The Traveller’s Daughter. Michelle Vernal

hear the fast beat of an old nineties song. She recognized the dance hit, ‘What is Love?’ The lyrics ran through her mind as she shouted, “Yas, you need to stop doing squats or rolling around on a Swiss ball or whatever it is you are doing. Pay attention to what I am going to tell you, okay?” Only Yas would have a pocket for her phone in amongst all her Lycra sports gear she thought. Mind you, only Yasmin was enough of a gym bunny to go and do a workout after the crazy time she’d risen that morning.

      “Okay chill out, Kitty.” Her breath was coming in short, rapid bursts. “I know it must be weird being at your mum’s old house for the last time, but do you remember those yoga poses I showed you? Well, you need to go and salute the sun or get into the downward dog pose or something because it will calm you down.”

      “There is no bloody sun; it’s drizzling and it’s not that–”

      Yasmin was on a roll, though. “Well, you don’t need to stress about things here because the morning sped by and yes, your regulars did miss you. A young lad bought two Vanilla Kisses and said to tell you he’s back on with his girl. He reckons whatever your secret ingredient is it’s better than oysters. He had a right swagger in his step.”

      Kitty frowned; she hoped her cakes weren’t encouraging underage shenanigans – he only looked to be sixteen. “Good, that’s great, but Yas listen–”

      “And I’d sold out completely by midday, so I packed up and came to the gym. I needed to after all that icing I licked off the spoon this morning. I knew if I went back to the flat I’d go straight to sleep and not wake up until the wee hours of Sunday morning. That’s if Paula didn’t decide to draw her blinds and shut the bedroom door for another of her Saturday afternoon sessions with that slimy little git, Steve, she’s been seeing.” There was a gagging sound down the phone. “Yuck, the thought of it.”

      “Yas, would you shut up for a minute and let me talk!”

      “Alright, alright hang on, one, two, three, clench and release.”

      Kitty rolled her eyes; she didn’t want to know what kind of exercise her friend was doing.

      “One, two, three, clench and release – all done, thank God. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow after that last lot. Hang on while I grab a drink.”

      Kitty held the phone away from her ear but could still hear the glug, glugging noise that followed.

      “That’s better. It’s important to keep hydrated with good old H20 you know. Give me one more sec and I’m all yours.”

      When she came back on the phone, Kitty couldn’t hear the pounding beat in the background anymore just the sound of running water.

      “I’m in the changing room. So come on then, spill.”

      “I have just gotten the most out there Facebook message.”

      “Delete it; there’re all sorts of weirdo’s in cyberspace. I once had a complete random, some chicken farmer from Devon sent me a friend request. I mean it’s not as though Facebook is a dating app and more to the point I don’t even like eggs.”

      Kitty shook her head.

      “No, not weird like that. Just listen, this French photographer called Christian something or other French-sounding says that he took a photograph that became quite famous of my mother with her boyfriend. Who, by the way, was not my dad but some guy called Michael, in a French town back in 1965. He reckons Tres Belle, you know the fashion magazine–”

      There was a loud squeal, and Kitty held the phone away from her ear. “Oh, I love Tres Belle! Watch this space because one day my designs are going to be all through its pages.”

      “I don’t doubt it, but for now the magazine has commissioned this Christian fella to recreate the same scene in the photo he took back in 1965. It was called Midsummer Lovers which is kind of a gross title for a photograph with my mum in it. He wants me to pose for it along with the nephew of mum’s old boyfriend to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the original being taken.”

      “What? Repeat all that and slower this time? Much slower.”

      Kitty repeated what she had just said, and there was a moment’s silence as Yasmin processed what she’d been told. “Okay, so firstly I’m thinking how did this French guy find you and secondly, what was your mum doing in France in 1965? I thought she was Irish.”

      “She was, though she’d spent the best part of her life here so in a way she was more English than Irish. She never lost her accent, though, and she was always saying these mad Irish things like it’s no use boiling your cabbage twice. I have no idea what she was doing in France or who this Michael was either.” Kitty did a quick mental calculation. “She’d have only been about sixteen in 1965. Christ, if I’d swanned off to the Continent with a boyfriend at that age she would have killed me! She never mentioned anything about having spent time in France; my parents were Majorca package holiday devotees.” Kitty frowned, picking a bit of carpet fluff off the dark denim of her jeans. “I’ve told you how Mum’s life prior to meeting Dad was a closed book. Anything before the age of nineteen was a no-go zone that she refused to talk about, no matter how many times I asked her to. She’d just tell me her childhood was uneventful so therefore it was not worth talking about.”

      “Yeah you’ve told me, it’s well weird that.” Yasmin’s voice was muffled, and Kitty pictured her cradling the phone between her chin and shoulder as she undid her laces.

      “You didn’t know my mum, she wasn’t weird, just as stubborn as they come and if she made her mind up about something, then that was it, end of story.”

      “Still, you don’t believe all that crap about her childhood being uneventful, do you because otherwise why all the secrecy?” Kitty could hear Yasmin unlocking her locker. Probably fishing her bag out of it with her spare hand. Kitty’s mother had been an enigma, unlike Yasmin’s mum with her hard face and dodgy back that got noticeably worse whenever she’d dragged her brood into the local benefits office to sign on for the sickness.

      Yasmin’s childhood had been so very different to Kitty’s quiet and civilised upbringing. She’d grown up in a council flat fit to burst with half-brothers and sisters in Hatfield. There hadn’t been much in the way of money, but there was plenty in the way of noise. Their reasons for coming to London were so very different too. Yasmin’s had been to escape that noise for a while. She wanted to make her way in the world far away from the council estate existence she’d always known. Kitty’s had been to put as much distance as she could between herself and her ex, Damien, who lived in a posh Manchester apartment.

      Both women had their dreams, though, and this was the common denominator that brought them together and sealed their friendship. Kitty’s was to open her cupcake café, and Yasmin’s was working towards designing her clothing label. One day, she would often say, the High Street stores she loved to browse, fingering the newest fabrics and imagining how she would improve the latest looks, would be stocking her brand. The models would be wearing her signature twist on the rockabilly look as they showed off her designs at London Fashion Week. They would strut their stuff down the catwalk to the tune of her all-time favourite performer, Elvis, after which they would spend their morning tea breaks at Kitty’s gorgeous little café. Slamming the locker door shut before sitting down on the bench, Yasmin asked, “Have you seen it, this photograph I mean?”

      “No.”

      “Didn’t he attach it?”

      “He did, I just haven’t opened it yet.”

      “Why the hell not?”

      Kitty cringed. “Don’t shout, Yas and I haven’t opened it because I am scared. This is the first real clue to my mother’s past I have ever had.”

      “All the more reason you need to open it!”

      “I know, I want to, I just can’t seem to make myself do it. I wish you were here with me, and I wish I could bake. Baking always calms me down.”

      “Right,