The Lie

by Helen Dunmore

  Felicia is speaking. ‘I’d be very grateful if you would look at the furnace for me,’ she says formally. I think she thinks that she’s offended me. I’ve been quiet a long time, I know that. It happens. I go back in my mind. It’s not the same thing as remembering, because it has colour and smell and taste. ‘But not tonight,’ she goes on, ‘it’s late. You must be tired.’

  I agree. I’m not tired, as it happens. I’m lit up, in spite of the cold. But it’s good about the furnace, because it gives me a reason to come back to the house. Besides, I have a hankering to get at that big cold mechanism and make it come to life. Felicia smiles. ‘You must have a drink before you leave,’ she says, and goes off to find a bottle of elderberry wine. Her father has taken the port wine and the spirits. A strange thing, to take the bottles and leave furniture behind.

  The bottle is encrusted, but when I draw the cork the wine pours out a clear dark ruby. It smells strong, not sweet. She has brought two little glasses, and I fill them both to just below the brim.

  The glass is so fine that I fear breaking it with my lips. The liquid slides down my gullet, warming me but making thoughts leap up that have been lying still. Felicia’s thin face takes on a little colour. She rests her elbows on the table and sips from the glass she holds in both hands.

  ‘What do you do, Felicia?’ I ask her.

  ‘I take care of Jeannie, of course, unless Mrs Quick can watch her for a while. In the evenings, when she’s in bed, I study mathematics.’

  I nod. I was always the best at school, but when she begins to talk I realise that I know nothing of what Felicia means by mathematics. She’s been reading the bulletin of a French mathematical society, she says. Fortunately, all those years of French at school have turned out to be good for something, because it means she can read the journals in the original. There’s a man called Fatou – Felicia’s hands grip the glass. Her eyes shine. Maybe it’s because I’m jealous of that sudden life in her that I say, ‘I didn’t think girls were interested in mathematics.’

  But I wish that I hadn’t, because her face hardens. She puts her glass down on the table.

  ‘In 1890, Philippa Fawcett scored thirteen per cent higher than the Senior Wrangler in the Cambridge Mathematical Tripos,’ she says.

  Why it should be so fine to be a Senior Wrangler, I have no idea. Usually I’d have bluffed it out.

  ‘What’s the Senior Wrangler?’

  ‘The person who gets the highest score in the examination.’

  ‘But you said that hers was higher.’

  ‘Yes. But because she was a woman, they couldn’t let her be the Senior Wrangler.’

  Wrangling, to me, means arguing. Clearly it does in Cambridge too.

  ‘Maybe they couldn’t let her be, but she was, and that’s a fact. There’s no arguing with thirteen per cent.’ I half mean it, half want to please Felicia. There’s something that I can’t bear in the thought of her evenings in that cold house, reading cold bulletins in French. A house with a baby ought not to be like that.

  ‘I know they wouldn’t accept me as an undergraduate, not with the baby,’ says Felicia. ‘I don’t think you can even go if you’re married. But there are open lectures, and you can get a tutor. They’re very poor, some of them, and they need to earn extra money.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it, then?’

  ‘What would I do with Jeannie?’

  ‘There’d be women to look after her in Cambridge, same as there are here, if you can pay them.’ Which she can, I know.

  ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘I should think it would.’ I don’t know why I’m trying to persuade her, since I don’t want her to leave. Maybe because deep down I know that she’s right, and they won’t have her, even at the open lectures. Not a woman who’s been married and got a baby, when there are so many men wanting work.

  ‘Anyway, I can’t leave here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Her eyes fill with tears as I watch. It’s uncanny. The wetness brims over the surface of her eye and gathers in the corner. The drop quivers but just doesn’t fall. I wish she would stop doing it.

  ‘If I go away from here,’ she says, ‘I won’t be in a place where Frederick has ever been.’

