The Book of Lies (25 page)

Mrs Perrot carried on talking, but Mum stood up and walked over to the window. I watched her quietly out of the corner of my eye. She used to always stare out of the windows at home – especially at the weekends or when Dad was sailing on the boat. I wondered if she was watching for the little red hull to appear on the horizon. Dad would be out of reach somewhere and she'd sit close up to the glass, so close you could see her breath on it, like she was trapped and wanting out. I never knew why she did it until that night in Mrs Perrot's office. It was then that I realised the window was a mirror. Mum was staring at her own reflection, at another impenetrable surface. I'll be honest with you, Mum was never much of a masterpiece oil painting – not even one by a Post-Impressionist – but she could arrange her face more carefully than the Mona Lisa.

‘I didn't bring my daughter up to be a liar,' she said quickly, turning back.

There wasn't even a flicker in the eyes to give the game away and I knew then that she was the most brilliant liar. The very best liars, after all, are the ones you never know about.

At least now I
do
know. Poor old Mr McCracken. He didn't stand a chance against us. He was the only person left and look what I did to him? Why did I want everyone to suffer for my mistakes? It wasn't fair, but nothing was fair and I couldn't change that. I wanted to believe the lies I was spinning, and I needed to feel like an innocent victim – even if I wasn't. I can't explain why. I just did.

I suppose it was one of those lessons I had to learn myself.

 
[PRESS CUTTINGS FILE]

Guernsey Evening Press
Tuesday,
21
st December
1965

PUBLIC NOTICES
DEATHS

Rozier, Charles André, died after a long illness at his home in Icart, robbed of his youth but not his dignity.

– A bientôt, mon vier.

‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgement ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.'

Matthew 7: 1–2

22ND DECEMBER 1985
,
2
a.m.

[In bed, still, of course]

I'm quite a fan of the Bible, which is very gripping, especially the Old Testament. Whenever I can't sleep I read about plagues of locusts or people being turned to salt. The New Testament is more predictable but plenty of bad stuff still goes on. It's amazing what people did to each other, and all in the name of Love.

I know a lot about this thanks to Grandma, who was a bit of a religious megalomaniac. She was forever spouting great chunks of the Bible. That's when she wasn't telling me about her Genius Son Emile, who won every prize in school, or the sea monster in the Little Roussel or the witches of Les Landes. She used to tuck me up in bed so tight I could hardly breathe, and make me promise not to run off anywhere in case I got lost and didn't come back. She asked that most nights because she was going senile. Dad told her to stop scaring me and when I was ten she had a stroke so he pretty much got what he wanted. We put her in the Câtel hospice and I remember she'd always be sitting up in bed, smelling of lavender talc, staring at the photographs on the dresser. There was one of my Grandpa in profile, and another of that blonde boy with crooked teeth holding up his baby brother. I was amazed to think that Dad had ever been so small.

Grandma died just before I turned twelve. Mum said Dad was very upset about it and I do remember him spending hours and hours alone on the boat. Then he decided to write Grandma's life story and went back into his study. I listened to the tap-tap-tap of his typewriter and wondered what I'd have to do to make him write my story. Of course, back then my story wasn't so riveting, whereas now he'd have plenty to get his teeth into, and he'd do a much better job than I am doing. He'd be good at skimming over the ugly stuff and he'd make me a much more sympathetic character. He'd make sure you knew that I was lonely and eager for approval, and he'd explain that I only made stupid jokes out of serious things because I was scared. He'd also call me naive and easily-led, and I honestly wouldn't mind.

I made such a mess of things and, please note, I am truly sorry.

After my shameful accusations as per Mr McCracken I had plenty of time to think about what I'd done. I had to stay off school while they sorted things out. I felt terrible but there was no way back, and I went a bit demented, pacing about the house and weeping into the fridge. By now Mum's patience was rice-cracker thin and she told me to pull myself together. She started to say that a lot, actually. She also decided we should re-paint Dad's study. She didn't announce this publicly, but I was woken up one morning by the sound of a loud bang. I came downstairs and found her dragging Dad's old desk out into the hall.

I (stupidly) asked her what she was doing.

