The Liar

by Jennifer Wells

  *

  ‘I think a hospital birth would be wise,’ said George.

  ‘Hospital?’ I said, surprised.

  He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Well you know we expect complications. I could even get seconded to obstetrics for a bit while you are there. That kind of experience would put me in a good light with the hospital board. And, all things considered, it would be far more hygienic than a home birth. These new rubber sheets are all well and good but I’ve seen many a mattress ruined. We don’t want that to happen, do we? The stain would be impossible to remove.’

  The café on the green was hot and busy. George tried to hail the waitress but the noise from the kitchen was too loud and she turned her back on his raised hand. He rolled his eyes and started to recite a long list of bacteria, with names like Italian opera singers.

  I nodded, feeling too weak to argue. I was fed up with seven months of surprises from my body and, now, with my swollen stomach pushing out under the table, I just wanted the suffering to be over with; I did not care how or where.

  George had requested the table by the window but, rather than enjoying the view, I had to shade my eyes from the afternoon sun and fan myself with a napkin as my cheeks burned in the heat from the glass.

  At last the waitress came over. Her hair was smoothed under her cap and cut short and straight, just a jut of blonde below her ears, making her shoulders and neck look naked. Her dress hung limp from her angular collarbone and suddenly I felt clumsy and bloated next to her. She reeled off a list of cakes and pastries in the clipped accent that the wireless had made so popular in those days and George watched her attentively, his spectacles glinting in the afternoon sun as his head nodded up and down. I recognized the waitress as the sister of an old school friend, but I was relieved when her eyes glazed with the vacant politeness of serving staff. For the first time I realized that I would have been embarrassed to be recognized with George.

  I stared out the window, my forehead resting on the glass, trying to remember how life had been when I had lived in the small flat over my parents’ dress shop, just a few feet above where I now sat. I could sense the ghost of the old me – a young woman, wrapping herself in a bolt of the finest white lace and posing in front of the mirror with a bouquet of bunched taffeta. Back then I would have been proud to marry a doctor, an older man, but I did not feel any pride right now and suddenly my head felt like lead and my legs went numb, my stomach turning over as acid rose in my throat.

  ‘Just boys,’ said George.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over there on the green.’ A group of soldiers were stood smoking outside the Red Lion. ‘No idea,’ he continued. ‘Of course, they’ll never go through what we did. They are the lucky ones. There’s not much for an infantryman to do these days, just a bit of peace-keeping in benign places; Turkey or Russia, or there’s the Rhine Army of course. No, it’s nothing like it was before—’

  ‘I don’t feel well,’ I whispered. ‘I need some air.’ I stood up, the table shuddering across the floor as my belly rose under it.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m afraid we may have to leave, my wife is feeling unwell,’ I heard George say somewhere behind me, but by the time he got any attention I was out the door.

  I walked shakily to the bench under the oak tree and lowered myself down.

  George appeared from the café. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  I nodded, but only because I felt too weak to do much else.

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and get the car and drive you back home.’

  ‘George, it’s only a mile. I just got a bit too hot. I think if I sit here for a bit it will pass.’

  ‘No, no – you wait there.’

  I opened my mouth, not wanting to be alone if I passed out, but he was gone, striding off in the direction of St Cuthbert’s.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and felt better immediately. I closed my eyes and fanned my cheeks with my hand. Hospital might not be such a bad idea if I was going to feel any worse than this. Then I felt cool shade on my face.

  ‘Emma?’ He was just a silhouette as he bent over me; an army uniform and a face in shadow, but I knew his voice and, as he sat down next to me, I recognized the broadness of his shoulders and the awkwardness of his movements. ‘How are you?’ he asked, as if the answer was not obvious to both of us.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, swallowing my discomfort, ‘and you?’

  ‘Well, things didn’t go as planned,’ he said, holding out his arms to show his dull green fatigues.

  ‘The army!’ I said, starting to worry. ‘Surely you don’t need to…there must be something else…what about your business, the master tilers?’

  ‘I lost the money I’d saved,’ he said. ‘My family got into trouble, you see. I said they were a bad lot.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve still got the camera.’

  I thought it was an odd thing to say but then I realized that he was making an effort to mention things that we both knew about and I suddenly felt sad that I had never known him any better.

  ‘That’s good,’ I said but could not think of anything more.

  He smiled and I saw his eyes drop down to the bump under my dress then dart away quickly. I remembered when those eyes had roamed all over my body, when they could not break their gaze, and I realized how I must have changed. This bloated bourgeois housewife was no longer the free spirit who would make love among the violets. I was not his Violet Garbo – she was long gone.

  ‘Oh well, the army is not for ever,’ he said, and when I did not smile added: ‘just for a very long time.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please just take care, for me and..’ but I never finished the sentence. There were things that I could not tell him, things that I was afraid he would ask - how long I had to go, and when I had resumed relations with George- they were questions that I would have struggled to answer. And then he leant forward a little and, for a moment, I thought that he might ask me after all, and then maybe ask me to run away with him, to escape the army and the drudgery of life, to start afresh in Le Touquet, where the waters were crystal blue and nobody cared if we were soldiers, doctor’s wives or adulterers.

