Come and Tell Me Some Lies

by Raffaella Barker

  His gentleness calmed me. I drank the brandy, shuddering again at the hot taste. It stopped the whirling thoughts and filled the emptiness of shock. I wiped my eyes, and Daddy gave me a cigarette. ‘I know you are not supposed to smoke these things,’ he said, raising one eyebrow, ‘but needs must when the Devil rides.’ I began to feel safe again. ‘Now tell me what has happened to this young man.’ Daddy took my hand and sat down next to me.

  ‘I saw it on television – he’s been killed at a horse show. I didn’t know him well, but he was the one we crashed into the other day. He was very handsome.’ I began to cry. Big splashy tears chased down my nose and dribbled on to my hand and into my glass.

  Daddy took his red handkerchief and dried my eyes. ‘I must tell you something serious; it offers no comfort, but is beautiful. “Whom the gods love die young.” Your friend was a special young man, and he will remain that for ever. You will not forget him, nor will he ever become less than he is to you now. And he will never change. Do you understand me?’ Daddy’s voice splintered harsh in the silent kitchen. Mummy gave me another cigarette, and brought in the bottle of brandy.

  Chapter 47

  July 1989

  When I was twenty-four, Mum told me she and Dad were getting married. ‘So that’s why there aren’t any wedding photos,’ was all I could think of to say. And she explained how Dad had never been able to divorce Nancy, his first wife, whom he hadn’t seen for thirty years. Now poor Nancy had died, shrivelled into senile dementia by her bitter angry life. She had resented him too much to free him. I was shocked, and surprised at my shock. When the boys and Poppy were told, Mummy laughed till tears ran down her face, apologizing as she choked, because each one of them said, ‘So that’s why there aren’t any wedding photos.’ Mum wrote a list of friends and family to invite to the wedding and I looked on in silence. Dad came in and kissed the top of my head. ‘Scandalous, isn’t it?’ he mocked, and I suddenly felt moved and thrilled. To be at one’s parents’ wedding was a rare privilege, I decided.

  The weeks before the wedding were fraught. While banns were read each week at the Catholic church in Sallingham, we made late-night phone calls to California, trying to track down Nancy’s death certificate. It arrived at last, and we celebrated with a bottle of red Martini. For once, Dad shared.

  The garden was blooming; tangles of roses struggled across walls, petals like drops of blood where tendrils had paused on the grey flint. Dad wore a white suit, his bootlace tie secured with a silver eagle stolen from Brodie. His feet were large and pneumatic in a pair of pumped-up Reeboks which belonged to Dan. Dad was very pleased with them and spun a football on the lawn. The boys watched gravely, terrified that he might hurt himself but unable to dent his pride by stopping him. Mum wore black, her dress sprigged with white flowers and comfortingly familiar. It was the one she wore for all godly events, from carol services to funerals, and she would consider no alternative.

  At the church, Action Priest waited, preening in his ceremonial robes. Flook named him Action Priest when he saw the boyish figure, head close-cropped, features lean and muscular, getting out of a sports car one day at Mildney. He had come to hear Dad’s confession. While Mum and I skulked nervously in the house, Action Priest went out to the lawn where Dad was sitting. ‘He hasn’t been to confession once since I’ve known him,’ Mum whispered. ‘I hope he’s not going to say something disgraceful.’

  One and a half minutes later Dad appeared, leaning heavily on Action Priest’s arm; they walked towards the arbour for an absolving drink. Smiling and joking, they passed us peering out of the back door. Dad pretended not to see us, but he looked back and winked, curling his lips back to utter a triumphant ‘Hah’ at his lurking, incredulous family. We allowed a decorous interlude to pass, then crept round to the arbour. They were talking about football, Dad’s arm around Action Priest as they moved goal by goal through the League table.

  Squat and new, the church hung over Sallingham’s white cliffs, high above wheeling gulls and a glittering black sea. Dad refused to sit on the chair placed for him in front of the altar. We heard his breath coming heavy and slow as he performed his role. Mum shook as she made her vows, her voice trembling, almost swallowed by the rustle and creak of the congregation. Afterwards we threw confetti over them and Dan pulled up in his rusting white Vauxhall car. It was wet with sequins and hearts hastily daubed that morning over Dan’s Bob Marley emblem. He drove Mum and Dad away, leaving the scent of smouldering rubber on the road behind him.

