A Good Liar

by Ruth Sutton

  ‘My bag?’ she said, looking around.

  ‘It’s ’ere, pet,’ said Hannah. Jessie found a handkerchief and wiped her mouth. She pulled her hair back from her face and breathed in and out very slowly, her eyes focused on the square of light from one of the windows. John and Hannah and Fred waited while their guest recovered her composure.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Hannah. ‘Bit more colour in your cheeks. For a bit there looked like you’d seen a ghost. Now you need a cuppa, strong and sweet. John, love, sort kettle out, will you?’

  With John busy across the kitchen, Jessie at last was free to raise her head, and she did so, stretching her neck from side to side. She checked her hands and knees. They would bruise no doubt but no skin broken, no blood anywhere.

  ‘No harm done,’ she said. ‘Must’ve got up too quickly, you know. I’m fine, really.’

  ‘That ’appened afore?’ asked Fred.

  Jessie lied without compunction. ‘Yes, once or twice. Maybe it’s time I asked Dr Dawson to have a look. Could be just my age, you know.’

  Hannah and Fred looked at each other.

  ‘Here’s that cup o’ tea,’ said Hannah, ‘and then what’s the best, miss? You could lie down upstairs for a bit. John could ’elp you.’

  John was stirring sugar into Jessie’s tea.

  Jessie reacted quickly. ‘Oh no, really,’ she said. ‘A cup of tea will set me up right I’m sure. Need to be home. Not sure I can walk back though, feel a bit unsteady.’

  Hannah turned to John. ‘Give us that tea, our John, and go down to t’pub. Tell George we need a nag an’ cart to tek Miss Whelan back to Newton.’

  John did as he was told, pulling his hat back on as he left.

  Now Jessie could relax a little more. She sipped her tea, grateful for a reason to say nothing for a few minutes. Hannah gestured to Fred silently over Jessie’s bent head, pointing upstairs.

  ‘You really should lie down for a while, Miss Whelan.’ he said. ‘We’ll be worried if …’

  Jessie was determined. ‘No, no,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll be fine, going home in style. I’m only sorry I couldn’t stay longer. I’m so grateful to you, so kind. Sorry to give us all such a shock.’ She smiled up at them, and got carefully to her feet.

  When the door opened again Jessie was ready this time, not looking at John’s face as he entered, concentrating on finding her coat, reassuring Hannah, finding a comb to restore some order to her appearance. Mercifully George had responded to the urgent summons, and within a few minutes they could hear the horse’s hooves on the bridge.

  ‘There it is,’ said Hannah. ‘Take Jessie’s arm, John. Them steps are slippy when it’s wet. Don’t want any more accidents.’

  Jessie let John help: she had no choice. Hannah and John together pushed Jessie up on the seat. George took up the reins, and coaxed the horse to negotiate the tight turn in the space beside the mill. Jessie smiled and raised her hand briefly as they moved slowly down the lane.

  ‘You alreet, miss?’ said George. ‘John said you’ve ’ad a fall.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said again. ‘Just fainted. Silly. Not enough breakfast, probably. So kind of you, George.’

  Her mind was reeling. She took no notice of the shadows of clouds as they swept across the valley floor, or the buzzard sitting on a fence post watching as they passed. When they reached the schoolhouse, George helped her in and then she was alone. Upstairs she lay on her bed, willing herself to sleep, to blot out the maelstrom in her head, but the questions whirled.

  Was it him? The young man looked so like Clive, but could it be just a chance, or her mind playing tricks? Or could he be someone related to Clive, but not to her? Clive had sisters, she remembered that. They could have children who looked like Clive. The name, Pharaoh, meant nothing to her. Her mother would know, or Aunty Barbara, but they were both gone. No one to ask, no way to check, without asking the young man himself, but she dare not reveal herself. If it was him, that person she’d not seen for twenty years, what would she do? And what was he doing, living so close? Just coincidence, or was he tracking her down? Would he want to punish her for what she did all those years ago?

