Come and Tell Me Some Lies

  Praise for Raffaella Barker:

  ‘It should be read for the tranquillising effect of Barker’s elegantly glittering prose and the gentle mockery that greets Venetia’s endless domestic mishaps … a disarmingly wry and engaging narrator with a keen eye for nature and a shrewd insight into the follies of urban chic’

  Financial Times

  ‘A fine, spiky sense of humour’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘I loved it. I couldn’t put it down … Raffaella Barker is so good at drawing her characters and making them likable that within about ten pages you feel you know them intimately’

  Daily Express

  ‘An engaging work, sewn up with a dry line in wit’

  Scotland on Sunday

  ‘She writes beautifully, gathering intensity … combining, with apparent ease, emotion and admirable precision’

  Independent

  ‘Raffaella Barker is a writer of talent’ Times Literary Supplement

  ‘This charming novel overflows with eccentric characters … a satisfying mix of entertaining domestic disasters and musings on kitten heels, hens and new love’ Daily Mail

  ‘Her writing and characters are beautifully formed and controlled with inconsequential moments adding to the charm … pure therapy: Barker’s books are good for you’

  Country Life

  ‘A light, bright and optimistic read … throw yourself down on the sand, dive between those silken sheets or luxuriate on the shag-pile, and enjoy it – I certainly did’ Literary Review

  For my father and my mother

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  A Note on the Author

  Also by Raffaella Barker

  Also available by Raffaella Barker

  Chapter 1

  My father believed in angels. He named me after one of the archangels and in honour of an Italian Contessa called Gabriella who wore emeralds on every finger and lived in a Renaissance villa overlooking Lake Nemi. The Contessa found him charming and became his patroness: ‘You are a famous poet. You will write your greatest work here in Italy,’ she insisted, and she gave him a little cottage in her garden. A friend, a young painter called Graham Kingsley, sent him a telegram: ‘Patrick, I’m bringing you a present.’ My father wrote back, ‘To hell with the present. Bring me a future.’

  Kingsley arrived with my mother, Eleanor. She was twenty-two and wore straw hats; she had black hair and luminous white skin. She skulked in the shade of the hot Italian summer dreaming of Scottish moors, mauve skies and rain. Kingsley left after three days. Eleanor stayed for ever. She was Patrick’s future, and she had brought her wellington boots.

  The myths of my family, favourite fables told again and again, are brought out like battered photographs, nostalgia-scented and made alive by scrambled memory. They are fairy-tales, fantasies grown from a seed of truth into something wild and overblown. Only the house, Mildney, and the five children – me, then Brodie, Flook, Dan and finally Poppy – remain as constants in my mind. And of course, my parents, Patrick and Eleanor. The lives they led before I was born move in my head with my own memories until I cannot distinguish truth from legend. Perhaps there is no difference.

  Patrick loved memories and myths. He leaned his elbows on the arms of his favourite red velvet chair and pressed his fingers together, a vaulted arc through which his voice fell slowly towards me from long ago.

  Patrick and Eleanor went to a piano recital at the Contessa’s villa. Eleanor made herself ready with wellington boots and goggles of mascara. They traipsed up the garden path, Eleanor sulking a little as Chopin sprinkled from an open window. In the music-room a young German, his pate bright bald, milked the Steinway. Eleanor ate macaroons and removed one wellington to scratch at her instep while the other hand hogged more biscuits. Five minutes into the recital she leaned over and whispered, ‘Very soon you will have to excuse me. I am tone deaf to all instruments except the bagpipes.’

  They left. Eleanor pocketed a last macaroon as she rose from her chair.

  Patrick and Eleanor furnished themselves with two typewriters; Patrick’s was strewn with papers, Eleanor’s with roses, and they conceived their first baby. They returned to London as winter began and Gabriella Laura was born. Eleanor was entranced. Patrick found a tiny flat in Islington and its one room was a talcum-powdered temple to the baby. Eleanor spent hours each day mooning by the cradle where Gabriella slept, watching her tiny hands unclench and float like seaweed against her shawl. In awe and incredulous at the baby’s ability to survive, she leaned over the cradle night after night, prodding the child until an angry yell verified the miracle of existence. Patrick, thirty years older, had sired three children by the time he met Eleanor, but had never been given or taken the time to be with them. They were grown-up now, the same age as Eleanor, and he found himself enraptured by his new daughter, beguiled into family life.