  Back home in the garden, guests queued up to salute Mum and Dad while Brodie, Flook, Dan, Poppy and I stood behind, smiling proudly, as if we were the parents.

  The next day, Dad and Poppy flew to Italy for the honeymoon. Mum went on the train. ‘I want to enjoy our honeymoon,’ she insisted, ‘and I won’t if aeroplanes are involved.’

  It was August. Italy sweated and scorched under a blistering sun. Dad became ill, his throat parched and closed against the hot air. Late one night he was rushed to hospital in Siena. He stayed there for a month.

  Poppy returned to England, white and thin. I met her at the airport and she fell crying into my arms. ‘It was terrible. I found Dad collapsed in the bathroom,’ she gulped. ‘I thought he was dead, his skin was cold. He had to go to hospital on the third day we were there, and since then all we’ve done is drive to Siena to sit in his little hot room with him. Mum won’t come back until he’s let out, and the doctors don’t know how to make him better.’

  I was terrified that Dad would die. On his honeymoon, in Italy, the place he loved, with Mum, the person he loved. Hysteria rising, I knew that this was how the gods had destined it to be. A day later, Mum rang from a hospital phone. ‘You might have to come,’ was all she said when I asked how he was. ‘Let’s give it another day.’

  Poppy and I lashed ourselves into fevered misery, then Flook phoned and told us not to be so bloody stupid. ‘He’s only ill because it’s hot.’ He spoke slowly, enunciating very clearly, as if talking to an imbecile. ‘He’ll be fine when he gets home.’

  Thoughts of his never getting home faded with Flook’s words. Two days later, a long white car drew up at Mildney. Out came Mum, pale and blotched, with dark-ringed eyes. Out came Dad, wrapped in a white cashmere blanket, suntanned and wearing dark glasses. He was thin. Bones I had never noticed before were crossed by veins fragile as birds’ feet, and his nose reared patrician in his sunken face. We prepared to carry him, reverential and praising the Lord, into the house, but he would have none of it. Seizing his stick, he walked round to the front of the car and asked the driver to raise the bonnet. Poppy and I gawped. Dad and the driver began to examine the engine.

  ‘He’s thrilled by this car,’ whispered Mum. ‘As soon as he saw it, he cheered up. He’s been talking about engines all the way from the airport.’ We made Mum some tea. Dad did not appear for half an hour.

  Chapter 48

  On my seventeenth birthday I took my first driving lesson and tasted independence. A-levels were looming, but their significance receded in the face of three-point turns and hill starts. I was relieved to find that I had inherited driving skills from Daddy rather than Mummy, and took my test three months later.

  In the car park outside the test centre, my examiner, who smelt strongly of cheese biscuits, licked his lips until they shone wet pink and said, ‘Miss Lincoln, I am happy to tell you that you have passed your test. Congratulations.’ I remembered stories of people embracing their examiners at this moment, but although elation pounded in my heart, I had no urge to get any closer to Mr Tibbins. I ran across the car park to Mummy; she was reading the Highway Code. She fumbled with the car door when she saw my face.

  ‘I’ve passed! I’ve passed! I can’t believe it, Mummy, I’ve passed.’ We embraced, staggering back and forth in front of our car.

  ‘Do you think it’s a good omen for me, or a bad one?’ asked Mummy when we were in the car and I was driving proudly towards school. Mummy was taking her test a week later,
and had ordered tranquillizers from the doctor.

  ‘I bet you’ll pass too. It must be a good omen.’ I executed a substandard manoeuvre and parked clumsily outside school.

  ‘I can always pretend I’m you if I fail,’ Mummy shouted, as I ran in through the school gates feeling lithe, successful and confident.

  Deflation in the form of an unseen Latin translation awaited me. I was the only pupil taking A-level Latin, so there was no one I could hide behind. Honesty was the best policy.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, Miss Doball.’ I ran my fingers through my hair and schooled my face into an expression of appealing contrition. ‘I haven’t learned any Latin this week because I’ve been doing the Highway Code. I’ve just passed my driving test, you see.’

