A Suitable Lie

by Michael J Malone

  ‘Erm, let me see.’ Under the guise of examining the piece of paper she handed to me I attempted to restore my calm. I couldn’t believe that I would suddenly fold under pressure from this woman, ‘Erm… there’s no reference against the entry … I’ll … eh … have to…’

  ‘Stop stuttering, man and tell me what is going on.’ Deep lines grew straight up from her top lip as if someone had tried to draw in an extra set of teeth while she slept. Sheila, who had been standing by my side, entered the conversation.

  ‘Would you like to come through to the office? I’ll give you a seat and a coffee while we look into this.’

  ‘Cream and one sugar,’ Mrs More said, chin thrust forward.

  While Sheila mollified Mrs More I went through to what was fondly known as The Machine Room, to find out what Malcolm had discovered. From the name of the room, it would seem that it was wall-to-wall machines; instead there was only one, and a postage-franking machine. Here, Malcolm was bent over a desk, with several towers of pink dockets in front of him. He looked up and saw me approaching.

  ‘Hey, Andy. Looks like some people have been charged in error for items held in our safe.’

  I handed him the statement. ‘Find out if Mrs More is one of them,’ I said.

  She was. And after eating several of our bourbons and recounting to Sheila for over an hour what it was like to be married to a bank manager, Mrs More declared herself happy that she was being refunded with the errant amount.

  ‘Thanks for dealing with that,’ I caught Sheila by the arm before we both went back to our respective desks.

  ‘Oh, that’s fine. She’s really just a very lonely old woman. Needs someone to talk to.’

  ‘Well, thanks again.’ I turned and walked into my office. Berating myself as I walked. What the hell was wrong with me? I used to have Mrs More eating out of my hand. I could feel Sheila’s eyes follow me. I was sure that if I turned and stepped back out of the room, she would still be there. Her eyes bright with a knowing look.

  2

  When I walked into Bridges that night, Jim was standing at the bar with a full pint moving towards his mouth. Eyes heavy-lidded with expectation, he opened his mouth. I reached him and slapped him firmly on the back.

  ‘You bastard,’ he spluttered and wiped the foam from his nose with his sleeve.

  ‘Hey, nice to see you too, bro,’ I said with faked heartiness.

  ‘A pint?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘Would be rude not to.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Jim then smiled at the barman and ordered my drink.

  After taking a large mouthful of beer each we moved over to a seat.

  ‘What’s fresh?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘Fine, fine.’

  ‘Christ, this is like drawing teeth. Have you given up speaking in long sentences for Lent or something?’

  ‘No. You need to let me get warmed up,’ I smiled. ‘I’m a Scottish male, I need more than one mouthful of beer to enter into a conversation.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Besides, your questioning technique is crap. You need to ask me open questions. Questions that will make me give long, detailed answers.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Tell me how work is, how the boys are and what’s fresh.’

  ‘Fine, fine and nothin’ much.’

  ‘Piss off, ya prick.’

  We both laughed. I hid the pleasure I felt at this simple moment by taking another long drink from my glass.

  ‘You hungry?’ Jim asked. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat yet and I’m starving.’

  ‘I’ve had my tea, but if you want to go up the road to that new place in Newmarket Street, I don’t mind sitting with a drink while you stuff your face.’

  ‘Good man,’ Jim slapped me on the back, aiming to get me with my face close to the glass, in retaliation for my earlier joke. He mistimed and I successfully negotiated a sip.

  Soon we were seated in The Wine Bar with Jim’s face shoved into the menu; mine was hovering over another pint.

  ‘I hate eating on my own,’ said Jim. ‘Do you not fancy joining me?’

  ‘What’re you havin’?’

  ‘Lasagne, probably … and some garlic bread.’

  ‘Order me some garlic bread.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Jim, his voice full of sarcasm. ‘We wouldn’t want you getting too heavy now.’

  ‘Aye, okay. I’m a skinny bastard.’ I faked a laugh.

  ‘You’re letting yourself go, mate.’ He looked down at my stomach stretching at the fabric of my shirt. He was right. In my rugby playing days I would never have let this happen.

  I didn’t want Jim to question my lack of condition any further, so I changed the subject. ‘So, tell me about you and Paula. Still in love?’

  ‘What can I say? We still fuck like rabbits.’

  I paused theatrically before I spoke. ‘Do rabbits use vibrators and watch pornos?’

  He had the good grace to smile, but only because the waitress was standing at my shoulder. With my face going a delicate shade of pink

  I turned to face her. She was smiling too.

  ‘Eh, sorry about that,’ I managed to say.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I hear a lot worse in this job.’

  I took the opportunity of the conversation to appraise her, while trying not to look like a lecherous old man. She must have only been about nineteen. Her skin was luminous with health and youth, her eyes shone with intelligence and her uniform strained in just the right places.

  ‘What will it be, gents?’ Her pen was poised above her pad.

  ‘I’ll have the lasagne with garlic bread,’ said Jim, his eyes frank in his appraisal.

  I moved my eyes back to the menu, suddenly ashamed of my thoughts and hoping that the girl was not uncomfortable under our gaze.

