The Liar's Sister (ARC)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Every bad word Mum had told me not to say went racing through my mind. Please let Heather be okay. Lady showed no sign of slowing down, though, and now we were racing past the Murrays’ farm. God, that place was noisy enough for our ponies on a good day. My mind raced with potential disasters. What if the tractor came out of the yard? That’d be it. Lady would lose it completely. At least Heather wasn’t screaming. Somehow she maintained a stoic silence as she continued to cling on. I’m not sure I would have remained as calm if it’d been me out of control on a road.

  Lady’s hooves must have been making quite a racket, because Colin Murray came hurrying out onto the road from the farm courtyard with his son Samuel next to him. The farmer stepped into the middle of the road with a bucket in his hands, gently lifting the bucket up and down, shaking the contents. As I slowed Midnight down to a gentle canter, I heard the rattling of feed in the bucket and realised that Mr Murray must have known there was a panicked horse running along the road.

  Even in her terrified state, Lady would never miss an opportunity to eat. I saw the pony’s ears prick towards the sound. She broke into a trot, and then pulled up right in front of Mr Murray and shoved her nose in the bucket. Heather wasted no time swinging her leg over Lady’s side and hopped onto the road. She stood next to the pony for a moment, catching her breath, her eyes open wide, her face a mask of fear. Then, after a moment, she handed the reins to Mr Murray and stepped away, closer to Samuel, who we both knew from the village school. He was a year younger than me and in Heather’s class with the other twelve-year-olds. I was the year above them and didn’t tend to hang around with the same group of people. Not that anyone was friends with Samuel. No one wanted to be seen dead with him at our school. Thirteen-year-old me thought he was a freak. But I wasn’t a nice person then.

  I slowed Midnight down to a trot, then a walk, then a halt, and leaped down.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Samuel was speaking softly to my sister, leaning slightly over her. He was tall even then.

  ‘Hev?’ I asked, hurrying closer.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, her voice trembling. I could tell that it was taking all of her willpower for her to not burst into tears. She wouldn’t, though, not in front of strangers.

  ‘Easy now,’ Mr Murray said, gently stroking Lady’s sweaty neck. There were froth marks from where the reins had rubbed against her sweaty coat. ‘She’s all worked up and needs to cool down. We’ve got a couple of empty stables at the farm. We can put her in one of them and let her rest for a while. I’ll call your parents and let them know where you are.’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  I remember how Mr Murray was taller and skinnier than my dad, with less hair. He wore one of those blue overalls that all farmers appeared to wear. I’ve often wondered whether they shop at the same place. Farmers must bump into each other all the time.

  ‘It might take a bit of time for your ponies to cool down,’ Mr Murray said. ‘Samuel could show you girls around. I know you all go to the same school.’

  I was about to open my mouth to suggest we go inside the farmhouse, but Samuel started talking first.

  ‘I’ll show you my reptiles if you want,’ he said eagerly. ‘I have a few snakes and some lizards. They aren’t scary.’

  ‘Not sure that’s going to make Heather feel any better,’ I replied, leading Midnight into the courtyard.

  ‘Why not? Snakes are cool,’ he insisted, reminding me why no one at school wanted to be his friend.

  ‘I want to see the snakes,’ Heather said, a little brightness back in her voice. Her shell-shocked expression was ebbing away to bring colour to her cheeks again.

  ‘As long as you don’t tell anyone at school,’ I said, annoyed that Heather seemed intrigued. I remember thinking that she was just pretending to want to see them to cover up her embarrassment over the incident with Lady. ‘I don’t want people knowing we saw your silly snakes.’

  ‘They’re not silly,’ Samuel complained. His face scrunched up as though he might burst into tears.

  Next to us, Mr Murray shook his head. ‘Girls. Give me strength.’

  We took the ponies into a block of stables, removed their saddles and bridles, and gave them some water. Lady glugged it down, still stressed and tired after her episode. Mr Murray had to stop her from drinking too fast, pulling her head up for a few moments and then letting it back down again.

