Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Paul,’ I say, stroking my husband’s arm. ‘When you get a moment will you pop to the corner shop and pick up some cream for dessert? I wasn’t expecting so many people and we don’t have enough.’

  ‘Sure,’ he smiles, taking the empty wine glass from Helen. ‘I’ll just get Helen a top-up first.’

  Helen touches her hands to her lips and blushes. ‘Oh, I really shouldn’t have another so early in the afternoon.’

  ‘Ah go on, love,’ Larry says. ‘Let your hair down.’

  ‘You’ll have another too, Larry?’ Paul says, looking at the nearly empty glass in Larry’s hand.

  ‘I will indeed,’ Larry laughs, slugging back the last couple of mouthfuls of gin.

  Chapter Three

  NOW

  I’m busy in the kitchen, arranging steamed asparagus wrapped in Parma ham on a silver platter, when torrential rain erupts out of nowhere. Huge, heavy drops pound against the kitchen window and angry, dark clouds gather overhead, turning a summer’s afternoon into a wintery evening. I forget the platter of fancy food and hurry outside, waving my arms as I encourage everyone to make a dash for the house. I quench the barbecue and turn round to find Helen behind me. She’s skilfully covering salad bowls with plastic wrap and tosses raw meat into my best Tupperware, pressing the lids down firmly. I wince; the raw steak will stain the plastic and I’ll never be able to wash the horrible brownish-red tinge off the lids. But I press on my best fake smile and thank her for her help.

  ‘Keeps the air out,’ Helen says, smiling, and despite the rain. ‘You can stick these in the freezer. I do it all the time.’

  I watch as the rain turns her pretty lemon sundress to a dreary mustard and I apologise, as if I’m somehow responsible for the weather.

  ‘I thought Paul would be back ages ago,’ I say awkwardly as I tuck a bowl under each arm and carry a tray of mixed breads towards the house.

  ‘Ah, that’s men for you,’ Helen says, picking up the Tupperware. ‘I sent Larry home to pick up my sunglasses. That was twenty minutes ago.’ She rolls her eyes and I giggle. ‘He’s probably at home now, distracted by some game on the TV. He’s useless at the weekends. Stick a bit of sport on the telly and I can’t get him out of the house.’

  ‘Does he play?’ I ask.

  Helen snorts. ‘Larry? Jesus no. Running around is not his thing. He used to play football for the local team, but that was more than thirty years ago. He hasn’t kicked a ball in years. And he gets annoyed when I give out to him about his lack of exercise. But I swear, Susan, that man’s cholesterol is out of control.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I say, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘Paul is the opposite. He’s a fitness fanatic. He’s obsessed with training for the Dublin marathon at the moment. He’s run it a few times before, but this year he’s determined to get his time under three hours. He gets pissed off any time I worry about how hard he’s pushing it.’

  ‘Men,’ Helen tuts. ‘I’m surrounded by them. You’re so lucky to have little Amelia. She’s gorgeous, Susan. A real treasure.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I smile.

  ‘Our boys grew up so fast,’ Helen sighs, her shoulders rounding. ‘I miss when they were little.’

  A dull silence hangs between us. I’m not sure what to say.

  ‘You know . . . I’d be happy to babysit Amelia anytime you need, if you and Paul want to get out for dinner sometime. Or even just take a walk. I’d be happy to have her. I’d love to, actually.’

  I take in Helen’s genuine expression and the softness around her eyes that tells me she’s spent years longing for a daughter.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘Sounds good. Paul and I could use some grown-up time.’

  ‘Great.’ Helen rubs her hands together and I’m not sure if she’s excited or just trying to warm herself up. ‘Larry will be delighted too. He’ll never admit it, but I know he misses the kids around the house as much as I do.’

  Her excitement makes me uncomfortable. I’m trying to like Helen. At least, as much as anyone can like a neighbour they’re slowly becoming acquainted with. But I’m not about to leave my little girl with a stranger, no matter how kindly she offers. I concentrate hard to make sure my apprehension isn’t written all over my face.