  The uncertainty paralysed her. She had no idea what to do. The only safe thing for the time being was to do nothing, to wait. Agnes had talked to the young man, but how could she check without telling Agnes what she should have told her years ago and never did. And now it was too late, even for that. Agnes had cast her off. ‘Disgusting’.

  Jessie turned her face into the pillow and wished for it all to end.

  Chapter 20

  ‘Uncle George, over here.’

  It had taken a minute or two for the steam and smoke to clear before John was able to see the familiar short figure standing on the platform at Ulverston station, under the yellow cone of light from the lamp. John put down his bag and waved, and George smiled as he walked towards him.

  ‘By ’eck, you picked a rotten night for a journey, our John,’ said George, as he shook the young man’s hand.

  ‘Aye, not much to see on the way down,’ said John. ‘I can carry that,’ he added as George picked up the bag. ‘I’m much better now.’

  ‘More than my life’s worth to let her see you carrying a bag, lad,’ said George, nudging John away. ‘We’ve been right worried about you I can tell you, Anne and me. You nearly drowned and then so poorly and so far away, having to be looked after by strangers. Worried sick, we were. Now there’s no rush, so take the hill slowly, and we can always stop on the way, for a rest.’

  George winked at him, and John knew full well that the ‘rest’ was more likely a chance for them to have a quiet beer together before they faced Aunty Anne.

  They walked side by side slowly up the steep hill to the gas-lit main road.

  ‘Street lamps!’ said John. ‘It’s like another world here, Uncle George. Over in Boot it’s moon and stars or no light at all at night. Never known darkness like that. Like having a thick blanket over you. Can’t see anything, not even your hand in front of your face. So dark that you could walk into a wall, or off a bridge. And cars here too,’ he added as they reached the road. ‘Only two people I know up there who have cars are the lady who brought me home from the hospital and the vicar. He’s got an Armstrong Siddeley, would you believe? Folks think he’s a bit mad.’

  ‘You mentioned that woman in your letter,’ said George. ‘What’s ‘er name again. Miss Plane was it?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Really kind of her I thought, but people help each other out more when they need to. ’Appen that’s the way it works in the country.’

  ‘You’ve picked up the talk, too’, said his uncle. ‘Don’t know what Enid would have said about words like “ ’appen”. Here we are, lad. The Locksmiths. Nice quiet little place. There was a crowd of Vickers blokes got off the train ahead of you but they’ll be heading for the King’s Head down the town. Best to keep out of their way when they’re escaping from the drink police in Barrow. They can get fined there you know, for drinking. Vickers run that town like Mussolini runs Italy, all rules and do as you’re told.’

  They found a table by a bright fire in the snug and George bought a pint of Hartley’s best for himself and a half for John. They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth and the quiet.

  ‘Now then, lad,’ said George finally, ‘before we get back to Church Walk and Anne plagues you with questions, tell me a bit more about what happened on the beach. You might need to spare Anne the details, but you can tell me. You didn’t say much in the letter, just that you had some trouble and some bloke pulled you out of the sea. But what were you doing there in the first place? That’s what we couldn’t work out.’

  John told the story again, answering George’s questions as patiently as he could. He left out the fact that he’d thought he was going to drown.

  ‘So the bloke who pulled you out turns out to be your boss at the quarry? That might be tricky, mightn’t it, feeling that you owe him, you kno
w.’

  ‘That’s right, Uncle George. Took me a while to think about that, but you’re right. I don’t feel comfortable with the bloke. And he’s a strange one too, I reckon. Moody. Wouldn’t like to be around him when he’s drunk. That’s why I needed to get out, find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘And what’s this place where you’re living now. Boot, is it?’

  ‘Aye, up the other end of the valley from Newton. Quarry’s about half way up the valley and Boot’s another couple of miles beyond that. When I start work proper I might get a bike, even a motorbike. Went on Andrew’s motorbike when he took me back to his place, and I was scared to death, but that’s because he went too fast. Great way to get around. I’ve got lucky with the people I’m living with. Hannah and Fred, the one-eyed woman and the one-legged man they call them, because they are! They’re so easy with each other, somehow. They talk about anything. It’s been a revelation for me after living with Mam – Enid – all those years. They even talk about sex.’