  Miss Doball, her face white and bunched like a crumpled paper bag, shied back on her chair and shrieked at me. ‘What use is a driving test to a Latin scholar! You are not applying yourself. You don’t know even the most basic grammar. I am beginning to doubt your ability, Gabriella, I really am. We shall attempt Virgil now. Do not fail me, I beg of you.’

  Furious at Miss Doball’s reaction I opened Virgil. The words became gibberish before my eyes, and I fidgeted with frustration. I had not even read through the text. Desperate but still spiked with bravado, I closed the book. ‘I don’t know this, but I’ve learned some Catullus. Shall I recite it?’

  Miss Doball’s ivory knuckles twitched; she pushed her glasses further up her sharp nose and sighed, rasping and brief. ‘If you must, but it’s not on the syllabus; however, I’m delighted to hear that you are reading round the subject.’

  I began, standing up to recite, hands clasped behind my back, eyes modestly lowered:

  ‘Thallus you pansy, softer than rabbit’s wool,

  The down of a goose or the lobe of an ear,

  Softer than an old man’s penis and the cobwebs hanging from it.

  Thallus none the less rapacious …’

  ‘That will do,’ stormed Miss Doball. ‘You are insolent and unteachable.’ Taking off her glasses, she picked up her books and scurried out of the classroom, anger stamped in red spots on her knobbly cheeks. I remained at my desk, smirking defiance at the blackboard, trying to ignore shame as it scratched and burned its way up my body. ‘She should know what Catullus is like,’ I muttered sulkily; to assuage my guilt I spent the next hour learning Virgil off by heart.

  At lunch-time, a small girl with freckles and a brace found me. ‘The headmistress wants to see you in her study,’ she piped, then whisked away with her giggling companions. Sweat rose on my palms and breathing became shallow and painful as I knocked on the headmistress’s office door.

  Miss Floyd was looking out of the window. In her long black gown, with her mouth turned down and her expression cold and unamused, she looked like an executioner. I had a hysterical urge to laugh and bit my tongue.

  ‘Miss Doball tells me that you had a disagreement this morning.’ She swivelled her head towards me, lashless eyes unblinking as a baldheaded eagle viewing its prey. ‘Mrs Benton tells me that you have not written a single history essay this term. Mr Graymer tells me that you have written no essays for your A-level class, and have insisted that your English scholarship class is enough work.’ She turned her bulk at last; I stood with one leg twisted around the other, as near the door as possible. ‘What have you to say for yourself, Gabriella?’

  Rage erupted and rushed headlong through me. With both feet braced against the floor, my fists clenched, my eyes bulging with a vision of freedom, I said, ‘It is typical of the staff here to tell tales without consulting the person concerned. I have nothing to say except that I have no respect for my teachers, and although I want to do my A-levels, I won’t work for those teachers. I should like to leave this school and do the rest of my A-level work at home.’

  Immediately my anger evaporated. I slumped, almost overbalancing. What had I said? What was she going to say? What would happen next? I thought I would die of suspense. Miss Floyd had turned back towards the window. She did not look at me again. She waved one hand towards the door. ‘I shall discuss this conversation with your parents. You may go.’

  I walked out, at once exhilarated and appalled at my daring. It had been so easy. I should have done it years before; then I could have avoided O-levels. Everyone should do it. That I had dared to speak to the headmistress in such a way confirmed my previously unrecognized contempt for the staff, and I ran towards the bus station smirking with satisfaction. I would do my A-levels at home. Mummy could teach me Latin, and Daddy could do English and history. It would be much more fun than going to school.

  I walked home from Aylthorpe, where the bus dropped me, wrapped in rosy plans for my new, free life. I would be helpful to Mummy and Daddy, of course. I would get up early and drive the boys to school before settling at the kitchen table to read about the Reformation with Daddy. I would write essays in the afternoon before collecting the boys, and I would study Latin when they were doing their prep. Mummy and Daddy would see the sense of this. At the end of the drive I quickened my step, eager to reach home and tell them.

  Mummy was leaning against the Aga, her hands on her hips, looking on sightlessly as the cat Angelica crouched on the floor, batting a limp dead mouse between her paws.