  The house is now noisy and cramped. Our open-plan living space doesn’t feel as spacious with so many neighbours dotted around. Some stand in corners chatting, some perch on the arms of the couch because there isn’t any more room for them and some buzz like bees hovering from flower to flower as they work their way from person to person, gathering local gossip like nectar. Thankfully, conversation is flowing and there is a lot of laughter. Despite the sudden change in weather and Paul’s prolonged absence, the party seems to be a success.

  ‘You’re saturated,’ I say, pointing to Helen’s dress. ‘Can I get you something to change into?’

  She looks me up and down, flashes a toothy grin and shakes her head. ‘I don’t think I could squeeze my thunder thighs into anything of yours, Susan. You’re so slim, but thank you.’

  Helen isn’t overweight, but she’s certainly bigger than me. Most people are, I suppose. I was born three months premature and I’ve always blamed being short and skinny on my early arrival.

  ‘I’ll dry off in a minute,’ she smiles, trying to ease my concern. ‘I’m used to a little rain, Susan, don’t worry. You should see how wet I get some mornings tending to the cattle.’

  ‘Okay.’ I blush, suddenly feeling very much a city girl lost in the countryside.

  ‘You run up and change,’ Helen suggests. ‘I’ll chat to everyone down here.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I lie, shivering from the cold seeping into my bones as my shirt and cropped jeans cling to my skin.

  ‘Nonsense. You’re soaked through to the bone. Don’t worry about everyone down here. I’ll top up their drinks and pass around the plates of finger food while you’re gone.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ I ask, somewhat uncomfortable with Helen taking over as host.

  ‘Course not. What are neighbours for? Now go on up and change before you catch a cold. Leave everything to me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, suspecting that despite her pushy nature she means well.

  I hope so.

  I hurry to my bedroom, throw on my most respectable tracksuit and make a quick call to Paul’s mobile. As I suspect, he doesn’t answer but I leave a voice message, checking if he’s okay and asking him to hurry.

  Larry is back and chatting to Helen in the kitchen when I come downstairs. He’s helped himself to another gin and tonic. His face is red and puffy and beads of perspiration dot around his receding hairline. He looks as if he’s run a marathon instead of walking a couple of hundred metres up the road and back. I understand why Helen laughed earlier when I asked if Larry is sporty. The man is a walking heart attack, I think, and his fondness for gin isn’t doing him any favours.

  ‘Any sign of Paul?’ I ask, glancing at my watch. ‘He’s been gone ages.’

  Helen passes me a glass of white wine. ‘Not yet,’ she says, straining her eyes over my shoulder to glance at our oblivious neighbours, and I can tell she feels sorry for me being left to entertain them by myself.

  ‘C’mon,’ she says, linking my arm roughly and almost spilling the wine. ‘Let’s mingle. Bring that with you.’ She nods at the glass in my hand. ‘You’ll be glad of that stuff once this lot start talking nonsense to you.’

  ‘They can’t be that bad,’ I laugh. ‘Everyone around here seems so nice.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceiving.’ Helen takes on a sudden seriousness that ages her. ‘You’ve a lot to learn about this place, Susan. Ballyown has more skeletons than any graveyard in Dublin, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, my eyes wide.

  ‘She’s taking the piss,’ Larry says, slamming his empty gin glass on the countertop. I’m not sure if he’s annoyed with Helen for talking nonsense or with me for being gullible enough to believe it.

  Helen shake
s her head as she reaches for the half-empty bottle of gin and splashes a generous helping into Larry’s glass.

  ‘Of course I’m joking,’ she says, placing the bottle back down. ‘Ballyown is lovely, Susan, and you’re going to fit right in. Isn’t she, Larry?’

  Larry reaches for the glass and nods. ‘Absolutely.’ And I wonder if he loves Ballyown, or his wife, nearly as much as the clear liquid he’s about to drink.

  Untangling my arm from a tipsy Helen, I excuse myself and begin to work the room. I shake hands with almost everyone and express how excited I am to be the newest member of the community. The reaction is mixed. Some of the younger neighbours are excited too. Some of the older ones seem a little put out and the drunk ones don’t seem to care about anything either way, as long as I’m topping up their glasses.

  Minutes tick by slowly before Paul finally arrives back at the cottage. His clothes are soaked, and his mood is equally damp.

