Half-truths & White Lies Read online

  'Tom,' he would acknowledge my father's feet, scrutinizing the vehicle.

  'Kevin!' a muffled voice would respond. No need to avoid eye contact that way. 'Nice to see you out and about, mate.'

  After a while, Kevin would enquire, 'Spot of trouble?'

  'Just a little fine tuning. You've got to be gentle with her.'

  Later still, after much nodding with arms folded in front of him, Kevin would add, 'Ah'll be off, then.'

  He would wait for the reply, 'Right you are,' before shuffling away.

  That he would call 'a discussion'.

  'Nice walk?' Lydia would enquire on his return. Often she would have stood guard at the gate, pretending to busy herself with a cigarette or a few weeds that had strayed on to the path.

  'Gonna have a sit down, Ma.'

  'That's right, love.'

  'He's simple, that one down the road.' Nana made her views on Kevin well known, but my dad said he admired his economy of speech and any grown man who had learned how to avoid working for a living.

  'That's it, love,' Lydia encouraged, patting her son on the back. 'Now, what it needs is a nice big shove. Door's bust anyway. You can't do a lot more damage.' As an aside to me, she winked and said, 'That's what he's good for, breaking things. But he'll put them back together better than new. You'll see.'

  I stood aside and mumbled through my useless jaw, 'Be my guest.'

  'That still bothering you, love?' She put an arm round my shoulder. 'Don't expect you're ready for talking yet. Perfect excuse if you need one. Go on, Kevin! I expect Andrea's dying to get inside. Oh, Lordy!' She brought her spare hand up to her mouth. 'Could've put that a bit better, couldn't I? Me and my big mouth.'

  And there it was. I had been dreading the prospect of an empty hall, an empty house. Instead, there was a cluster of neighbours, too timid to approach me and yet feeling that they should be there, and a mountain of post. I was bustled into the kitchen by Lydia who thought that a cup of tea was just the thing for it. It was black tea as the milk turned out to be well past its sell-by date and the consistency of porridge.

  'I'll have that,' she enthused, after seeing me recoil. 'Make you some nice scones to go with our next cuppa. Waste not, want not.'

  Never criticize a busybody. The thing about busybodies is that they are interested. They sort the junk mail from the post, they organize, they clean, they shop and they cook. They have a friend who owes them a favour who can come round and fix the lock at a moment's notice. All this without being asked. They do not pity, but they are deeply aware of your feelings and generous with their hugs. They do not stand and gawp, worrying that what comes out of their mouths is not precisely the right thing to say. In fact, Lydia could talk a fine line in drivel, but she was aware of that too.

  'I'll stop if you want to think, but thinking's never got me anywhere. And it's not good for you at a time like this. You can tell me to leg it anytime you like.'

  She talked. I stood and stared at the piles of post that had swiftly been sorted by size and content the moment the kettle was on.

  'Bet you didn't realize you had so many friends. Those are for the bin, that's your business end, those are letters and those are the cards.' She pointed to various piles.

  'How can you tell?'

  'Years of practice,' she shrugged. 'Do you know, when I was a lass, many's a time when I would steam open a letter, have a look and then stick down the envelope so you wouldn't know any different. Quite an art to it. But if you need to know what's in your school report before your parents, you get the hang of it pretty quick, I can tell you.' Her laugh turned into a terrible bout of smoker's cough and she thumped her chest with a clenched fist. 'They don't teach you that in school! So what shall we start with?' She tagged the question on to the end of the story so innocently that I almost answered automatically. 'I can imagine all of those people' – she tapped the table next to the pile of handwritten envelopes – 'dragging theirselves out to the shops and rummaging through the sympathies' section for half an hour, getting their knickers in a twist about which one to buy, then dragging theirselves home again and sitting there with a cup of tea, fretting for an eternity over what to write. Feeling like it's the individual words that are that important.' She paused and I wondered if she had some words of wisdom to add. 'Me?' She scraped back her chair and stood up. 'I thought I'd make you a nice brew instead. And we did all right, didn't we, love? See! I'm going to get Kevin's tea now.' She switched on the radio ('Bit of company for you') and looked around her as if she had forgotten something. 'That lad's a genius but he can burn a salad left to his own devices. You're very welcome or I can nip back later on if you need anything.'