  George put down his pint and looked at John. ‘They’re not, you know, funny like, are they?’

  ‘Not sure what you mean by funny, Uncle George, but they’re good people, I know that. Honest, kind, happy in themselves. Don’t care about money or appearances.’

  ‘Well that’s good, John. But don’t mention that sex thing to Anne. She’s Enid’s sister, after all.’

  The house in Church Walk was as warm and welcoming as it had always been. Anne Youle was so pleased to see him that she didn’t chide her husband for stopping off on the way and making them a bit late for dinner.

  ‘John needed a rest,’ George said to her, ‘and then we got talking about all his adventures. Makes our life sound pretty quiet by comparison.’

  ‘Quiet but safe,’ said John. ‘Lovely to be back, Aunty Anne.’ Anne gave him a hug for the first time since he was child, and they sat down to a delicious meal.

  ‘Pork!’ said George, ‘and it’s not even Sunday. You can come again, lad.’

  An hour or so later, Anne and John sat together in the front room while George did his duty with the washing up. Anne demanded as many details about everything that had happened as John could find the energy for. The journey, the beer and now a big meal had made him so tired he could hardly keep awake. But he had to tell them the reason for his visit: it might take them a while to decide how to respond. He’d thought carefully about what he wanted to say.

  ‘While you’re both here, and before I get too tired to think,’ he said, facing them both, ‘I’ve been thinking about my mother, not Enid, my real mother. I want to find out who she was, and why she had to give me up. At first I wanted to punish her, but now, well, I just want to know. You two are my best hope. Enid and Arthur have both gone, and I’m sure Enid never meant me to know that I wasn’t their child. She was dying and her mind had gone and it just slipped out, by accident. But now it’s out I can’t forget it, and I’m going to look until I find her. I know you promised Enid you wouldn’t talk about it, but they’re both gone and I’m here. You have a think about it. There’s no rush. The doc won’t let me go back to work, and I reckon they’ll sack me pretty soon. There must be something you can remember. I’m asking you to help me.’

  The fire crackled in the grate. Anne and George looked at each other. ‘We promised, George,’ said Anne. ‘She made us promise.’

  ‘I know she did, love,’ he said, taking hold of her hand, ‘but that was a long time ago. And our John’s here now, with his life ahead of him. If it was me, I’d be asking questions, and you would too. You and Enid talked about it, you must have done. That’s all he wants. We have to help him.’

  Anne’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I know, I know.’ She turned to John. ‘He’s right, John. But she didn’t tell me much, really. Little things I picked up, but I’ve tried to forget them over the years because that was what she wanted. If Arthur had lived – but he didn’t – and after he was gone she got even more determined that it’d never be mentioned. She’d be turning in her grave right now if she could hear us.’

  ‘That’s it, Anne love,’ said George. ‘She’s in her grave, God bless her. Time to move on.’

  George turned to John. ‘Too late to do any more tonight. Give your Aunty Anne a night’s sleep to think it all through and we’ll talk tomorrow. Might even be able to find some stuff that would help you. Loads of boxes in the loft that we brought from Barrow when we moved and never looked at since. I’m not on till ten tomorrow so I could get up there first thing and you and Anne can have a good rummage around while I’m out.’

  The following morning John held the ladder while George climbed up into the loft and Anne shouted instructions about where to find the box she was looking for.

  ‘Right away down, in the corner,’ she shouted, as drifts of dust floated down from above.

  ‘Pretty mucky up ’ere,’ came George’s voice, ‘Good job I didn’t put me work clothes on yet.’

  ‘Can you see it?’ called his wife. ‘It’s a big tea chest. Newspapers on top probably, just to keep the dust out.’

  ‘Found it!’ called George. ‘There’s another box inside it.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Anne. ‘Take it out carefully. Is the key in it?’

  ‘Aye, there it is, after all these years. Newspapers dated 1921, that’s when we moved here. What’s in it?’

  ‘All sorts,’ said Anne, as George handed the box down to her. ‘Stuff from the Barrow days, before John was born, and afterwards. Might be something that would help him.’