  ‘It’s raining cats and dogs out there,’ he says, taking shelter in the porch as he kicks off his saturated shoes on the step. ‘I got this wet just walking from the car to the door. I’ve been waiting in the car for twenty minutes for the rain to ease up enough to come inside, but I think it’s down for the day. So much for our barbecue. I hope you’re not too disappointed.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s been fine. Everyone has plenty to eat and drink. And now that you’re back with the cream I can serve dessert.’

  I look around at the picture of the entire community of Ballyown enjoying themselves in our home. ‘They’re all having a good time, Paul,’ I smile, ‘and everyone thinks what we’ve done with the cottage is amazing. I wasn’t expecting the rain but everything else has gone to plan. I’m really glad we did this.’

  ‘That’s great, Susan.’ Paul kisses my cheek and rain trickles from his hair down my face.

  ‘God, you’re freezing,’ I say. ‘You need to change your clothes before you get sick.’ I laugh inwardly as I hear Helen’s motherly words echo in my own.

  ‘Good idea.’ Paul passes me the extra-large tub of cream. ‘Here. I’ll run upstairs and dry off. I won’t be long. I could murder a glass of wine . . .’ He pauses to glance at Helen. ‘If there’s any left, that is.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, surprised to hear my teetotal husband make the request.

  He laughs. ‘For the day that’s in it, Susan. I’d like to raise a toast to my wife – interior designer extraordinaire, wonderful mother and the latest Ballyown socialite.’

  ‘Stop teasing,’ I giggle, enjoying his silliness.

  I crane my neck, trying to see into the back of Paul’s car, which is parked just before our little red gate. It’s taken us a while to get used to roadside parking. Initially we thought about opening the front garden into a driveway, but it’s such a tight space we’d only fit one car anyway and it would be a pity to lose the pretty trees and shrubs that have been growing here for years. Getting rained on the odd time seems a small sacrifice to keep such a pretty landscaped space. I shake my head. The tinted windows in the back of Paul’s car don’t allow me to see inside.

  ‘Aren’t you going to carry Amelia in before you change?’ I call after Paul as he dashes past me to make his way up the stairs.

  He stops midway and turns round.

  ‘If she’s still asleep we can put her into our bed,’ I suggest. ‘It’s too noisy down here, all the laughing will wake her. I’ll fetch the spare stair gate and put it across our bedroom door, that way she won’t come flying down the stairs if she wakes, the way she nearly did last week.’

  I don’t like the look on Paul’s face as he tilts his head to one side. ‘Millie isn’t in the car, Susan.’

  ‘What?’ I gasp. ‘Where is she, then? You took her with you, didn’t you?’

  Paul’s forehead wrinkles. ‘You said you were putting her down for a nap.’

  ‘You told me not to.’ I set the carton of cream down on the hall table with more force than is needed. ‘You said to leave her to play. Remember? You told me you’d watch her.’

  ‘But then you asked me to go to the shop . . .’ he mumbles sheepishly.

  ‘I thought you had her,’ I say, throwing my arms wide in frustration. ‘What the hell, Paul? Where is she?’

  ‘Here with you, isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh God. We all came inside when it started to rain. I thought you were watching her. Jesus Christ, Paul, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Susan, calm down. Someone will hear you.’ He winces as he glances around the open living space heaving with chatting neighbours.

  ‘I don’t care.’ I shake my head. ‘Amelia. Amelia . . .’ I call, turning my back on my husband to hurry around the house. Sticky, clammy bodies are cumbersome and awkward as I squeeze past them, repeatedly calling my daughter’s name. The house is buzzing with conversation and laughter. The neighbours’ children whip past me as they chase each other; their voices and giggles are too loud for indoors. Amelia isn’t among them.

  ‘Have you seen Amelia?’ I ask, catching the attention of one of the mothers sitting on the couch.

  She looks at me blankly and I’m not sure she realises I’m the host, and she obviously has no idea who Amelia is.

  ‘My little girl,’ I say. ‘She’s about this high.’ I hover my hand next to my mid-thigh. ‘Cream dress, yellow cardigan. Have you seen her?’

  The woman smiles. ‘Oh, that’s your daughter. She’s a lovely little thing. She’s been playing with my five-year-old all afternoon. They’ve had such fun.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Have you seen her recently? In the last hour or so?’

