Come and Tell Me Some Lies Page 4

  Daddy was finishing a book of verse. He never called his work poems and he referred to poetry as ‘paltry’ or ‘poultry’. This confused journalists who came to interview him but he didn’t care. He loathed being interviewed, but was powerless to prevent it. He refused to answer the telephone or to speak on it, so Mummy bore the brunt of requests to see him. Unable to think of any decent excuses, she always said, ‘Yes, why not come on Saturday evening?’

  Having just received a telephone call from the local paper, she sent me upstairs to tell Daddy who was coming. I knocked on the door of the study and found him at his desk, tapping with two fingers on the keys of his ancient typewriter. Beside him his notebooks teetered in a crooked column, the top one open at eye level.

  ‘Space is the secret of writing verse,’ he said. ‘Space between the lines and the positioning of the words on the page.’

  I told him about the local paper. ‘I will see no one during the week. This is why I live in Norfolk. If I wanted to see people in the week, I would live on Piccadilly Circus,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I soothed, ‘they’re coming on Saturday evening.’

  ‘Good. In that case they can talk to someone else while I have a drink. I dare say there will be others here; that is what Saturday evening is for.’

  I sighed. Saturday evenings meant a lot of people who never appeared on any other occasion, and a lot of drinking. I did not approve of drinking.

  ‘Have you nearly finished today?’ It was four o’clock, and Daddy usually came down when we returned from school. He worked in his study every morning until Poppy clambered up the stairs to call him down to have lunch with her and Dan, who had started morning school. Mummy never had any lunch; she said it made her fat and sleepy. ‘You’re as thin as trousers,’ objected Poppy, and Daddy agreed. ‘Your vanity will kill you,’ he said, and Mummy frowned. ‘Of course it won’t. It’s only lunch.’

  When Daddy came down at tea-time, he and Brodie and Flook gathered wood for the fire. Mummy and Daddy had supper with us all and then Dan and Poppy went to bed. Daddy liked helping us with our homework, although his answers often bewildered our primary school teachers.

  ‘I don’t think Adolf Hitler did invent a car,’ said Miss Coles cautiously, but Brodie was adamant. ‘Actually he did. He invented the VW Beetle. Daddy says you can look it up if you don’t believe him.’ Miss Coles snapped her ginger brows together and changed the subject.

  Chapter 12

  Eleanor gardened in the short skirts and high heels she had worn in London. She bought a grey mini-van at the auction; she had never passed her driving test, but she drove herself and the children, her hand a claw over the gear lever. She travelled slowly, jaws clenched in concentration, unable to speak for fear of crashing or breaking down.

  She was lonely. At playgroup none of the other mothers looked like her when she swept in dangling an armful of children, a female cavalier in her big felt hat and balding fur coats, annual birthday presents, bought in junk shops by Patrick. She feared her brain was suffocating beneath a mound of children’s toys and books, so she began to teach Va Va and Brodie ancient Greek. They sat at the kitchen table, wondering if this was what school was going to be like, while Eleanor recited tiny passages of Homer and chose words for them to learn. Flook sat in his high chair and beat his spoon in time when Va Va and Brodie chanted the alphabet: ‘Alpha, beta, gamma, delta …’

  Va Va, Brodie and Flook waited for Eleanor in the mini-van. They were going to be late for school. Dobe cavorted out of the house and bounced towards the beckoning fields. Va Va dragged her brothers out of the car and followed Dobe’s erratic jumping-bean progress into the distance, certain that some great, incomprehensible excitement lurked beyond the next hill.

  Crawling over a bank, Va Va straightened to help her brothers. Kip the gamekeeper, face set in fury like a jungle warrior’s mask, materialized from the bracken. His gun towered, menacing, and the children shrank back, small before his great wrath. Flook howled and the others took his hands, Kip’s fury pouring molten fear over them. Suddenly Dobe was there, icicle fangs bared to the gamekeeper. Kip lowered his gun and stomped back into the bracken.

  Kip would have been a lot less frightened of Dobe if he had ever seen him hunting. Gangling and uncoordinated, Dobe vacuumed his way through hedges, muzzle glued to the ground, while his stubby tail waggled excitement above the scrub. The only time he caught anything was the day a confused and terrified rabbit ran headlong towards him and dropped dead at his feet.