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ I said forgetting that my intention was only to go with the bread.

  She wrote ‘x 2’ on her pad, smiled and made as if to walk away.

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said Jim.

  ‘Just started last week,’ she replied and crossed her arms.

  ‘Things are looking up,’ said Jim and flashed his best smile. ‘I’ll need to come in here more often if they’re employing girls as gorgeous as you.’

  Her smile in reply was her best, I’m-just-being-polite-to-the-punters, version.

  ‘She seems a really nice girl,’ I said when she was out of earshot.

  ‘She seems like a really nice girl.’ Jim mimicked me with a clichéd gay voice. ‘God, if that’s what marrying does to you, I’m going to stay single. She was fucking gorgeous.’

  ‘The problem is, she thinks we’re a pair of old wankers.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, bro. If I wasn’t shacked up with Paula, I’d be right in there.’ His confidence was unaffected by my comment.

  Soon our waitress was back with our food. The lasagne was just the way I like it. Plenty of meat and not too much sauce.

  ‘So what are the boys up to?’ asked Jim while chewing on a mouthful.

  ‘Pat has gone ga-ga over Star Wars,’ – this was a safe subject – ‘and Ryan’ – I loved talking about my boys – ‘demands that we watch the Teletubbies every day.’ From the moment that I began to work with the public I realised that one sure way to seem like a nice guy was to ask people about their kids. They were bound to be their pride and joy. I was no different from anyone else and would bore people into a religious retreat given half a chance.

  ‘And Anna? How’s she?’

  ‘Och, you know, gets fed up being at home all day.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not easy.’

  ‘Mum’s asking for you. When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Don’t start, Jim.’ I was instantly on the defensive. ‘I’m busy, all right.’

 
‘Just asking, bro, just asking. You get married, Ryan comes along and suddenly we hardly see you. I mean, over the last two years I can count the number of occasions we’ve been out together on two hands. Used to be we were never apart. What’s happening, Andy?’ I could see he had been itching to say this all night. Probably for a lot longer than that.

  ‘Nothing’s happening, Jim.’ I fidgeted with the salt dish. ‘I’ve a lot on, two kids and a demanding job.’ An image of a furious Anna flashed in my mind. I flinched at an imaginary blow.

  ‘I could handle it’ – he grinned – ‘if I never saw your ugly dish again. It’s Mum, she misses you and the boys. Ryan’s birthday was the first time that she’d seen you all since Christmas.’ He looked deep into my eyes, trying to read my expression.

  He wasn’t being accusatory, was just full of genuine concern. I felt like shit. But I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him that every time I saw him or my mum, Anna and I would fight and I would end up with several bruises. Even a phone call could be enough of a spark. I missed Jim and Mum, but it was far easier for all concerned if I pleased Anna. The boys wouldn’t have to listen to us screaming at one another if I kept my contact with my family to a minimum. Anna had agreed that I should go out with Jim tonight, but I was sure that the ferryman would take his toll later on. Her good intentions were bound to evaporate under the heat of her insecurities. As I sat eating, I knew that she would be pacing up and down the living room, wild thoughts populating her brain.

  ‘I’ll make more of an effort, Jim. I will.’

  ‘So you’ll go and see Mum?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll take the boys.’ And then I’ll pop a few arnica pills for the resultant bruising.

  ‘Mum thinks that you and Anna aren’t happy and that’s why you’re keeping your distance. In case we get wind of what’s going on.’

  Startled by the accuracy of this statement, I gave a laugh that sounded weak even to my ears. ‘Tell Mum not to be silly, Anna and I are fine.’

  Just then the waitress came over to remove our dirty plates.

  ‘Can I get you guys a dessert?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Jim, ‘I’m sweet enough.’

  ‘I take it you don’t want cheese either then?’ she asked with raised eyebrows. I slapped my hand on the table and laughed, impressed by her quick mind. Jim joined in, acknowledging the waitress’s wit with a large smile.

  ‘You must get a lot of tossers in here,’ he said.

  ‘Goes with the job,’ she grinned.

  After we’d eaten, we decanted down the hill to Billy Bridges, planted our elbows on the bar and set about a few more pints. A few hours later, feeling pleasantly pissed, we left the bar and ambled down towards the bridge, where Jim could make his way to his flat and I could hopefully wave down a passing taxi.

  Jim stopped at the bridge and looked over the side, down to the water below. I joined him in peering over the side and realised we were standing just as we had been at the bar, like binge-drinking bookends.

  ‘Wonder how cold that is,’ Jim slurred.

  I bent down, reached for his right leg and pulled up. ‘Why don’t you go see?’ My head was spinning too much to put more effort into the joke, so I released him.

  He cuffed me across the back of the head. ‘Funny guy.’

  I stuck my tongue out and resumed my earlier position, with elbows on the cool brick.

  ‘Water’s low tonight,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. There’s not been much rain recently.’

  I laughed. ‘Listen to us. Pair of wankers.’

  Jim snorted a laugh. ‘Yeah, the Boyd brothers and the art of conversation.’

  Silence settled over us again. The night air, sailing in on the coastal breeze, was a salty, balmy caress across my face and the back of my neck. Far below, the dark slick of fresh water was about to merge with the sea just beyond.