  'No.' I tried to sound convincing. 'I think I need to spend the first night here on my own.'

  'That's right, love.' She patted my arm. 'I'll pop round in the morning then. Before I go and do for my ladies.'

  As I followed her to the front door, she turned and said, 'You know, it's funny. I don't think we've ever had a proper chat before. Isn't it strange that you can live a few doors away and not get to know someone? It wasn't like that when I was growing up around here. Neighbours could count on each other. That's what made me decide to come back home after my Bill died. When your world falls apart you need to be close to family. I expected it to be exactly the same, that was my mistake. Not all change is for the best, you know. Anyway, love, you know where I am. Don't be a stranger.' She plodded down the corridor, and just when I thought she was gone I heard her mutter quietly, as if she was struggling to get the words out, 'I'm sorry for your troubles.'

  Then, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to be alone.

  Chapter Seven

  When you lose someone, there is an expectation for quite a while that you will get over it. That, in time, things will get easier. That's what you have always been told. The first night will be the worst. There is a vague hope that the funeral will bring some sort of closure. That the first anniversary will be the most painful. Maybe once Christmas is out of the way.

  As time passes, it gradually dawns on you that this feeling is not temporary. Doctors are happy to sign medical certificates with a flourish. You are offered sleeping pills, counselling and anti-depressants, but it doesn't feel as if they should be the answer. Something has changed permanently and you have to get used to this new reality, a whole new perspective. Possibly, an entirely new way of living. The loss becomes a part of who you are and, in time, as you begin to accept that, it seems only right. There is a chance that the people you knew before will not fit into your new life. It is not that you think of them any differently. It has more to do with the way that they look at you with pity in their eyes. The nervous way they approach you. The way that they call with forecasts of their good intentions, but when it actually comes down to it, it's easier for them to go to the pub with a new friend rather than cry into a mug of tea with an old one. The things that they don't say rather than the things they do. And it has to be said that I wasn't a good host to those people who dared to come near me. To tell the truth, I was far happier to be left alone with my memories than to confront all of the todays and tomorrows that were queuing up endlessly just outside the front door, complete with its brand-new five-lever mortise deadlock: Kevin's addition to what he considered to be the extremely lax approach to security taken by the so-called professionals. It was easy to sit in the centre of the sofa and imagine that my mother was in the kitchen trusting Delia to let her into the secret of what it was you were supposed to do with the celeriac you bought in Tesco in a fit of enthusiasm, while my dad was lovingly tinkering with his latest acquisition out the front. His desirable wrecks, he called them. There were days when I could swear I saw the fleeting movement of a skirt through a half-opened door, heard the clanging of a wrench being dropped. The memory of the senses is a powerful tool. Sounds that I had always thought were man-made turned out to be the sounds that the house itself made. It had a voice of its own. The central heating firing up ea
rly in the morning. The staircase creaking as the house warmed up and relaxed. The wind singing through the chimney. The clatter of the letter box when the postman visited, which sent me running down the stairs to see if we – if I – was being burgled.

  Sometimes, my parents' absence seemed more powerful than their presence. Sometimes I could have sworn they were still there.

  Chapter Eight

  Between Aunty Faye and Social Services, it had been decreed that Nana had taken complete leave of her senses.

  'In some cases, a shock like this can accelerate the ageing process,' was one of their favourite theories. Alzheimer's was the word that was being tried on for size. And, one way or another, they were determined to make it fit. Like the ugly sisters with Cinderella's glass slipper. Then they could give her a label and they would know exactly what to do with her.

  There is no doubt that her inability to recall the accident from one day to the next was causing Aunty Faye a great deal of distress. 'She doesn't want to remember. She's doesn't want to remember anything.'