  I move back, and can’t help a sharp breath coming out of me, almost like a groan. If I’d known she was going to say that—

  ‘They say that the dead aren’t tied to one place,’ I say quickly, to stop her, and then I can’t help myself, a shiver runs all over me, so violently that my whole body shudders with it. It’s an awful ecstasy, and it feels like the first true thing that has happened this evening.

  Felicia looks at me intently. ‘Do you believe that?’

  I don’t answer. I think of the graveyard we dug at St Agathe, that grew bigger by the day. They would bring the bodies and lay them on the ground, each with a wooden cross on top of it, if there were crosses to be had. But often there was no time for that. We’d stick a piece of wood with a man’s name and number on it into the burial mound, if we knew them. But the Germans brought up their heavy artillery and shelled the graveyard to bits. So either the dead were killed twice, or they rose up, as the Bible says, in a shower of earth and flesh.

  ‘I didn’t thank you for your letter,’ says Felicia.

  I’d forgotten about that. I can’t even remember what I wrote. I wish she would stop looking at me like that, as if she’s looking into me, in search of something that I’ve seen and she hasn’t.

  ‘It was true, what you wrote, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was true.’

  She means the letter I sent her, when Frederick died. Full of lies. I addressed it only to her, not to the Dennises. They would have the official notification, and then an official letter, also full of lies. But the lies I wrote were better. They’d have convinced me, if I’d been Felicia.

  The camellias still show white as I go down the drive. There’s no moon but there is starlight. I decide it’s late enough and dark enough for me to go through the town without having to speak to anyone. The streets are mostly dark, but in one or two windows a light shows. A dog yaps and someone comes to the door and looks out. Ellen Tehidy. I stand back in the shadows. I can’t see her face, but I remember it exactly. Pale blue eyes, the kind that don’t carry expression. High red colour. I used to run past her door for fear of her. She had six children, and washed the little ones under the pump, even in winter. You’d hear them whimpering because they didn’t dare cry aloud. They knew what they’d get if they did. There she stands with the light behind her. A perfect outline: a sniper’s dream. You wouldn’t think there’d be such a thing in the world as a baby that’s taught itself not to cry.

  I’m on the cliff path, picking my way steadily, when I hear a sound behind me. I stop, and it stops too, then starts again. A stealthy scrabbling on the loose stones behind me, as if something – someone – is following. It’s some way off, and maybe I’m confusing it with all the noises of the hillside at night, above the sea. It could be a fox, crossing the path. I hear it again, coming closer. I stand rigid, willing the night to cover me. I am cold but sweating. Even my heart inside me seems to be sweating out terror, pouring it into my blood. I don’t turn. The noise scatters and scrabbles, like bones. It’s close.

  They say that the dead aren’t tied to one place.

  Do you believe that?

  I step backwards, very slowly, trying to keep my bearings in case I blunder over the cliff edge. The mariners worked the ship even though they were dead. That’s how much they wanted to come home.

  There’s a rush out of the dark and a thing buffets me, hot and hard, making me stagger. I kick out, roaring, and there’s a yelp. It’s a dog. It whines and bumps itself against me again, begging me to know it.

  It’s the collie bitch from Venton Awen. Lost, I suppose; out of her territory by night. Or perhaps she is a wanderer. I put my hand down to her and she licks it. I am grateful for the hot fleshiness of her, the smell and roughness of her coa
t, but I don’t want her following me home. I don’t want anyone to come looking for her. She doesn’t understand this, but sidles in close to me. I can’t kick her away in cold blood. The path runs very near the edge of the cliff here, and even on a quiet night the sea sounds louder than it does by day. My foot slips in a rattle of small stones and she pushes forward, between me and the edge, butting me away from the drop. She can see it all far better than I can, I suppose. For a second I yield. It feels good to give way and let her be my look-out. But it’s only for a second, before I catch myself.

  I will let her come home with me, then in the morning I’ll take her up to Venton Awen and tell them to keep her tied up at nights, or they’ll lose her over the cliffs.

  We walk on, and the noise of her claws on the rough ground covers any other sound that might be following us.