  Jim turned and leaned his back against the bridge wall.

  ‘You happy, brother?’

  I turned to him, surprised at the question. Jim and I had always been close. But it was a closeness born of a shared experience and of the certainty in our affection for each other. We didn’t share feelings very often, nor did either examine his navel in the presence of the other. And if we did, it was at the wrong end of a drinking session when we were fairly sure the other would never remember what we said.

  My stomach gave a lurch. Did he know something? Was the acrimony between Anna and me evident? Was Mum in on his concern?

  My answering smile started as fake, but then I thought of my sons. ‘After what happened to Patricia, sometimes I feel like the luckiest man in the country.’

  ‘I envy you, Andy,’ he said and studied his hands as if unsure how his honesty would be received.

  I fought back an automatic, sarcastic response. ‘You’ve got a good life, bro,’ I said at last.

  ‘Looks like it, eh?

  I said nothing, leaving him a silence that he could fill himself. Or not.

  ‘It’s all a bit empty. I’ve got a nice flat, all the clothes I could want, a nice car … But I’d swap it all in a heartbeat for what you’ve got.’ He smiled into the distance. ‘Those two wee boys? I’d do anything for them, bro. Love them to bits.’

  I felt the heat of my love for the boys build in my chest and swell in my throat. I coughed, pushed the emotion down. If I let it rise there was no telling how this conversation would end.

  Then.

  ‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘Jim Boyd the mad-shagger wants a life of domesticity?’

  He turned back around and faced the water. Looked into the distance where the river flowed into the Firth of Clyde. When I started work in the bank in the early eighties, this area was a fishing port that bustled with hard-working men intent on nothing more than a good life for their families and a wee drink or two with their mates. While others in the houses around them were waking to the sound of their alarm clock, they’d have finished a three-day stretch out in open water and would celebrate the fact that their wallets were full of cash and their lungs empty of seawater with a pint and a whisky chaser in any one of the pubs that lined the harbourside.

  I looked at Jim’s profile and tried to read what was going on in his mind. He was bulkier than me, square jawed with defiance at the world, but I could see the man I saw each morning in the mirror in the cast of his eyes and the thin spread of his nostrils.

  ‘Feels like I’m playing a role, you know? Chase the girls. Buy the latest BMW, spend a couple of grand on a watch…’

  ‘What about Paula? I thought you and her were…’

  ‘Treading water, mate. She says I’m an easy man to fall in love with, but would be a difficult guy to marry.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I can see what she means. I’ve heard it before. I brood, apparently. Go quiet for days…’

  ‘You do?’ He couldn’t have surprised me more if he said he was into cross-dressing and he had an alter-ego called Desperate Denise.

  ‘Seems I hold back, and women sense that shit.’ He offered a shrug to the distance and all the women he was feeling he had let down. He turned to me. Cupped the back of my neck with a strong hand. ‘You’ve got it, mate. Hold on to it for all you’re worth.’

  By the time I arrived home I had sobered slightly, was weak with the need for sleep, but full of brotherly bonhomie. Jim’s words echoed in my mind and I wondered how he would feel if he knew the truth.

  The house was quiet. All of the lights were out. Hugging the wall, I climbed the stairs. The boys often played with toys there and I had nearly tripped on them more than a few times.

  Flicking the bathroom light on, I used it to illuminate the boys’ rooms. Ryan was in his favourite position, on his front, propped up on his knees, his bum sticking up in the air. Pat was on his back, his quilt wrapped around his legs. Both of them were in a deep sleep. Standing over each of them in turn I was amazed at what I had helpe
d produce. They were breathtakingly beautiful. Did every parent think that of his child? Tenderness for each of them almost brought tears to my eyes as I lightly ran the back of a finger over two small foreheads. They were worth everything that I was going through. They kept me coming back for more and I couldn’t bear to contemplate life without them.

  A shadow blocked some of the light from the bathroom. A harsh whisper reached me.

  ‘What time do you call this?’

  3

  The first time Pat called Anna, ‘Mum’ was a moment I didn’t think either of us would ever forget. For all her faults, Anna loved both of the boys and did her best not to favour her own child. Pat eventually allowed himself to reciprocate.

  Perhaps Pat became tired explaining to people that Anna was his dad’s wife, perhaps Pat wanted to feel that, as a family, we were complete. Whatever his reason, he slipped the word into a conversation so casually it felt like he’d never used any other name for her.

  Just the day before, he asked me if he could look at some photographs of his mum. They were hidden in the loft, I didn’t quite trust Anna not to do something with them when she was in a mood.

  With his little body perched on my knee, my cheek resting on his soft, apple-smelling hair, we ventured into the past. The dim light and the way the ceiling angled down to the floor added a special flavour to the photographs and the stories. This was our space. This was where Pat and I could have some time on our own.

  Our journeys up to the loft were frowned upon by Anna. Not because she felt that Ryan was being left out, but because any place that held the threat of a spider was to be avoided. This of course made this small, bare room the ideal place to store such memorabilia.

  As soon as he was aware of the difference between him and other children, Pat was hungry for details of his mother.