My mother is a storyteller. That's what I always think of when I think of her. Actually she's a video game developer, and a very successful one at that, but she always made sure that stories were a part of my childhood.
I never had a Dad. He left Mum when I was very little. I won't pretend that she never struggled, or missed him, or made mistakes, but she was so strong by herself. We were mother and daughter, Lex and Rosie, against the world. And that was just the way I liked it.
She told me stories every night. When she read me The Three Billy Goats Gruff, she would put on the voices of all the characters. The bleats of the goats, and the growl of the troll under the bridge. That one was my favourite. All she had to do was screw up her face and growl "Who's that trip-trapping over MY bridge?!" and my five-year-old self would be in hysterics. When she read me Harry Potter, she cheered along with my seven-year-old self as Harry caught the snitch. When she read me Matilda, she beamed at me from over the pages of the book, and my nine-year-old self was as enthusiastic as her over this magical little girl.
Yes, reading the books was all very well, but Mum's best stories were the ones she made up herself. Maybe it was because of her job - which was both highly creative and incredibly scientific - but she was able to tell these amazingly imaginative stories, but in meticulous detail, as though they were real. That's quite a skill.
My favourite stories were about Dinosaur Island, a fabulous place that she made up and that was my childhood second home. The story started with a girl and her younger brother going to visit their grandfather, an amazing scientist who had been able to create dinosaurs in real life. Mum even told me exactly how he'd done this - something to do with mosquitoes and tree sap that always sounded clever but rather far-fetched. Then the girl and her brother and a bunch of scientists got driven round to see the dinosaurs. The story changed a little here: sometimes there were no dinosaurs to be seen (those must have been the nights when she was tired and couldn't be bothered) and sometimes she would go into great detail about all the different ones the group saw there.
Then the story would take a weird turn - a scary turn. A T-rex would come out and attack the girl and her brother, and they'd only narrowly escape. When she told that bit, her skin would go pale, and her eyes widen in genuine fear. As though she was scaring herself as much as me. I always wanted to tell her to stop, especially when the T-rex would start crushing the jeep with the children inside it, but she seemed to forget I was even there.
When my Mum's brother, Uncle Timmy - an actual paleontologist - came round, I would tell him about the story. He'd laugh, then do that little 'looking over both shoulders' thing that people do before they tell someone something private. "Can you keep a secret?" he'd say. I'd nod. Then, he'd say "It's all true! Every word! The girl and her brother - that's your Mum and I!"
"Don't be stupid, Uncle Timmy.", I'd reply. This was, after all, the same man who once convinced me that he was an alien from a distant planet. Everything he said was to be taken with a pinch of salt.
Of course Timmy was making it up. They both were. But when I think back sometimes, to my mother's face, I'm inclined to believe that it was all too detailed to have been made up.
But that's crazy.
