The Storyteller's Daughter Read Free Page A

caught up with them I was too exhausted to cook them and we ended up having egg on toast for dinner instead.’
    â€˜But beans don’t run,’ I persisted.
    â€˜Huh! You try telling them that!’
    Suffice to say that by the age of eight I was confused. Could I trust my mother? Could I trust my own mind? Only one thing was for sure: never again would I humiliate myself by talking about things that might not be true. Even if there was only the tiniest chance that something might not be true I would hesitate before saying it. I would weigh everything up first, use every bit of knowledge and reasoning I had, and then try to come to a sensible conclusion. Only when I was one hundred percent sure that my views were logical and right would I give voice to them, and that way nobody could ever call me a liar again. And nobody would be able to laugh at me.
    In a fit of over-zealousness I threw out my dolls and packed away my story books in an attempt to rid my life of any make believe that might contaminate my mind. I pinched myself each time I daydreamed as a form of punishment. I listened to my mother’s stories with nothing more than polite detachment, and sat alone on the wall at break times watching my classmates with distain as they ran around pretending to be ponies and princesses. They didn’t understand the danger they were in, teetering on the edge of fantasy worlds that threatened to pull them in and drag them under, sapping them of any logic and making them laughing stocks.
    But I knew. I had seen the dark gulf between fiction and reality and there was no way I was going to be dragged down into the abyss.
    I had, without knowing it, already decided to become a scientist.

Chapter 2
    One dark and magical evening, my parents’ eyes first met over a tray of croissants somewhere in the middle of Cambridge city centre.
    â€˜I had been at the library,’ my mother always tells me, ‘studying for my English O-level exam. I should have been home hours ago, but I had completely lost myself in Wuthering Heights . The romance, the anguish, the tragedy, the undying love! Well, the next thing I knew an agitated librarian was turning out the lights and ordering me to leave, fretting that she was going to miss the start of University Challenge . When I emerged from the library, darkness had already fallen, and knowing that I would be in for a scolding when I arrived home, I jumped on my bicycle and started to pedal as fast as I could go.
    â€˜As I was cycling alongside the river I noticed how brightly the moon hung in the sky that evening, and how the stars seemed to be winking at me one by one. I slowed down, mesmerised by the moonlight glistening on the water, illuminating the white swans that bobbed on the surface, their heads nestled beneath their folded wings. The air was still and the night was silent, the only sound the gentle grind of the gravel beneath my tyres. My skin tingled with anticipation. It felt like an evening for wizardry and wonders, ripe for magic and enchantment. I should have carried on along the river path towards home, but the bulrushes seemed to whisper to me, and the branches of a horse chestnut tree beckoned me towards the bridge. An owl hooted a warning, telling me to hurry home, but on the other side of the river a toad croaked an invitation to cross the bridge, and a single star flashed in the sky like a beacon luring me over to the other side.
    â€˜Just then the most scrumptious scent overwhelmed my senses, making me so woozy that I nearly fell off my bicycle. Hot butterscotch, toasted almonds, spiced teacake, dark rum, treacle tart… I tried to keep my handlebars straight, but my bicycle was like a thing possessed, and started veering off towards the bridge. I tried to fight it, but the delicious scent was intoxicating, and before long I let go of my handle bars altogether, closed my eyes and found myself free-wheeling over the bridge and towards the city