  But his words never came and then I saw our new red Austin pull up at the side of the green. I looked up at Peter and opened my mouth, suddenly remembering all the things that I wanted to ask him; who he was, where he was going, if I would see him again, but the time had passed too quickly.

  George jumped out of the car and ran over to me, looking defensively at the soldier.

  ‘George, can I introduce you to a family friend,’ I said quickly, reciting the line I had rehearsed for such an occasion all those months ago. ‘Our mothers were at school together.’

  George stood open-mouthed. ‘Well, does your family friend have a name?’

  ‘Wilfred,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Dr Marks,’ said George, holding out his hand. ‘How do you do?’

  There was an awkward silence as they shook hands.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ said Peter at last.

  ‘Where are you off to, Wilfred?’

  ‘Oxworth way,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’m on leave.’

  ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed George. ‘Were you planning to take the train? It would be quicker to take a bus from the lido. My wife and I will give you a lift as far as our house. We are near Missensham Lido. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I know that road well,’ he said, his eyes meeting mine.

  ‘Good, Good!’

  ‘No!’ I mouthed, but George was already opening the car door and waving Peter inside.

  I sat next to George with Peter behind me on the back seat. The engine growled as George wrestled with the gears on the bumpy roads of the old village. Now and then George would make a comment about the state of the highway or the peculiarly warm weather, each time looking over his shoulder so that Peter knew he was being addressed. At St Cuthbert’s a horse-drawn wa
gon pulled out in front of us, making the journey painfully slow.

  All the time I could sense Peter behind me, his presence filling the cabin. My back felt warm from his stare and the familiar musk of his skin filled my nostrils. The tension that I had felt in my body since his arrival seemed to have cured my nausea but now I felt heavy inside and my eyes weary, as if I had not slept for days.

  ‘Of course I was an army man myself,’ said George. ‘A Regimental Medical Officer in the Great War, shrapnel wound almost as soon as I got out there, I’m afraid. Happened in a stationary hospital in Amiens. Wouldn’t have happened if those bloody French had got their act together. That was it for me, shipped back to Blighty. Then spent the rest of the war in a hospital bed unfortunately, very disappointed not to have done more, still, I will do anything to help out a fellow soldier.’

  I stared at him in amazement. I had never heard George talk like this. He never mentioned what had happened to him in the war, not to anyone but me and even then it was to illustrate case studies of epidemics and treatments always ending in a long list of wounds and infections. And he’d never shown any kind of comradeship with his fellow man, yet somehow he seemed to take a shine to Peter. I felt sorry for him, but not until much later of course – poor George!

  ‘Things aren’t as bad as they were in those days, though,’ continued George. ‘It’s all about making peace now, not war. And there’s little threat from our foreign cousins.’

  ‘Our unit is to be stationed abroad,’ said Peter suddenly. ‘We’ve not been told where.’

  I felt myself go cold and I must have gasped because George turned to me. ‘All right, old girl. A crumb gone down the wrong way?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I whispered.

  I had never intended to contact Peter, yet I’d thought about him constantly, especially on those dull days when I was alone and the housework had become monotonous. Those days when I would wander into the living room, open Mrs Beeton and finger the violets pressed between the pages. They had been my reminder, my little bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, we could escape one day, escape to another life together.

  George seemed greatly excited, he made the little cough he did before he said something clever and then repeated the list of postings he’d mentioned in the café; Russia, Turkey, the Rhine Army. Oh God! George had dismissed them a few minutes ago – benign places he had said, nothing like it was before. But now when I heard those words spoken again, they sounded so distant and so final. Then I saw Peter’s eyes reflected in the windscreen mirror, the sharp blue piercing through the glass. I looked away quickly, feeling hollow inside.

  We dropped Peter off at the war memorial. I turned and watched him as we drove away. He stood at the foot of the cross, not moving, not putting on his jacket nor lighting a cigarette. He just stood watching me as I watched him. He already seemed like a ghost, a man seen only through glass, one of the fallen haunting his name on the stone. I kept my eyes on him until he shrank into the distance. We drove the rest of the street in silence.

  At Little Willow George stopped the car. ‘Now, why are you crying?’ he said.

  29

  Audrey was wearing the yellow concertina hat again. She ran through the hallway too distracted to remove it as she poked her head into the lounge, the study and then the dining room, letting out little squeals and laughs as she pointed out a newly painted wall or an altered light fitting, the wings of the yellow taffeta flapping with excitement.

  ‘Ooh!’ she cried. ‘Five places set at the table. We have a mystery guest!’

  ‘I have to see to the pie,’ I said quickly. ‘I think I can smell it burning.’

  Audrey followed me into the kitchen. ‘It’s not the vicar, is it? Or that dreadful woman from the historical society—’

  I turned the oven down. ‘No, Audrey.’

  She trailed behind me as I walked into the lounge. Walter put a firm hand on her shoulder and extracted the hat from her head.