  But it had to be more than that. If there was the option of choosing not to remember, I would have taken it. As, I'm sure, would Aunty Faye, who had gladly accepted the mountain of sleeping pills that her doctor had offered. If I slept, there were a few moments of peace on waking before I was struck by the stillness of the house and questioned the reason for it. Then, of course, it dawned on me, and I pulled the duvet over my head to shut the facts out. Nana had always called out for one thing or another as soon as she woke up. The first thing that I would hear was 'Laura do this' or 'Laura, fetch me that'. It was far more reliable than an alarm clock, as was my father's retort, 'Legs fallen off in the night, have they, Brenda? Sorry to hear that.'

  'Nana.' I approached her single bed in Aunty Faye's spare room cautiously. 'It's me. Andrea.'

  She looked at me sideways, and then gestured to the chair beside her. Even confined to bed like an invalid, Nana had a neatness about her. Her short grey hair still looked as fresh as when she returned from her weekly shampoo and set, and she gathered the duvet around her small frame as she propped herself up. I noticed her nails had been painted in a dark plum shade and suspected Aunty Faye's work. It was not her usual colour and it looked wrong.

  'Well, of course it's you. Good Lord, child, what've you done to yourself?' She clutched me by the elbow, pulling me towards her. 'You never had your mother's looks but you could take a bit more care with your appearance. Mark my words, you don't want to end up on your own like that other one.'

  I was a little taken aback by her bluntness. I knew she was capable of it, but I had never been her target before. 'I broke my jaw,' I explained.

  'What did you want to do that for? Here! Have they let you back in the house? They tell me there's a problem with it. What's happened to it? Are the mice back again?'

  'There are no mice, Nana.'

  'Is it the boiler? It hasn't been the same since your dad tried to mend it. Just because he can change a set of spark plugs, he thinks he can do anything with a spanner.'

  'The boiler's fine.'

  'Why won't they let me home then?' she implored, then lowered her voice: 'I don't like it here. They're keeping me cooped up. Faye's got some strange ideas about cooking. Everything's out of a packet or done in the microwave. I haven't had a square meal in a fortnight.'

  'I can hear you, Mum,' came a voice from the living room. 'I'm not deaf, you know. Just got the word "mug" printed across my forehead.'

  'Shut the door,' Nana mouthed, looking even more frantic about her predicament. I complied. 'I can't do a thing without them checking up on me. I'm not allowed to flush when I go to the toilet because they want to see the colour of it. They take notes about everything I say. I can't leave the flat. Am I too hot, am I too cold? You don't think I'm ill, do you? I don't feel ill. Feel my head!' She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her forehead.

  'Do you remember what happened to Mum and Dad, Nana?' I tried to say softly.

  'Do I remember?' She became short with me and folded her arms. 'Of course I remember. They gave away my grandchild.'

  'I'm your grandchild.' I was taken aback. I was her only grandchild. Thoroughly spoilt, too.

  'I hope you're not going to treat me like an imbecile too, Andrea.' She was most put out and sounded like her normal self for a moment. 'The one after you. They gave away my grandson. And you're worried about my memory! I thought I could rely on you to be on my side. Now let's stop this stuff and nonsense, have a cup of tea and then you can take me home.'

  'Are you talking about the stillborn baby?' I repeated what Uncle Pete had told me.

  'Is that what they told you?' she sneered, before making a cradle shape in front of her. 'I held that boy in my own arms. In my own arms.' Then she started humming softly and smiling, a lullaby for the child that only she could see. 'We'll all be going home soon,' she cooed. 'All going home soon.'

  'I'm afraid we can't do that.' I lowered my eyes, not knowing how I would respond to the challenge that would inevitably follow.

  'Why on earth not?' She bordered on the aggressive. 'It's my house just as much as it is yours. In fact, I'm sure a lawyer would say it's almost all mine.' It seemed that there was some truth in what Aunty Faye had told me.