  ‘Calm down now, lass,’ he said gently.

  ‘What’re their names?’ Samuel asked, leaning against the stable door. He was wearing cords tucked into wellington boots, and a checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Heather was standing close to him, away from the ponies.

  ‘Lady,’ she said. ‘And she usually behaves like a lady too. Not today, though.’

  ‘Ladies run,’ I said, annoyed by my sister’s usual prim tone. ‘There are loads of women sprinters.’

  ‘Shut up, Rosie. You know what I mean,’ she snapped.

  Mr Murray backed away. ‘When you’re done, you can come into the house for a cup of tea and cake. I’m going to call your mum now. She might be worried.’

  Heather shrugged. ‘Doubt it.’ But she whispered it, and I don’t think Mr Murray heard as he walked away.

  Samuel heard, though, and turned to her. ‘Why won’t your mum care?’

  ‘She’s too busy moping around,’ Heather replied. ‘She’s always “going for a lie-down”, unless she’s at work.’

  I found myself nodding along. ‘She does lie down a lot. But not all the time. You’re just in a bad mood.’

  Heather shot me a glower before picking up one of Mr Murray’s curry combs to brush out Lady’s coat. The foamy sweat had begun to harden now that she’d cooled down.

  ‘This is all your fault, Rosie,’ Heather said as Lady munched on a pile of hay. ‘If you hadn’t made us gallop up on the grass verge, she wouldn’t have thrown a wobbly.’

  ‘No, you should get her used to the tree,’ I replied. ‘Instead you tense up every time and she freaks out. You should learn how to help her.’

  Samuel gazed at us, an expression of frozen awkwardness on his face. ‘Do you two always argue?’

  We both shrugged at the same time.

  ‘When you’re done, I’ll show you round the farm if you want,’ he said.

  ‘Are you still showing us the snakes?’ Heather asked.

  ‘What is it with you and snakes?’ I snapped.

  ‘Stop being a wimp, Rosie.’

  My jaw dropped. It was bloody rich of Heather to call me a wimp. I had half a mind to push her down for that. But I didn’t, because I didn’t want to scare Lady again.

  ‘What’s your pony called?’ Samuel asked, turning to me.

  I reached out and stroked Midnight’s soft muzzle, proud of my boy. ‘Midnight.’

  ‘But he’s white,’ Samuel said.

  ‘He’s grey. See? His muzzle is dark. And he’s called Midnight because when the moon is full at night, it’s bright white like his coat.’

  Samuel frowned as though not getting the logic at all.

  ‘Let’s go for that walk around the farm,’ Heather suggested, falling into step with Samuel.

  I didn’t understand what had got into her, or it’s possible part of me was jealous of this new secret smile on her lips. All of a sudden it was as though the scary business with Lady had never happened. I was used to Heather following me around, trying to butt into conversations with my friends. Now I was the third wheel, trying to keep up with the two of them, though Samuel intermittently directed the conversation to me, to make sure I wasn’t left out.

  We went around the milking barns and he showed us the strange equipment that attached to the cows’ udders. Then we visited the sheep, and he told us all about lambing season and their border collie who kept the flock together. I remember thinking that he was nicer outside of school, not that I paid much attention to him at school. What I had noticed about him was that he tended to play too rough with the younger kids, especial
ly the girls. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d seen him in detention at lunchtime for hurting a girl. His dad had had to come and take him home once. I’d always assumed it was because Samuel didn’t get on with anyone in his own year. When he wasn’t around the younger kids, he was alone.

  ‘There you are,’ Mr Murray said, striding up to the coop where we’d been investigating the chickens. ‘I’ve spoken to your mother, and she’s going to come and pick you up with the trailer for the ponies and drive you home. Don’t worry,’ he said, eyes flicking in Heather’s direction, ‘you won’t have to ride them back. Now, she’s going to be an hour or so. Would you like to come in for a drink? Mrs Murray baked a Bakewell tart yesterday.’

  As we both nodded our heads enthusiastically, a young boy, about nine or ten, came walking up, dragging his wellies across the grass.