  ‘—or anybody from last year’s Hospital Ball committee, we’ve got our work cut out this evening, these society events can be such a bugger to organize.’

  Supper had been George’s idea. He had thought it would be a good way to meet up with friends and finalise the plans for the Hospital Ball. He was on the committee this year - there was still a lot to be done and Audrey had already been such a willing helper. There were place settings to arrange he said, food to orders to confirm, not forgetting drink. Then there was the music, the decorations, the cutlery, the crockery, table settings, napkins, canapés… his list had gone on for so long that I had started to daydream, lost in my own little world as his voice droned on it the background. Then he had stopped suddenly and put his hand on my knee, saying that, most importantly, preparations for the ball would help me take my mind off things.

  ‘I know!’ squealed Audrey. ‘It’s Wallace Simpson, I know for a fact that she loves a bit of shepherd’s pie!’ She laughed, turning to us one after another like an excited puppy. I blanked her and George looked at his feet.

  ‘Oh, you are keeping us in suspense,’ she said but then her laughter trailed off and she stared at the figure in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Ruby,’ I said.

  *

  Ruby sat bolt upright at dinner, her back straight as if trained by a broom handle. She wore a thin summer smock with bare arms and her hair tied back with a bright carmine ribbon. I marvelled at how fragile she looked. The light from the setting sun made her skin translucent, a vein under the birthmark pulsing red like a wound.

  She ate delicately, without pleasure as if the tiny mouthfuls would choke her, a small frown crossing her face when she considered where to place her dirty knife or how to balance peas on the back of her fork.

  Audrey stared unapologetically, her eyes wide and her lips forming a perfect red ring. She had been unusually quiet after meeting Ruby and accepted my explanation of the charitable favour without question but also, I noted, without approval. George and Walter discussed work matters between forkfuls of pie, looking up only occasionally to gauge the other’s reaction to a point or query as if unaware of the ghost at the table.

  Their conversation soon turned to the Oxworth General Fundraising Ball and how important it was this year. The hospital was in desperate need of new equipment – new-fangled sluices and autoclaves as well as more incubators for the maternity unit. The latest technology did not come cheaply of course. And the need for a new operating theatre did not even need to be mentioned. Despite everyone’s best efforts, TB was still a persistent problem, there might not be enough money for a separate sanatorium, but a new pulmonary ward could be constructed, away from the main building. More budget was needed for midwives and nursing staff, some were being forced to come out of retirement and work the vacant shifts; it wasn’t an ideal situation and they couldn’t make-do for ever. And then there were the almshouses on the Oxworth Road which accommodated the retired nurses; the upkeep could not be afforded, they would have to be demolished, but this itself would cost money….

  I rolled my eyes at Ruby and waved my hand in front of an imaginary yawn but her head remained down and she did not notice.

  At last Walter started to make a rather forced attempt at general conversation, asking if Ruby liked to play backgammon, the names of her brothers, the best buy at the sweet shop when you only had a penny, what she thought of the works of A.A. Milne, whether she had been on the underground. With each question he would look at me, his eyebrows raised, and I would be forced to answer for her. I spoke enthusiastically, but was exhausted by his questions. Ruby was silent but sometimes she nodded and smiled and I put my arm round her proudly.

  ‘Of course, catching the Tube from Missensham doesn’t mean you have to stop at London,’ said Walter. ‘One can get a connection to places such as Brighton also.’ He dipped his head to Ruby’s level but continued to look at me. ‘Did you know, young lady, that Emma and George went to Brighton on honeymoon? And back in those days the journey took nine hou
rs!’

  ‘But there’s not just the South East,’ I said, ‘there are other connections too. You only need to go to Paddington for a connection as far as Cornwall and then there is the East Coast line all the way up to Edinburgh and there’s connections to Dover and the boat trains. In a way we are even connected to Calais, or Le Touquet.’

  Walter stared at me. ‘Le Touquet? Blimey, Emma, that’s a bit exotic, have you ever been?’

  ‘No,’ I said, unable to hide my blushes as I remembered the visits I had dreamt of with Peter.

  Ruby’s knife slid onto the tablecloth, a little drop of gravy sinking into the linen. George’s eyes became fixed on the spot, his eyebrows low and his jaw twitching.

  ‘Le Touquet, George!’ said Walter.

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘You’re old lady has plans!’

  George looked at him blankly. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ His eyes darting back to the spot of gravy and the person who had made it.

  ‘Is that a ruby?’

  Everyone stopped and turned their heads. Ruby was pointing at Audrey’s neckline. Audrey clasped her hand to her chest in delight. ‘Oh, it is!’ she said. She held out the necklace in front of Ruby. ‘From deepest Burma!’ She wafted her hands over her plate. ‘And these rings are citrines. And let me tell you about the bracelet, that was my grandmother’s and she was a very grand old lady…’

  I watched Ruby. She was nodding politely but not sharing Audrey’s delight.

  Walter leaned in close, his mouth to my ear. ‘Who is Ruby’s mother?’ he said quietly. Then he stared at me, his eyes lingering a bit too long.