  I hadn't wanted to lie to her. I had avoided telling her the news before and I felt that it was only right that I should make it up to her. But I honestly believed that if I had told her, she would have been distressed, and what was the point for the sake of a few short hours before she forgot again? 'You were almost right about the mice.' I avoided her gaze. 'It's rats this time.'

  'I knew it!' Nana seemed triumphant. 'Finally! I knew I could get the truth out of you. You've never been very good at lying.'

  Returning to the living room to report back to my aunt, I sat down heavily and sighed, probably louder than I had intended.

  'Well,' she asked without taking her eye off the paper she was reading, 'what's your verdict?'

  'She sounds like Nana,' I ventured cautiously and then paused.

  'But . . .' She motioned diagonally with her left hand, sweeping it away from her face.

  I shrugged hopelessly and mimicked her hand movement.

  'So you'll support me in finding a place for her?'

  One innocent question. I knew everything that it would mean for both Nana and me. All of her hopes of living in her own home in her old age dashed. The sale of the only home that I could remember. But more than that, it felt as if I was betraying my memories of my parents. And yet I knew that it was unreasonable to expect Aunty Faye to look after Nana in the long term. Given the choice, I had to admit that I didn't want to care for Nana at home on my own, even if it meant keeping my treasured memories. I betrayed them all with a nod, swallowing the words that I could not bring myself to say.

  'Good girl.' Aunty Faye's voice had no trace of emotion in it. 'It's going to work out for the best. For everyone.'

  Chapter Nine

  Nervously, I pushed open my parents' bedroom door against the heavy pile of the carpet. The room, usually ordered with almost military precision, was as my mother had left it after hunting for the red sling-backs. The doors of the fitted wardrobes that lined the far wall were open, shoes and handbags spilling out. I sat on the edge of the bed waiting for a little courage. As I sighed, I breathed in my mother's favourite perfume, Jasmine, still lingering. It was as if I suffered a further loss later when the trace of perfume faded and the room started to smell differently.

  I was starting the slow process of packing away my memories so that I could put them somewhere safe until I was in a fit state to deal with them. There had been no shortage of offers to help me box up my parents' belongings, but I had said a firm 'No, thank you' to a nervous Uncle Pete and a relieved Aunty Faye. It felt wrong to be disturbing anything at all, but I didn't want to be rushed or be carried along with someone else's agenda.

  I stood on the edge of the bed to reach the top cupboards where the suitcases w
ere kept. I resisted the temptation to trampoline, but had a vivid memory of jumping on my parents' bed and laughing my socks off as my father pretended that my feeble jumps were propelling him into the air. A good pull brought the cases crashing down to the floor followed closely by me, thrown off balance by their weightlessness. It's not the fall that'll kill you. The luggage labels from last year's holiday were still attached. I hadn't gone – too old for family holidays – but Nana had joined them.

  'Our little threesome,' she had joked, tucking her hand into the crook of my mother's elbow, while my dad pulled faces behind her back.

  'Isn't it enough that we share our house with her?' I had heard his hushed voice through the door as I crept across the landing after a night out.

  'She might not be here next year,' my mother replied.

  'What are you talking about? The woman's indestructible. She'll outlive the lot of us.'

  It was clearly a bone of contention between them. There was no question of who had won that particular quarrel. And yet Dad had come home referring to Nana as his gambling buddy. It seems that they found common ground when they discovered a local casino and tried their hands at the tables. It was my mother who was the lemon in the end.

  My only plan was to pack away things that I wanted to keep and to put the rest in bin liners to take to Oxfam. Simple, you would have thought. But every one of my father's shirts seemed to hold a memory. As a little girl, I always helped him pick a shirt and tie to go with his work suit. Sometimes my mother would attempt to veto my choices, but my father would go along with exactly what I had laid out on the bed for him. It was a question of solidarity between us. Naturally, I was biased towards the ties that I had bought him as presents, complete with cartoon characters or corny slogans. 'Best Dad in the World'. Essential for creating the right impression in a business meeting.