  7

  Hand grenades are held firmly in the hand behind the thrower, the arm is brought quickly upward with a sweeping movement (the arm straight all the time), the grenade will be let go when the hand is above the thrower’s head, and should describe a semicircle in its flight.

  Trench storming parties should kill or drive back the hostile occupants of a trench as quickly as possible, clear as much of the enemy trench as has been ordered, and then hold the portion cleared with as small loss as possible to themselves. It must be remembered that in trench clearing, and especially in deep and narrow trenches, only the head of the attacking party can directly kill, and seldom more than one man can throw at a time. Therefore it is essential that a constant supply of grenades reaches the thrower and that the places of casualties are automatically filled by reinforcements. Men must be trained until they can do this either by day or at night time.

  I HAVE NO food for a dog, but she doesn’t seem hungry. I light a candle as she turns herself round and round on the rag rug, digging herself in. She seems quite at ease. I put down a bowl of water and she laps it with her eyes on me. I watch her tongue paddling in the water. She’s thirsty but she is also playing, liking the touch of the water on her.

  She’ll have to go in the morning. I hold out my hand to her and she licks it thoroughly, back and palm, with her wet, rough tongue. I close my eyes. I am tired and I have the feeling that tonight I’ll sleep deeply. The wind is rising. Whoever built this cottage chose the site well, for the wind passes over the top of the roof rather than striking the building with its full force. Often, here, you might think you were halfway out to sea. I don’t like to be closed in. When you open the cottage door you see the hollowing curves of the land, like waves themselves, and beyond them the sea. Nothing stops your eye until the horizon, and often that is hidden by mist or rain, as if sea and sky are one thing. When the mist is down, you see nothing but what is at hand. The noise of the sea grows bigger, like a muffled drum.

  Tomorrow morning I’ll light the fire early, boil water and shave myself. I should visit the barber in Simonstown. I’ve tried to trim my hair, but it doesn’t look right. I don’t want a barber touching my head, moving it around.

  I get up, pour water from the jug into the basin and wash my face and hands. I go to the door and hurl the contents of the basin into the darkness, then I blow out the candle and wrap myself in my blanket. The dog settles as close to the bed as she can be, and shuffles herself into a sleeping position. She’s a farm collie and she won’t sleep deeply. She’ll have one ear cocked for danger all night.

  We sleep. I drop down, like a diver who has learned the secret of breathing underwater. Whatever surrounds me, air or water, it tastes sweet. In my dream someone gives me a bunch of marigolds. I take them and hold them to my nose. They are spicy and acrid. I hold them to my nose because if you have flowers then you won’t smell anything else especially sharp flowers flowers like lavender roses won’t do it and lilies smell of rot you need hundreds and thousands of marigolds or more millions even you could bury yourself in them but still the smell would come through—

  It’s the dog whining that wakes me. I am fighting my way up through petals which have grown as big as dinner plates. She’s scrabbling at the bed, trying to get up. The blanket is tight around me, trapping me. That’s why I dreamed. I’m sweating. The dog’s whining is frenzied now. She is jumping at the bed, trying to get to me, and in a rush she succeeds and she is all over me, palpitating, terrified.

  I get a hold of her. ‘Steady,’ I say, ‘steady there,’ as if she’s a horse turned crazy by a bombardment. She’s so frantic I fear she’ll bite me as she burrows into the blankets. I need to light the candle but I can’t get at the matches.

  The whining stops. She starts to growl deep in her throat, as she backs away from the foot of the bed. I put my hand on her collar and feel the hairs rising, bristling. On my own neck the hair stirs. I’ve got to light the light.

  I shove her aside and swing myself off the bed. The candle and matches are on the deal table. I blunder, banging myself on the bedpost, the table legs, the chair, then my hands find the long smooth surface and I bat them this way and that until I find the box of matches. My fingers shake but I get the box open, pull a match out, strike it with all the control I can find so it won’t break. Light spurts into the room. I see the candle in its holder, and feed the flame to the wick. Light settles and spreads into the room. I’m still holding the match and it’s not until it scorches my fingers that I drop it on to the table.