  Dobe was better with aeroplanes. His mornings were spent leaping across the back field like a kangaroo as he tried to grab low-flying jets out of the sky. He never exactly caught one, but his menacing seemed to have an effect. Twice Eleanor saw planes fall from the clouds to crash in the water-meadows.

  Washing baby clothes in the kitchen sink, she looked out of the window. A silver flame on a cloud of black smoke twisted like a spun dagger and disappeared beyond the trees fringing the river. A booming crash sent the cats scuttling beneath chairs. She called Patrick. ‘I think a plane has crashed.’

  ‘Dear God,’ he said. He held up a book. ‘I was reading this when I heard the explosion: “I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above.”’

  Chapter 13

  The summer before I started at Mary Hall, Brodie and Flook went to Scotland on their own to stay with Mummy’s sister. I was supposed to go too, but I couldn’t bear to miss a whole week of mucking out and riding. The house was very big and quiet without the boys, and the cupboards, usually empty within hours of Mummy’s weekly shopping trip, bulged with food. Daddy, Mummy, Dan, Poppy and I all went to meet Brodie and Flook at the station, leaving the table laid and decorated for a celebratory supper on their return.

  The train from Scotland, shrieking and steaming, drew in to the platform as dusk fell. Carriage windows glowed yellow and welcoming in a long string, like the amber necklace my great-grandmother had given me. We wobbled on tiptoe at the gate, craning to see the boys get off. The last passengers, the very old and the very young, were wheeled past us in their chairs and still the boys didn’t come. Daddy walked down the platform sticking his head into every door of the train. He disappeared into a distant carriage and came out carrying Flook.

  Mummy thrust Poppy at me. ‘Wait here.’ She ran towards Daddy. Dan clutched my leg, Poppy slipped in my arms and I was afraid. Mummy was running fast down the platform but dread made it seem as if she was moving in slow motion. Brodie was behind Daddy now, they were coming slowly, so slowly. Brodie dragged the suitcase, straining with the effort. All I could see of Flook was his pale face framed by tousled hair and still far away. He was so white I thought his head was covered by a handkerchief.

  Tears spilt from Dan’s eyes and trickled down his cheeks. ‘Is Flook dead?’ he whispered.

  I gripped his hand tightly. ‘I don’t know.’

  Flook, looking no heavier than a curved leaf in Daddy’s arms, and Mummy with Brodie, reached us. Flook groaned.

  ‘He’s not dead. Hooray!’ Dan jumped rhythmically in his red wellingtons.

  ‘He’s very ill,’ said Mummy. ‘We have to take him to hospital now.’ Brodie hid his face in Mummy’s collar. His long arms were doubled around her shoulders but he was too big for her to carry. In the car I held his hand. ‘We were playing cards on the train and eating the sandwiches Aunt Fanny made us. Then Flook started screaming about his tummy hurting. The guard came and he couldn’t stop him crying. I think we were near Norwich because the guard sent a lady to sit with us and then we were here. Flook has been crying all the time and Mummy says it’s his appendix. He didn’t even know who I was.’

  Brodie’s face was grey, his eyes twitched with tiredness as he spoke. He shuddered, gripping my hand. ‘I thought he was dying. I was so scared.’ His voice was tiny now. ‘I knew it was my fault he was dying. He must have had a bad sandwich and I should have eaten it. I’m the eldest when you aren’t there.’

 
; I hugged him, tears smarting. ‘No, Brodie. Appendixes don’t come from bad sandwiches, they come from germs or something. He will be fine in hospital and it’s not your fault at all.’ Brodie sniffed. He was not convinced.

  At the hospital Mummy went in with Flook, Daddy spun the car out of the car park and roared home with us. He ran into the house leaving the headlights on and the door open. The engine gurgled and stopped. We followed slowly. Daddy was on the phone.

  ‘It is damnable. The poor child is in agony. I must go back.’ He stopped speaking and hugged Brodie. ‘Louise is coming down to look after you all. I must go back to your Mummy and Flook.’ He paced around the rush matting of the room, a cigarette cupped in his hand; we watched in a doleful row.

  ‘Louise will be here in a minute,’ I said to him. ‘Go now.’ He looked doubtful.

  ‘Go on, Daddy.’ Brodie dropped on to his knees by the fire, leaning his face against Honey, the lissom blonde labrador we had found as an unspectacular replacement for Dobe. And Daddy was gone.