‘What I should've done ages ago,' she replied without looking up. ‘I'm re-decorating and you can help.'

Of course I'd help. I didn't like the idea of Mum sorting out Dad's study on her own. I might have been through everything a zillion times already – I had so many of Dad's files under my bed they were pushing up through the mattress – but even so, I had to be there in case Mum found something that I'd missed.

The first thing we did was clear out his remaining books and take them down to Guille-Aillez Library. Then we went through the last files and piles of letters. Some of them were shifted to the cupboard under the stairs, others were dumped into bin bags. After that came the hard work of moving the furniture. I don't think we said a word to each other the whole time we were doing it, and I was sure Mum was angry at me. It was only when we were wrestling with Dad's old filing cabinet that she spoke, and that was because of the bottle. It rolled out in front of us and came to rest at her big toe, a bit like a hand grenade. We both stood still and stared at it. I thought I'd found and drunk and therefore got rid of most of Dad's whisky bottles, so I felt a bit guilty for missing this one, but I was also pleased Mum had to see it. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands.

‘Look at the dust on this,' she said matter-of-factly. ‘It looks like it's been stuck back there for years.'

She turned away from me and took it into the kitchen, and a second later I heard running water as she rinsed it out. I don't know why she had to wash the bottle straight away – perhaps it made her feel better, or perhaps she knew I'd want to drink it. I tried to shift the cabinet a bit further towards the door and that's when I noticed the leather folder resting against the skirting board. It must've been jammed behind the cabinet as well. I heard the back door slam and guessed Mum was tramping down the garden path to the bins. I opened the folder quickly, hoping I'd find something else she wouldn't like.

Grandma's death certificate fluttered out. Underneath it was a tiny black prayer book with gold-edged pages. The name ‘Hubert E.W. Rozier' was written inside. Grandpa had impossibly fancy handwriting, the way only old-fashioned people do, and I ran my fingers over its loops and curves. There were also some yellowed press cuttings folded up messily. Grandma had kept the notice in the press announcing Grandpa's death, and there were cuttings of other death notices from her side of the family. I was a bit surprised by this, since I'd never had her down as a sentimental person. There was also a long thin envelope with pale green stamps that didn't look as old. I remember thinking the stamps were worth keeping. But I was distracted by another discovery – seven A
4
sheets folded up at the back, some in Dad's handwriting.

I scanned the first page and felt a horrible prickling at my temples. Poor Dad. He'd never stopped trying to finish Uncle Charlie's story, and he must've asked Grandma for help, because her name was scribbled in the margins. But there were so many crossings-out. Maybe Grandma was too old to remember by the time Dad got round to asking. Maybe that's why Dad got meaner. Or maybe he got meaner because Grandma died. Or maybe he got meaner after he started drinking.

And maybe I was mean to Mr McCracken because Dad was mean to me. That's what happens, hate or anger is passed down from one person to another, and you never hit the right target because you always aim too late. Mum used to promise me that Dad did love us, she said he just didn't know how to
show
it. But he could have written it, couldn't he? Why didn't he write it?

I thought if I copied out Dad's notes then I'd understand them better, for myself. So I left Mum rinsing out the filing cabinet on the patio and cycled up to Island Wide. I wanted to buy a brand new notebook and I needed some fresh air, and as I cycled along I didn't think about food, or Nic, or how much I hated myself. I didn't even think about Mr McCracken. But I should've done. I was chaining up my bicycle when his car pulled into the garage forecourt opposite. Talk about Fate or Karma.

Only Fate or Karma was on my side because I was able to dive behind a newspaper stand before he saw me. I peered through copies of the
Guernsey Evening
Press
and watched him go to the petrol pump. For the record, he was looking quite smart in a navy blue Guernsey,
⁶⁰
and had started shaving again. I was glad he'd made the effort. Then he pulled out a pump and tugged it to the side of his car. I wanted to go and talk to him, to tell him how sorry I was and ask if we could sort things out, but I didn't know how to and then I missed my chance. A white BMW pulled up and I realised it belonged to Therese. Of course, she only lived two streets away so I wasn't surprised to see her.