  ‘I thought you put her down for a nap,’ she says, her eyes softening, and I can tell she’s picked up on my panic.

  I exhale sharply, making myself light-headed.

  ‘Sweetheart, have you seen Amelia?’ she says, catching her daughter’s arm as she whizzes by in the group of hyper children.

  The girl shakes her head. ‘She’s not playing with us any more.’

  ‘Well, where is she, then?’ I snap.

  The girl’s eyes cloud over with tears as she shuffles closer to her mother. I’ve scared her.

  ‘Where is she?’ I repeat, finding myself shouting. ‘Where is Amelia?’

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ the mother answers, pulling her daughter close to her, clearly annoyed that I’ve raised my voice.

  ‘Amelia?’ I begin to shout. ‘Amelia!’

  ‘Millie!’ Paul calls from the stairs.

  I spin round and catch his eye. Suddenly he doesn’t look worried about raised voices, but he does look worried. My panic is rubbing off on him.

  ‘Millie, sweetheart.’ His deep voice is so much louder than mine. ‘I’ll check upstairs,’ he says. ‘You check the garden.’

  ‘Okay!’ I shout back, startling some of our neighbours, who begin to look concerned.

  ‘Susan.’ Helen catches my arm as I rush towards the double doors at the back of the house. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Have you seen Amelia?’ I ask, my heart beating fast.

  ‘No. Not for a while.’ Helen’s speech is slurred from several glasses of wine. ‘Susan, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I shake my arm free and reach for the door handle. I jerk it open roughly and run into the garden. Heavy, cold rain pelts me all over and the wind blows strands of my hair across my face, blocking my vision. I rub my eyes and hurry towards the end of the garden.

  ‘Amelia!’ I shout, spinning round, trying to take in the whole space. ‘Amelia, where are you?’

  I feel the heat of Paul’s body suddenly behind me as he presses his hands on my shoulders. ‘She’s not upstairs,’ he says.

  My chest tightens. ‘The gate,’ I say, pointing. ‘It’s open. Oh Jesus, the gate is open, Paul.’

  ‘One of the older kids must have opened it,’ he says, hurrying ahead of me.

  ‘The ducks,’ I cry. ‘Amelia wanted to feed the ducks. I said no.’

  Paul r
aces through the gate. I’m right behind him, even though I can barely breathe.

  The stream looks as innocent and unassuming as always. Raindrops dance across the surface, creating ripples between the large rocks protruding in haphazard places. The water is clear and I can see the pebbles at the bottom; it’s not even knee-deep and only waist-high for Amelia. We paddled in it just a couple of days ago, but Amelia didn’t like it when the water splashed her face. If she fell in she’d have been able to pull herself out, and she’d have come into the house crying with the cold and shock.

  ‘There are no ducks here today.’ I point towards a patch of green scum floating near the bank where the ducks usually feed.

  ‘She loves those damn ducks,’ Paul says and shakes his head.

  Without another word he sprints down the narrow laneway that runs alongside the stream.

  ‘Millie!’ he calls. ‘Millie!’

  I kick off my heels and run after him. I don’t feel the stony pathway beneath my feet. Normally I would struggle to keep up with Paul’s speed and fitness but right now I’m just a couple of steps behind him.

  We come to a fork. One path is narrow with tall trees blocking out the light. It scares me, so I know it would be terrifying to a two-year-old. The other path is wider and brighter and sweeps away from the water.

  ‘This way,’ Paul shouts, veering on to the dark path.

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve never been down this way. Amelia and I walk in the other direction.’

  ‘I ran this way this morning,’ Paul pants. ‘This path leads to the lake.’

  ‘I know. But it’s dark and scary. Amelia wouldn’t go down there. Not by herself.’

  ‘She would if she was following the ducks,’ Paul says.

  ‘The fucking ducks,’ I growl. ‘Why didn’t I just let her feed them? She only wanted to feed them. Oh Christ, Paul, where is she? Where is our baby?’

  ‘C’mon,’ he says and grabs my hand.

  We run again. My hot breath dances across the air in front of my face like a cloud as I puff out, my lungs burning.