  Patrick found it impossible to write in the cramped flat and longed to take Eleanor and Gabriella back to the sun. He borrowed a house on the borders of France and Italy, and in the spring they drove off into the snowbound Apennines. Patrick loved driving. He wore leather gloves stippled with holes and glasses with green lenses. He had a navy-blue Mercedes with a bench front seat and a steering wheel as white as bone. In this car, which he and Eleanor christened Sadie Benz, they sped through tiny French villages, the baby’s clean nappies streaming like wedding bunting from the windows as Eleanor attempted to dry them.

  Chapter 2

  Spring came slowly, buds blurred on the misted trees where rooks wrenched off twigs and flapped away with them to build nests. I was eleven and I took an exam to see if I could win a scholarship to Mary Hall’s Girls School.

  Mummy drove me to the school one watery March morning. I wore my camel coat. I hated it. The sleeves were too short and the fabric smelt of damp and scratched at my neck. I felt hot and cross and restricted. The sky was grey and heavy as the tarmac on the road as we crept towards Norwich in the mini-van. I glanced into the back of the car and cringed with embarrassment at the piles of sweet wrappers and old newspapers. A spare tyre, its inner tube hanging out like a bloated intestine, was wedged behind my seat, old socks and forgotten hats strewn across its black bulk. Shame, and a deeper shame of my shame, flushed ov
er me, and I prayed that no one at the school would see our car.

  Mummy was callously oblivious to the mini-van’s aesthetic faults, and indeed to her own, although she promised to take off her blonde wig as soon as we had driven through Aylthorpe. She had been stopped by the police a few weeks before for having orange nylon string spewing from the engine of the car. The police asked to see her driving licence. She didn’t have one. She stared blankly at the officers and was let off with a stern caution not to drive again. Jubilant at her escape, she came home and searched through a trunk full of hats until she found a stringy blonde wig brought to Mildney by someone in a transvestite phase. She wore it every time she went out and she looked like a madwoman. Her pale skin battled and lost with the brassy blonde tufts of the wig, and her own dark wiry hair puffed out from beneath it in a cloud. She completed the disguise with a pair of purple-tinted glasses left by another visitor and a big brown fur coat. Daddy saw her sallying forth and raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Can this possibly be my wife? My love, you will be locked up if you are seen like that.’

  This morning she wasn’t wearing her dark glasses, but the wig was perched like a beret towards the back of her head and the fur coat was done up with nappy pins, their pastel pink and white heads protruding awkwardly from the thick brown pelt. ‘I’ll undo it when we get there,’ she soothed, accelerating to pass a pedestrian.

  I looked out at the road. A cyclist hissed past in the rain. ‘Mummy, we’re going very slowly.’

  As the words left my mouth the van groaned, shuddered and died. Mummy and I looked at one another and burst into nervous tears. We pushed the car to the edge of the road and sat on the bonnet. I leaned over and pulled the wig from her head; neither of us spoke. A great green car pulled up and a bald man with long leather riding-boots and a moustache got out of it.

  ‘Oh God.’ Mummy stiffened beside me. ‘Now we’re going to be murdered as well.’

  The man stood in front of us. He towered over the little mini-van.

  ‘Where are you going?’ His voice was far more gentle than his appearance.

  ‘My daughter has an interview in Norwich at eleven o’clock,’ said Mummy, ‘and this bloody car has stopped.’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ said the man. ‘My name is John Leighton. I live in Melton.’