She lifted herself out of the car and brushed down her blue jacket. It was the kind of blue you see in adverts for holidays (not in Guernsey) and Mr McCracken obviously liked it, too, because when he turned and saw her he nearly dropped his pump. I thought he'd spill petrol everywhere and maybe start a fire – which would've been exciting. Therese very kindly went over to help him. I could see her face quite clearly and her expression was soft and dreamy, like she was looking at a cream cake she couldn't eat.

I also remember that her lipstick matched her nail varnish. She rested her hand on Mr McCracken's arm and talked straight into his ear. When she finished saying whatever it was she was saying I thought she'd turn to go but he tried to keep her there. Big Mac's pump dripped petrol onto his shoes. They talked for only a few seconds more and I knew they weren't talking about me because Mr Mac was smiling. Then he brushed the hair from Therese's face.

Obviously they were saying important, adult things to each other, things I was too young to understand. They stared into each other's eyes until I had to blink. I should've been Outraged-and-Appalled-of-St-Peter-Port, but actually I was happy. It's nice to see two people in love and able to show it. I wasn't even surprised so maybe deep-down I already knew it. I ran inside and did my shopping quickly, then I cycled home and although it's uphill all the way I didn't notice.

I wasn't planning to tell Mum what I'd seen, but when I got home she was waiting for me in the hallway.

‘I've been on the phone to Mrs Perrot,' she pronounced. ‘Mr McCracken has resigned. He accepts he misjudged things and they've come to an agreement. I must say I'm surprised he backed down so quickly, but Mrs Perrot gave me the impression that it didn't come out of nowhere.'

I nodded.

‘So, it's over and done with.'

I nodded again.

Mum was obviously expecting me to say something.

She peeled off her Marigolds.

‘You should be happy. You can go back to school.'

I was thinking about what I'd just seen at Island Wide.

‘You never believed me anyway.'

Mum arched an eyebrow and I made a little shrug.

‘You may as well admit it.'

She pulled back her shoulders, obviously wondering what to say next.

‘The thing is, Cathy,' she began, ‘you do have a habit of exaggerating things, but . . . you're my daughter and I love you, so actually you are wrong. I
did
believe you.'

She almost looked sincere. I almost wanted to hug her.

‘Did you love Dad?'

‘What?' she blinked. ‘Of course I did.'

‘Well,' I said, ‘you believed what he told you, and he was lying.'

She opened her eyes wide.

‘There's a difference between lying to someone and not telling them the whole story. Your father kept a lot to himself. He thought it was better that way. That's just how he was.'

I nodded. ‘So not telling someone the truth is OK?'

Mum sucked in her lips. The shutters were about to come down.

‘When you love someone you want to protect them. You do what you think is best at the time. One day, Cathy, you'll see that.'

And I do see that, I really do. People do terrible things for the Love.

That night I watched Mum in the sitting room, quietly reading her book. When I told her I was going for a walk she barely even looked up. She probably knew I was going to La Petite Maison, to see the ‘For Sale' sign for myself. That's when I noticed Therese's white BMW parked a little way up the road. I didn't have to ask myself why it was there. I remembered how she'd looked at Mr McCracken at the garage. It reminded me of how they'd looked at each other that time at Les Paradis.

I now understood why Mr McCracken never told Nic off in class, and why he'd been driving around aimlessly one Sunday and jumped at the chance to run me to Les Paradis. I don't know when he first met Therese, but Mr Prevost's nights at the Royal must've given them time to meet again. Therese and Mr McCracken. What a lovely couple. She'll change her name and move to England and wear all those clothes she bought and kept in the spare room.

I stood in the darkness outside La Petite Maison and there was the sound of things clicking into place. It was like when I'd pulled apart my Rubik's Cube and put it back together with all the colours matching. I realised it was Nic who'd sent those nasty letters to Mr McCracken. It wasn't just the curve of the ‘S' and the crooked underlining, it was the fancy felt-tip pens that I'd seen her buy in Island Wide. She was always so snide about Mr McCracken, she played up in class and he never did anything about it. How long had she known? It's probably the only reason she started coming to my house and pretending to be my friend. I was just a decoy. Wasn't that clever? Wasn't she clever?