hercules was good to his word, agreed to take the heavens back for a moment, but as soon as he did, Hercules grabbed the apples and ran away, leaving Atlas cursing after him.”

The gardener strokes the tree dreamily, seemingly lost in thought.

“That's one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard,” I tell him.

He shrugs, as if being called ridiculous is no big deal, as if it doesn't even matter to him that I find him absurd.

“It just shows what some people will do for a few measly apples,” he says.

“It doesn't show anything. In fact, it doesn't even make sense. There are so many inconsistencies. For a start, there's no evidence for the existence of Gods. Or dragons. And even if you believed that heaven existed – which I don't – it certainly wouldn't exist in a tangible format that could be held on one's shoulders. Plus, nobody's liver re-grows over night. It's anatomically impossible. In fact, that Prometheus fellow would have died the first time the eagle came and attacked his liver, and if he hadn't died he would certainly have been in need of urgent medical attention. Hercules should have been fetching the paramedics instead of worrying about a load of old apples.”

The gardener is smiling, clearly finding something amusing. His eyes flit curiously across my face, as if he's trying to figure me out.

“You're right,” he says, with mock approval, “those are all very sensible points. I guess whoever came up with that story hadn't really thought things through.”

“People who find pleasure in such stories rarely do think things through,” I tell him.

“It wouldn't make much of a story though, would it, if you took out the Gods, and the dragon and the eagle and heaven? You'd really just be left with a bloke going out to pick some apples and then going home again.”

“Well, what would be wrong with that?” I ask, not seeing the problem. “If people feel the need to tell these stories then the least they can do is make them reflect real life.”

The gardener frowns, as if I've missed the point. “But stories are meant to take you away from real life. To help you escape from reality.”

“Why would you want to escape from reality?” I ask him, feeling myself becoming annoyed.

The gardener scratches his head. “Well, because life can be tough. Sometimes it's good to escape, to just let yourself get lost in your imagination – ”

“Yes, you could get lost,” I tell him, adamantly, “that's exactly what could happen. Lost and not able to find your way back.” I can feel my heart starting to beat faster, and my voice becoming louder.

The gardener looks a little wary, and I sense this is not quite the reaction his story was meant to evoke.

“I'm not sure indulging in a bit of fantasy now and again can do much harm,” he says.

I can feel anger welling up in my chest. He doesn't know what he's talking about! If he thinks a little fantasy can't do any harm, that it's simple enjoyment, then he should try living my life for a day! If he thinks you can't get lost, somewhere between reality and fiction, then he should try living with my mother! But what's the point in telling him? How could I expect a man who talks to trees to possibly understand? He's already well on the wrong side of the breach between sanity and madness. I'm not going to waste any more of my time trying to make him see sense. I push the apple back into his hand.

“Keep it,” I say, rather haughtily, “I don't want it.”

He turns the apple over in his hand, clearly baffled by my abruptness, and I turn, furious at his ignorance, ready to stomp my way out of the orchard.

Instead, I immediately fall over and end up lying face down between the trunks of two trees, having completely forgotten about the netting tied around my feet.

“Are you – ”

“I'm fine, thank you,” I say before he even has time to approach me.

In frustration and embarrassment I tear angrily at the netting which rips loudly. I manage to free one leg so that the wad of netting is now only wrapped around one foot, where it remains stuck. Lifting myself off the ground, I dust myself off, hold my head high and make my exit out of the orchard, as if sporting a trendy new fashion accessory.

“He's an absolute idiot,” I tell Mark when he arrives that afternoon. “I mean, who in their right mind talks to trees? And then he started telling me some fairy story about apples and dragons and who knows what else!”

“He sounds a complete fool. And how much is your mother paying him?”

“Oh, I don't know. Too much. And he doesn't seem to actually be doing anything of any use. Apparently he just knocked on the door looking for work. He probably doesn't know anything about gardening. Probably just some traveller from that site near the A10. He could be a criminal for all we know!”

Mark uncorks the expensive wine he has brought and places the bottle on the kitchen table, while I slam knives and forks down into wonky place settings and Mark follows me round straightening them.

“Well, you
did
say you wanted your mother to get a gardener.”

“Not this one.”

He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me towards him.

“Forget him. How are you doing?”

I sigh and let myself fall against Mark's broad chest. I feel so safe in his arms, so protected, although of course I would never want him to know that. I barely like to admit it to myself. At twenty-one-years-old I shouldn't need anyone to protect me. I
don't
need anyone to protect me. It's just that sometimes…

“I'm doing fine,” I tell him, pulling myself up straight.

He smiles, proudly. “Of course you are,” he says patting my back heartily, “you're the most capable girl I know.”

A thought enters uninvited into my mind: And what if I wasn't capable? What if I fell apart at the seams? Would you still want to be with me? I push the thought out of my head, wondering where it came from.

“Mark! Lovely to see you!”

My mother enters the kitchen, drying her hair with a pink towel. Since Mark arrived she has been upstairs taking a very, very long bath. Although she insists otherwise, I have always had the impression that she isn't hugely fond of Mark, not in the all-embracing future-son-in-law way that I would like. I don't understand it. He's clever, tall, handsome, and from a good (fairly wealthy) family… what else could she want for me?

“You look wonderful!” she beams, drawing him in for a kiss.

“So do you,” he says unconvincingly, barely making an effort to disguise his shock at her altered appearance. He quickly draws away from her embrace, looking uncomfortable and slightly fearful. Mark has never been good with illness. It is linked in his mind with weakness, which is something he can't abide. I admire him for the importance he places on strength and resilience and like to think they are values we share, but he could be a bit more tactful.

“The flowers are for you,” he says, pointing at some beautiful, delicate white lilies he has neatly arranged in a glass vase on her behalf.

“Oh, lovely!” she beams, although I know she's not a fan of lilies. “It's so nice of you to bring Meggie's things down, although I can't understand why she needs quite so much. She's only extended her stay for a week, after all.”

As she opens the oven door, flaps at the smoke with her towel and examines the roast chicken, I feel Mark glaring at me. I refuse to meet his eye. I have not, as he insisted, managed to confront my mother's delusion. It has not occurred to her that I won't be going back to Leeds, given that in her eyes everything here is just hunky-dory. I know Mark thinks I should force her to face reality, but he doesn't understand how hard it is. Still, I sense his disappointment in me.