  I stare at the light, only at the light. The collie has jumped off my bed and is pressed against me. In a moment I am going to turn. I have got to turn or I will never be able to sleep here again. I am a coward. I have proved that. But I am going to turn.

  The box is at the foot of the bed. From this angle I see it plainly, a sharp, solid thing that no one could mistake. The collie cringes into me.

  ‘Frederick?’ I say. No one answers. ‘Frederick, are you there?’

  Again silence. Only the wind, the dog’s quick breathing and mine. The candle flame quivers. It streams sideways as if someone is blowing it. It flattens, then rises again, straight. I know he is there. He won’t show himself, not to me. Tonight he will show himself to a stray collie bitch, but not to me. Now I know that what I’ve seen before was only a shadow, the fruit of my imagination. This is real.

  ‘Good girl,’ I say, ‘good girl now, it’s all right, good girl.’ Her ears are flattened against her head and her teeth show where her lips are drawn back. But it’s fading, I know that. He is going and as my terror weakens I am pulled after him. I make a step towards the end of the bed, but there’s nothing there that I can see or feel or touch. Only a plain box with initials burned into it.

  I don’t expect to sleep again, but I do, and the sun is up and bright before I wake. The collie bitch is sleeping peacefully by the hearth. I light the fire, boil water and shave myself as I planned the night before, leaning into the scrap of mirror on the wall. I go careful around the angle of my jaw. My face is thinner than it used to be. The bones have come out in it. Maybe that’s the war, or maybe it’s what would have happened anyway. I scrub my fingernails and comb through my hair with water so that it lies down. There. I look respectable now. All at once I’m hungry. I break eggs into a pan with a bit of fat, and when they’re cooked I share them with the collie bitch. She drops her muzzle and snuffles delicately into the food before wolfing it down. When she’s finished, she shakes herself all over and walks stiff-legged back to the hearth, curls up and falls asleep. I’ll take her up to Venton Awen in a while.

  Tonight, I promise myself, I’ll mend the furnace. There’ll be no shortage of fuel, in the cellars at Albert House. I’ll get it going and feed it until it roars. The heat will come up through the veins of the house, as it used to do, and Felicia will be warm. When she opens the taps, hot water will gush out.

  The collie bitch is still sleeping. I go to her, crouch down beside her and begin to stroke her rough, warm coat. She quivers. I know she’s awake, but she doesn’t stir. I stroke her in long sweeps, from neck to flank, and she stretches languidly, f
or pleasure. Sunlight pours on to the flagstones through the door I’ve opened. Her head is smooth, pointed, intelligent. How fine she is. She lies flat, as if spilled there on the floor, yielding to my touch.

  ‘You use too many words,’ Frederick said to me once.

  We’d have been fifteen then or thereabouts. I was hardened by work and I always had a book tucked inside my jacket. I read by system at first, through the alphabet of the authors on Mr Dennis’s shelves, but as I grew more confident I began to choose among them. In the potting sheds, when the rain was heavy, I would sit on my heels and snatch a chapter. It was true that I used the words I found, especially when I was with Frederick. It wasn’t enough to read them. I had to try them out, and Mulla House wasn’t the place for that, nor was home. But I see now that I did my mother an injustice in thinking that. I forgot how she’d loved the beautiful words of the songs my father sang. She would leave the back door open to the cold when he was in the yard, making some small contrivance for the house. I remember that. I must have been lying on the floor, playing. He made a shelf for her Bible, so that it could sit alone above all the other books. I remember that. My father always sang at such times, and even though I was only three years old when he died, I still recall words snatched here and there. Whole verses, sometimes. I think what makes me remember is the cold coming in and the music with it.

  When will you marry me, William

  And make me your wedded wife

  Or take you your keen bright sword

  And rid me of my life . . .

  ‘You use too many words.’

  ‘What do you mean?’