  ‘Who’re you?’ he said rudely.

  I remembered him from school too. Peter Murray. Always scruffy. Light-brown hair that fell into his eyes, and a sullen expression on his face.

  ‘Go away, Peter,’ Samuel said, spitting out the words.

  ‘Hey!’ The sudden rise in Mr Murray’s voice made us all stand up straighter. There was no humour in that tone. ‘I’ve told you not to snap at your brother.’

  Samuel dropped his gaze to the grass. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Now come on, let’s go inside and wait for your mum.’

  The thought of cake made us all forget the little outburst. Heather started walking first, and I joined her.

  ‘You girls should spend some time here this summer if you want,’ Mr Murray said. ‘Earn some pocket money for helping out.’

  Heather’s head practically fell off as she nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘We’ll have to check with your mum and dad first, though,’ he added.

  Three

  Heather

  Now

  When I got back from the hospital yesterday, I wrote Rosie a letter I’ll never send, and I put everything into it: all my fears and suspicions that I can’t say out loud. They are weights I carry each day, and I thought that if I actually wrote them down, I could alleviate some of the burden. Because she can never know what’s in my heart, especially now that she’s coming home.

  I cannot let go of the fact that there is, and always has been, a part of Rosie that frightens me. She was impulsive and wild as a girl, always running, never walking. She wasn’t a tomboy, but she did have an adventurous streak, and her temper was ferocious. She was the kind of girl always in detention at school. She was usually the only girl in detention at school.

  To distract my wandering thoughts, I go through the papers in the desk drawer that Mum was adamant I organise. In the exact spot Mum described, her will and all the details for the house are organised neatly in a cardboard wallet. The will leaves everything to me and Rosie for us to split equally. I suppose selling the house would be the easiest way to do it, but despite everything, I know I’ll find it hard to give up this place.

  Why did Mum tell me to sell the house as soon as she died? Was she worried that Rosie and I would fall out over money? Perhaps it was the setting in the hospital, the fluorescent lights and the gravitas of Mum’s condition, but those few words had left me with a sense of dread. A sense that something bad – other than her dying – was going to happen. But then everything said or done in a hospital has another layer of meaning. Whenever I’m with her, there’s always the terrible possibility that any words spoken could be our last. Even so, I can’t shake the feeling that she was hinting at a larger issue. I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t come out and say it.

  I find myself drifting from room to room, trying to conjure up images from my childhood. The place is dusty and cluttered, which is pretty much how I remember it as a kid, despite the fact that Mum worked as a part-time cleaner. Since coming back to Buckthorpe, I’ve cleaned the house off and on, half-heartedly dragging a duster over the shelves and ornaments. I don’t have the energy for it. Still, I force myself to do it because I hate dust. But I do love the clutter, mostly because it’s Mum’s clutter.

  There are books on every stair of the house, stacked up at the edges in untidy, precarious piles. One thing I remember clearly is how those piles would grow and shrink depending on who was reading what at the time. When I was a child, the stacks were often full of poetry books that Mum would pick up and put down as she tidied the house. Ten minutes of housework, two hours of reading with her feet on the ottoman and a cup of tea in her hand. Then another two hours of writing her own poems, topped off with a last ten minutes of chores.

  The walls are adorned with photographs. Me with my red rosette on Lady after winning first place at a gymkhana. Rosie next to me on Midnight, trophy in her hand after beating everyone at jumping. She was the little showjumper in the family, while I was far too cautious for anything dangerous. Then there are family photos of us outside a run-down rust bucket of a caravan, Grandad frowning into the camera lens at the back of the group. Rosie clutches a stuffed bear she won in the slot machines on Blackpool promenade. I have an ice-cream cone and a balloon.

  None of the furniture matches in any of the rooms. Outrageous patterns compete for attention: floral sofas, striped curtains, flock wallpaper. There are brown carpets and off-white walls. Purple rugs and dark wooden cabinets. The place still smells of dog beds and old horse rugs. The utility-room shelf is piled high with old leather pieces from the bridles, a box full of metal bits, and at least half a dozen hoof picks.