  Louise lived opposite the church at the top of the hill in the village. Her house had once been a blacksmith’s forge and we hid in the mouth of an ancient hearth when we played there with Louise’s sons. If we stayed to tea, Louise made chips in a thick grey saucepan full of foaming oil. We clamoured for more, stuffing ourselves because we never had chips at home.

  Louise arrived as the headlights of Daddy’s car swept up the hill and out of the village. ‘Oh, how nice this all looks,’ she said, seeing the kitchen table laid and the big card I had made to welcome the boys home. ‘You poor loves. Don’t worry, Flook will be fine. Mummy will ring up soon to tell you how he is.’ She reached her arms out and like eager puppies we scrambled towards her.

  Louise gave us supper. We had some of the chicken pie Mummy had made, and then she took Dan and Poppy up to bed. Brodie and I lay in front of the fire, our heads pillowed by Honey’s soft bulk, and watched television.

  At nine o’clock the telephone rang. It was Daddy. ‘Darling heart, Flook is sleeping soundly. He had to have an operation but now he is much better. I will be home to you soon. Mummy is staying the night here with Flook.’

  Hot tears spilt down my face. ‘Thank goodness he’s not going to die.’ Louise made us cocoa and we dragged ourselves up to bed. For comfort we each took a kitten; Angelica and Witton curled themselves in our beds like hot-water bottles and purred sympathy through the night.

  Flook was ill for a long time. Something went wrong after his operation and Daddy had to drive back in the middle of the night. Louise came down to look after us in her nightdress. Flook nearly died and we gleaned enough terrible information to become hysterical. No one explained.

  ‘Please tell me what’s happening,’ I begged Louise. She had slept all night by the telephone; her ankles gleamed cold white in the morning. ‘He’ll be all right, don’t you worry,’ was all she would say.

  Flook stayed in hospital in a room of his own and his face shrank as his hair grew. He looked like a bush-baby or a sweet little monkey, eyes huge in his papery face, arms thin, wrists protruding towards sharp simian paws. Mummy stayed with him, and every day Daddy took us to visit them. We were never allowed to stay long as Flook became tired very easily. Daddy sat with him and told him stories while Mummy took us out into Norwich. We went to the Castle Museum to see the stuffed animals. Contained in glass cases, huge tigers and lions stood arrested mid-snarl, glaring at our faces flattened against their barricade. Brodie found a black button sunk into a post and pressed it without thinking. The gallery filled with growls and roars. Poppy squeaked, ‘Help, Mummy, help!’ and wrapped herself in Mummy’s coat. Brodie froze, for a split second thinking he had brought the animals to life.

  ‘Turn them off,’ Dan begged, ‘I don’t like it.’ His round face was woebegone inside his green corduroy hood and he stamped his foot as the lion roared. ‘Stop that, you silly cat,’ he shouted.

  We moved on to the Egyptian section. ‘Cleopatra was the Queen of Egypt,’ Mummy told Dan and Poppy. ‘She was very beautiful, with raven-black hair and milk-white skin. She kept herself beautiful by bathing in asses’ milk.’

  ‘Yuck,’ said Brodie. ‘It must have smelt disgusting.’

  Dan was fascinated. ‘Did she drink from her bath before she washed or after?’

  I stopped in front of a tiny bound casket and looked in horror. ‘Mummy, it’s a cat, a poor little cat. Look what they’ve done to it.’ The others rushed to see and Dan burst into tears. ‘Will Flook look like that soon?’

  ‘No, darling, of course he won’t. Flook is much better now.’ Mummy’s hair was standing on end in static wisps as she tried to keep us all from becoming hysterical. ‘The Egyptians wrapped up their very special animals in these bandages when they died, and then they buried them in great tombs. You know about mummies, don’t you? Well, this is a mummified cat.’

  Chapter 14

  Patrick loved wrestling. Brought up in a tenement block in Chelsea, he had learned little at school save how to dodge the blackboard rubber which his angry teacher threw around the class of forty naughty infants. He fought then in street scuffles, and, when he grew up, in bars and pubs from here to Nagasaki. His anger dwindled, and at Mildney wrestling was an armchair sport. He watched it every Saturday with the boys. Giant Haystacks and Big Daddy were his favourites and he leaned towards the screen, searching with his hand for the ashtray in the gloom of the playroom. He always shut the curtains when he was watching television.