  ‘Let me,’ said John. He took the box from her and looked at it. Maybe here would be the clues he so badly wanted. He already had that fragment of a letter he’d found after the funeral. It was tucked safely in the side pocket of his bag upstairs. On its own, it wasn’t enough. Maybe, just maybe, he could soon start his search in earnest.

  Chapter 21

  When George had left for work, Anne and John made more tea and took it into the front room with them. Anne had dusted off the box and it sat on the table in the window.

  ‘Go on, love,’ she said. ‘This is for you. You open it.’

  John thought for a moment.

  ‘Before we start, I want to show you the only clue I’ve found so far. It was in Enid’s house, our old house. I turned the place upside down after she died, hoping to find a box like this, labelled “Clues for John when he looks for his real mam”, but of course there was nothing. The will was there, but nothing else except this,’ he said, taking an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I found it stuck at the back of a drawer upstairs.’

  ‘What is it?’ Anne asked, looking at it carefully.

  ‘Looks like the first page of a letter. The rest must have been thrown away and this got left behind.’

  John removed the page from the envelope and held it in his hand. Just looking at it made his heart bump. He remembered when he’d found it, how angry he was with Enid. And when he read it again at Mill Cottage he was angry still, but this time with the woman who’d given him away. That seemed so long ago now. Now he wasn’t so angry, just curious.

  ‘My glasses are upstairs.’ Anne tapped her pockets in vain. ‘Can you read it to me?’

  John read the familiar words, and Anne listened carefully.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Anne, leaving the room to return with a piece of paper and a pencil. ‘Now read it again.’

  This time she started to scribble. When he’d finished a third read through, she looked at what she’d been writing.

  ‘This is what we know. The arrangement about finding a home for you was made quite a while before you were born by the sound of it. Someone who knew Enid very well – knew all about her and Arthur wanting a child – also knew your real mam’s aunt. That person lived in Furness Road. You know where that is?’

  ‘No,’ said John. ‘Don’t know Barrow very well at all.’

  ‘Well it’s close to where Enid and Arthur lived in Bridgedale Road. The person who wrote this l
etter lived close by. Enid and Arthur went to St Luke’s. So church is a connection, and the choir. Is that all there is?’

  ‘That’s it, just stops in mid-sentence. No name.’

  ‘The only name we have is Thompson, which must mean that your mam, the daughter, was called Thompson, too. Well, that’s a start. Now what we have to look for in this box is anything about the choir, or anyone called Thompson. I’m going to need my glasses, aren’t I? Can you get them for me, pet, on the bedside table. Don’t need them for anything but reading, but I need them now.’

  When John returned with the glasses, Anne was still waiting.

  ‘You open it now,’ she said.

  John put his hand over his mouth.‘ I’m feeling a bit sick, actually. Just nerves I think.’

  Anne looked at him. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like,’ she said.

  John turned the tiny key and lifted the lid of the box. It was full of papers. The first items he looked at he handed to her without comment: school reports from Anne’s childhood, and some from her children. There were photos too, and Anne laughed as she remembered people and places from long ago. She handed one to John.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Enid and Arthur while they were courting. They walked out for a long time before they got engaged. Before the war we all thought we’d live forever. We had no idea what was coming. Look at the hat, isn’t it priceless! They look happy, don’t they? They were happy, I’m sure. It was only in the later years that she got so – you know – pinched. Nothing was ever right for her somehow. When you arrived I thought she’d be cheerful again, but no, or only every now and then. Little things bothered her a lot, too much. Looking back I wonder when that illness and the trouble with her memory and such really started. When you were still at junior school she sometimes said some odd things, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was when Arthur died that she really seemed lost. After that, she was never the same.’

  ‘That’s how I remember her, I’m afraid,’ said John, as he looked at the photo of the far-off stranger who had pretended to be his mother. ‘Nothing was ever right, like you said. She seemed disappointed in me. Wanted someone livelier I suppose, more confident, cleverer even. And all that time I wondered why I didn’t fit, if you know what I mean. And she knew, and she said nothing.’