  ‘You’re back early,’ said Mummy when she saw me. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said brightly, edging towards the kettle. As soon as I saw Mummy, my plan became absurd. She was not going to see it my way. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ I was playing for time. Skipping around the kitchen as if on springs, I made toast and uncharacteristically offered some to Mummy.

  She didn’t notice anything untoward. She slumped in a chair, resting her head in her hands. ‘Darling, I have some very serious news. Helen is in hospital; she’s extremely ill. Daddy has gone to see her with Liza. We should hear something this evening.’

  ‘God, how awful. Will she be all right?’

  Mummy shook her head. ‘I just don’t know. It’s to do with her liver, and Liza is terribly worried.’

  I pulled a chair forward, tumbling a sleeping cat to the floor, and sat down opposite Mummy. I tried to think about Helen, but my head was too full of my own news, and nothing could rest in my brain until I had confessed.

  ‘I’ve left school,’ I said baldly.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. You can’t leave school, you aren’t old enough to. What has given you this idea?’

  She was angry. I wished more than anything that I could unsay the words, all the stupid arrogant words I had uttered that day. But it was too late, and I had a penitent urge to tell all and somehow be absolved.

  Mummy paced round the kitchen. Her face sagged and she looked old. Lines I had never seen before were etched into the pallor around her eyes and mouth.

  ‘I told Miss Floyd that I have no respect for the teachers and that I want to do my A-levels from home.’

  ‘Well, that was bloody stupid.’ Mummy picked up the hairbrush, glaring into the mirror as she pounded her scalp. ‘Not to mention downright rude.’ Her hair fanned crackling outrage. ‘You will go to school and do your A-levels there and that is that. You must ring Miss Floyd and apologize at once.’

  She was right, but an evil pride within me would not let me back down. ‘No, I will not,’ I said. ‘I’m never going back there, and I’m not staying here either. You are so narrow-minded. You think that school is the best thing ever, and it’s not. I hate it and I hate you.’

  I stormed out and ran down the drive. Then I couldn’t think of anywhere to go or anything to do. I caught sight of the telephone-box, found a coin in my pocket, and rang Merry-Curl. Trying to keep my voice level and relaxed, I asked him to come and pick me up. ‘I’ve just passed my driving test, so we’ve got to celebrate.’

  Merry-Curl was surprised. ‘It’s only half-past four,’ he pointed out. ‘Where can we celebrate now?’

  I abandoned my pretence. ‘Oh please, James, come and get me and I’ll explain
. I’ve done something awful.’

  Merry-Curl duly arrived, but not before I had spent five minutes skulking behind the phone-box to dodge Mummy when she passed on her way to Aylthorpe to collect the boys from the bus.

  Merry-Curl listened to my explanation in shocked silence, then he laughed. ‘Let’s go to Cromer for fish and chips.’ He sniggered as we drove. ‘I’m not surprised Eleanor was angry.’ His companionable use of her name jarred. ‘You’ve got to go home and apologize. How could you ever have thought you would get away with it?’ And he laughed, his eyes closing into little slits in his face.

  I felt utterly, self-pityingly alone. Merry-Curl was supposed to be my friend, and even he made no effort to see my point of view. Exhausted and defeated, I agreed to apologize. ‘But let’s not go back yet. I’d like to learn how to play snooker,’ I said untruthfully, cravenly seeking delay. Merry-Curl, still chortling to himself from time to time, beat me in three games and bored me into a stupor by explaining all the rules of snooker. I escaped to the loo, and he took on the pub champion. At ten o’clock we left.

  Back at Mildney I prevaricated. ‘James, you go in, I’ve just got to get something from my bedroom.’ I pushed open the front door and ran upstairs. Merry-Curl went through into the kitchen. I opened my bedroom door and turned on the light. In the bed, head muffled beneath the pillow, a figure was curled in sleep. I couldn’t see who it was, and no clue was offered among my strewn clothes on the floor. Silently I backed out of the room and turned off the light. ‘How dare they, how dare they,’ I hissed to myself as I ran down the stairs, fear lost in a bubbling pit of indignation.

  ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’ I demanded angrily as I entered the kitchen. ‘There’s someone in my bed. Get them out now.’ I slammed the door and aimed a kick at a purring cat.