  ‘Marvellous. It’s fiendish, almost Chinese.’ No praise could be higher, and he nudged Flook to attention as two fat thugs splattered one another across the ring.

  Patrick mended bikes with copper wire and masking tape and endless optimism. He and his brother had built cars together as young men. They raced one across Texas once with the Earl of Dunlane.

  Va Va wobbled off on her bicycle. ‘That’s dandy,’ said Patrick, but she tumbled a moment later when the injured wheel buckled again. His spanner set was prized beyond anything he owned. Wrath gathered in an instant cloud if any went missing. ‘One of you has stolen it.’ He glared round the yard. ‘You can damn well find it or else …’ Flook ran up to him and pulled the spanner from the pocket of Patrick’s jeans. Fury vanished. ‘Cleverest bambino, you deserve a prize.’ And reaching for his cigarette packet, Patrick pulled out the silver foil and made a tiny goblet for Flook. ‘This is the cup that the Knights of the Round Table drank from,’ he said.

  ‘No it’s not. You just made it.’

  Patrick looked down his long nose. ‘It is magic, young man.’ Flook howled with laughter, bent double over his crumpled goblet.

  Chapter 15

  Daddy was very upset by Flook’s illness. He usually only went into the Drinking Room on Saturdays, but while Mummy was at the hospital he drifted in every evening and stood, shoulders hunched, staring into the cold fireplace. Louise left her children with her mother and came to look after us, but I thought Daddy needed more care. I peered through the crack in the door at dusk, worried that he might be lonely. He was looking out towards the river, one arm raised to the top of the window frame. Through the small panes of glass clouds bowled across a sky dark with approaching storms. Daddy turned round and saw me. ‘Come in, my love, come in.’ The Drinking Room seemed forlorn with just Daddy and no fire lit, and although I hated drinking evenings, I wished Daddy had someone there to cheer him up.

  ‘Daddy, are you all right?’

  He smiled and pulled me over to him. ‘I’m keeping company with Bacchus and some old ghosts,’ he said. ‘I miss your Mummy.’

  I sat down in a deep armchair. ‘She’ll be back soon.’ I curled up and leaned my cheek against the soft density of velvet. ‘Flook really is getting better now, isn’t he?’

  Daddy poured a splash of Martini and some water into his glass and raised it. ‘Yes, thank Christ. He is better. But he has paid with the loss of innocence.’

  Louise came in. ‘Now Patrick, what stories are you te
lling this poor child?’ She sounded a little flirtatious, deliberately light-hearted, like all Mummy’s friends when they talked to Daddy.

  Daddy looked at her and didn’t speak. He drank some Martini and still he didn’t speak. He winked at me. ‘A tiny discussion about Life and Love and the great Hereafter,’ he said in his most professorial tones.

  Louise laughed. ‘Well, it’s supper-time, so come and have some spaghetti.’

  ‘Dear God, these women are frightening,’ Daddy whispered to me as we followed Louise. ‘But what can I do? Your Mummy has left her orders, and we must obey her.’

  Chapter 16

  June 1986

  Brodie and Flook became taller than Dad without anyone noticing them grow. They were stringy and clumsy, and nearly twenty. Their huge feet tripped people over in the kitchen where they sat at the table whistling and fidgeting, waiting like cuckoos for Mum to give them breakfast. I watched them from my distant pinnacle of London glamour, home for a weekend and frothing my conversation with stories of champagne and film stars I had encountered at parties. I was twenty-one and liberated; a friend of a friend had got me a job with a small television production company and suddenly, by accident, I was a real person. The boys, jeans ripped, housed in West London squats, regarded me curiously, their smiles indulgent and conspiratorial as I rattled on. ‘Get her,’ Brodie grinned when I advanced into the kitchen, prancing in a swish of lemon-sorbet silk. ‘This dress is borrowed from a fashion designer,’ I boasted. ‘We used it for a programme on couture last week. Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Brodie lit a cigarette and rolled back on his chair. ‘You do look a bit of a prat, though.’

  I scowled and spun out of the kitchen. Dad was in the playroom, small in the arms of a big chair. A book lay open, rising and falling gently on his stomach, resting with him while he slept. He looked up as I opened the door. ‘Enchanting, dear heart, and utterly frivolous.’