  I wiped my nose on my sleeve – it was better than using the crisp packet which was all Mummy could find when I asked her for a handkerchief – and looked at his car. It was very shiny. The faint drizzle of rain, which on our mini-van had produced a viscous surface of slime, glistened in tiny clear bubbles along the green bonnet. We got in, sliding and squeaking across deep leather seats. The man drove us to Norwich not saying a word, chain-smoking long gold-tipped cigarettes. Mummy thanked him and he smiled and nodded his naked head before driving off into the shunting traffic.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Mummy. ‘I think it bodes well for your interview, don’t you?’ I didn’t answer. I couldn’t speak because my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.

  The school smelt of polish; bright clean floors vanished around corners. All the doors along the corridors were closed. Behind one I heard a chorus of voices chanting Latin while industrious silence welled from others. I imagined hundreds of girls concentrating very hard, and I felt isolated and insignificant. We sat outside the headmistress’s office. I gazed vacantly at the neat white label; it said: ‘Miss Floyd’. I looked at my hands and noticed that all my nails were tipped with dark crescents of grease from the car. I clenched my fists. The ‘Miss Floyd’ door opened and a rotund lady came out. She had thin, fine hair brushed carefully into a peak to minimize the pink glow of her scalp. A few flakes of skin had settled on her shoulders. She was very small. She smiled and shook hands with Mummy.

  ‘Gabriella, will you please come with me,’ she trilled. Mummy kissed me and whispered, ‘Good luck, darling,’ and I followed Miss Floyd into her office.

  The room smelt of sweet coffee and Marie biscuits. My stomach rumbled loudly. Miss Floyd waved me to a chair and sat down behind a huge desk, empty except for a horribly blank sheet of paper. I felt less nervous when I noticed that only her head and shoulders rose above the desk, and I sat up very straight so that I was almost taller than she was. She asked me a few boring questions about my present school and what subjects I liked best. Then she said, ‘And what are your hobbies?’

  Mummy had prepared me for this question, and we had mapped out a charming, enthusiastic answer full of pony clubs, wild flowers and brass-rubbing. I was astonished to hear my voice, crystal clear and confident: ‘I am interested in the dead. I go to all the churches near home on my bicycle and I look at every grave and try to imagine the lives of the people who are buried there. My favourites, although they are the saddest, are the young men who were killed in the First World War, and the whole families of tiny children who must have perished through scarlet fever.’

  Miss Floyd’s smile faded, her thin eyebrows rose into her thin hair and she fiddled with a pencil. Her confusion buoyed up my confidence; I told her everything Daddy had ever told me about history, and wildly ascribed these tales to people whose graves I said I had seen. By the time I reached the Gunpowder Plot (inventing a trip to London to see the Houses of Parliament) she had heard enough.

  ‘You have a lively imagination.’ Her voice dipped into a sour squawk and she disappeared behind her desk as she bobbed forwards to push her chair out. I craned my neck to see if she had to jump to reach the floor. ‘And history is indeed fascinating. Come. Let us join your mother.’

  Beaming victory, I followed her out of the office to Mummy. We said goodbye and left.

  With every step away from the school my confidence ebbed. I thought of the sour squawk and the chilly comment about my imagination, and shrank. I told Mummy what I had said and she was horrified.

  ‘What on earth possessed you? It isn’t even remotely true, is it?’

  I shook my head. ‘It just seemed to be the right thing to say. I couldn’t help it, it just all came out.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Mummy stopped to hug me. Daddy was waiting outside in the Mercedes. Mummy had rung him and asked him to collect us. He saw our tight faces as we walked to the car.

  ‘I think we all deserve a treat now,’ he said. Mortified, I sat like a statue as Mummy told him about the car’s disgraceful behaviour.

  I knew that Daddy and Mummy desperately wanted me to win a scholarship and that they couldn’t afford to send me to a good school if I didn’t get one. Longed-for virtue and my recent unexpected rebellion warred within me. I wanted another chance.

  ‘Shall I write her a letter saying I made it all up?’

  I hoped Mummy would say no. She did.

  ‘What happened, my love?’ Daddy asked, but I didn’t answer because at that moment we were driving up a concrete ramp into a cavernous multi-storey car park. ‘There is a delicious Chinese restaurant in here,’ said Daddy.