  In the corner, I see Dad’s boots on old newspaper, now covered in cobwebs and dried flakes of mud. Mum’s dressing gown hangs limply on a hook. I need to sort all of this out, and yet I don’t even know where to begin. Part of me wants to preserve it as a strange museum dedicated to the unusual rural life of the Sharpes. Here on your left you can see my torn wax coat from when I was fourteen, and on your right are Rosie’s pink wellington boots with the missing butterfly clasp from when she was eight.

  My mobile-phone ringtone breaks the silence, and my heart jumps into my mouth. I accept the call and breathlessly say hello.

  ‘Heather?’

  The world shrinks down as though I’m caught in a vacuum-sealed bag. ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

  I pause; I wasn’t expecting to hear her voice today. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m okay. I got your email. How’s Mum?’

  ‘Not great. She doesn’t have long left.’ I take a deep breath. ‘All she wants is to see you before—’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she says. ‘I’m actually on a train. Should be home this evening. That okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Course it is.’

  She pauses before she says, ‘Good.’

  Does she know? Can she hear it in my voice? All I can think about is that moment when I placed the bracelet on the cabinet.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ I say.

  ‘You will.’

  We both hang up. I lean against the door frame in the utility room and remain still for a moment, trying to process my thoughts and feelings. There’s always wariness when it comes to Rosie; the flickering of nerves in the pit of my stomach, the worry that we’ll finally have a confrontation about Samuel’s disappearance. And yet there’s relief, too. Relief that I won’t have to cope with all of this by myself any more. I won’t be alone.

  * * *

  I spend the afternoon in the hospital. Because I now know that Rosie is visiting, I work with Susie to make Mum pretty, brushing her hair, painting her nails, moisturising her skin. She’s not even sixty years old, and I’m already her carer. The world can be unfair at times, but even now we find moments of happiness. Her breath comes ragged and her arms are weak, but she laughs when Susie tells us a joke. Her eyes brighten when I tell her about my conversation with Rosie over the phone.

  But I’m a terrible person, because the entire time we sit there preening and chatting, I feel jealous and resentful of my older sister. Rosie hasn’t had to make round trips between
London and Buckthorpe to take care of Mum every weekend. She hasn’t taken Mum to her chemotherapy appointments and held her hand while the nurses try to find a vein. She hasn’t cleaned the vomit from her clothes or painted her nails. And yet Rosie is the person Mum is excited to see.

  This should make me happy, shouldn’t it? Mum and Rosie reunited after five years. Me reunited with my long-lost sister, the girl I loved more than anyone.

  But deep down amongst the numbness that has built up since Mum was first diagnosed, there’s a wound yet to be healed, one that opened up ten years ago. To me, Rosie will always be the wild little girl with the temper who used to frighten me, and I’ll never be able to stop convicting her of a crime in my head.

  But I can’t let Mum see any of that.

  By the time I leave the hospital, the sun is setting over the dales, warming the green fields with an amber glow. This view has soothed me many times over the years, but today the reddish sunset chills my blood. Will Rosie be home when I get back? What are we going to talk about while we sit together in the cottage, alone?

  A cool spring breeze whips my hair into my face as I get out of the car and head to the door. Rosie is coming by train – and, I assume, taxi – so I know not to expect another car on the drive. The curtains are as I left them. The door is closed. When I insert my key, it’s still locked. I head in, my hands shaking. This is ridiculous. Whatever Rosie might have done to Samuel, she has never been a physical threat to me. I clear my throat and call out a hoarse, ‘Hello?’

  No answer.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, I make my way into the kitchen, hang my coat on the hook and start putting away the few items I stopped for on the way home. Tea bags, milk, tins of soup, bread … things for quick and simple snacks and meals. It’s as I have my back to the door, placing the milk in the refrigerator, that the air behind me seems to change. Trying not to panic, I wheel around, almost dropping the milk.