  ‘How on earth do you know?’ Mummy was incredulous.

  Daddy winked. ‘The world is full of unsolved mysteries, my dear Eleanor.’

  ‘I suppose you come here for indulgent little lunches when I take the children to the dentist.’

  Daddy laughed. ‘The mystery is solved.’

  The restaurant walls were lined with glass tanks full of drifting tropical fish. Between the tanks, thick glass panes gave a misty view into the car park. Daddy chose a table where we could look out at the Mercedes. Mummy yelped. ‘God. No wonder you like it here. Do we have to look at the car?’

  ‘You may look the other way,’ said Daddy, ‘but I want to look at the car.’

  I had never been to a restaurant with just Mummy and Daddy. I felt sophisticated. The boys will be jealous, I thought.

  Daddy lit a cigarette. ‘Was the school decent? Did you like it, my love? You shall not go there if you didn’t.’

  ‘I won’t get the chance.’ And I told him about my lies.

  Daddy laughed. ‘I see you have a brain undern
eath all that hair.’

  ‘Are you angry?’ I blurted out.

  Mummy and Daddy answered together. ‘No, of course we aren’t.’

  ‘You are a very clever girl,’ said Daddy, ‘and I can see no reason why you should have to go to school at all.’

  Mummy glared at him, but he pretended not to see and ordered me a frozen orange with sorbet in the place of flesh.

  Chapter 3

  On Burns Night when Gabriella was one, a fat cherub with eyes like china saucers and dimpled knees, her brother Archibald Robert was born. Patrick and Eleanor had returned from Italy to their damp Islington basement. They were broke. Whenever it rained, thick white slugs slouched their way up the glass of the french windows. Gabriella was sent to stay with Eleanor’s parents in Scotland; she learned to walk, tottering gnomish in a red hooded suit, and she forgot her mother.

  Eleanor went to Harrods and bought a bearskin hat for Patrick to take to the icy plains of Buffalo. He had been offered a post as writer in residence at the university, and the fee was too large to refuse. Eleanor waved him off at the airport and went into hospital to give birth to her son. She knew no one in London; her only visitor was the ghost of Graham Kingsley who had died a week or two before. She and Graham’s spirit spent a merry afternoon recalling evenings wet with whisky and tears in the pubs of Soho, and then Eleanor and her baby caught the train to Scotland.

  At Aberdeen her daughter, arms stretched out behind for balance, taxied down the platform towards her. Tearful, Eleanor ran to Gabriella and knelt to embrace her. Gabriella screamed as this tall woman bore down on her, terrifying and unidentifiable in a cavernous cloak. Her grandmother, a tiny smile playing on her lips, stepped forward and picked Gabriella up. ‘It’s all right, darling. This is Mummy. You remember Mummy, don’t you? She’s brought you a baby brother.’

  Gabriella squatted in front of the moses basket and patted the baby’s soft head. ‘Brodie,’ she said, beaming round at her mother and grandmother standing behind her, tensed for her reaction.

  Archibald Robert lay festooned in Cameron lace on the spindly sofa in his grandparents’ drawing-room. Gabriella had stumbled through her first two words (Va Va, her name for herself, and Boys, the other people she was interested in) when she met her brother. Eleanor tried to call her Gabriella, but she shook her head and would not answer. She was Va Va now, and her baby was Brodie. He was small and pink and crumpled; Va Va was delighted by his inability to do any of the things at which she excelled, like walking and talking, and she adored him because he was hers, everyone told her so. She looked upon him as something to care for, keenly embracing the role of Big Sister. He incurred her displeasure, though, when he learned to walk. As he forged his first moon-man steps towards the doorway of a room where Eleanor sat, fury welled in Va Va at her mother’s words of encouragement. Indignation pricked her skin like sunburn and, gathering all her crosspatch feelings, she rushed to slam the door, separating Brodie and his success from Eleanor’s proud smiling eyes.