The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s—I just don’t care for it. Besides, you seem to like blue.’

  ‘I do. This is suspiciously dark though.’

  ‘It can’t all be Carolina blue.’

  John stepped closer to her. They hadn’t been truly alone since Berlin. Max took a deep breath.

  ‘Thanks for driving.’ John stroked her shoulder. ‘Tired?’

  ‘Not really.’ She wouldn’t kiss him. They needed to talk. And yet her lips found John’s. ‘Why is my willpower around you completely non-existent?’ she murmured.

  ‘Because we’ve been separated by six inches of a front seat and one very chatty sixteen-year-old for the last four and a half hours?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She stepped away and fluffed a cushion on the bed. ‘Oh good, there’s an ash tray for you.’ Of course, there would be, Harris would be horrified to even imagine not catering for every need. ‘Would you like coffee first thing? Or tea? I can…’

  John’s arms folded around her. ‘I really don’t care. All I want this week is some time with you.’

  Max turned in his arms and listened to the steady thump of his heart. She sighed, tension draining out of her shoulders, but they kinked again as she remembered the cream car.

  ‘Do you think we were being followed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it all right if I use the telephone?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her fingers drifted over his back slowly. ‘Why follow us? Unless they thought it was Dad, although I don’t think he’s driven since he became Home Secretary.’ She swallowed. ‘Or you?’

  ‘Or it could be a random person going on holiday in Norfolk. At least we didn’t see it again.’

  ‘Should I tell Dad?’

  ‘I’ll ask for a message to be passed on.’ He squeezed her. ‘This wasn’t how I imagined this week starting.’

  Max closed her eyes. ‘Did you—is what you were working on in Berlin over?’

  ‘Yes. After a fashion. It’s complicated.’

  ‘And you can’t tell me?’

  ‘Someone else found—stopped something. But I felt…’

  A quick knock sounded at the door.

  ‘Mother.’ Max pulled away and checked John’s lips carefully for lipstick. Clear. She opened the door, turning back to speak casually. ‘I’ll just leave you to unpack, John.’

  ‘It’s only me,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you want to find that baseball, Mr Knox?’

  ‘Charlie, let him rest and have some tea.’

  ‘Maybe in half an hour or so?’ John said. ‘I need to make a phone call first.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Charlie said.

  A holiday. How could she dislodge that cream car, glittering in the sunlight, from her mind? ‘I’ll bring Bobby down from the nursery. He’s two and half. It’ll do him good to run around.’ Charlie frowned, and she laughed. ‘I’ll play with him, you two can have a serious game.’ Max turned Charlie towards the door. ‘Give John that half hour.’

  John smiled. ‘Could you show me to a phone, hon… please? I’d rather do that first.’

  He’d nearly called her honey in front of Charlie. ‘Sure. The library one would probably be best.’ They went into the hallway, and the door next to them flew open.

  ‘What’s all this tromping about?’ Mrs Gould asked. ‘Are you going to have guests regularly in your room, Mr Knox?’

  ‘Family members in their own home hardly count as guests, Mrs Gould.’ Max’s back stiffened. ‘However, if you find that your room is unacceptable…’

  Mrs Gould blinked. ‘It’s fine. I simply have very sensitive hearing, you see.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ John said. ‘I’ll be quiet.’

  Charlie’s face contorted, and Max pushed him down the hall before he laughed.

  ‘Excuse us, Mrs Gould,’ John said, but Mrs Gould slammed the door.

  Charlie held the laugh in till he reached the stairs. ‘Very sensitive hearing!’

  John exhaled. ‘As I said, charming. Your poor friend.’

  ‘Vivian? Yes. But at least she’s here with us instead of alone with the harridan.’ Would Mrs Gould hear her if she crept to John’s room at night?

  ‘I always forget you can do that, Max,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Go all Aunt Nancy. You never normally sound that haughty.’

  ‘It was pretty impressive.’ John grinned. ‘Did you get taught?’

  ‘Observation mostly, I think.’ She folded her lips. What did he think of the house? Now she had to add haughty to George’s ornery.

  After dinner, they all retired to the drawing room at the same time. Charlie fished a scrap of paper out of his pocket and started explaining cricket to John in agonising detail. Max ended up stuck playing cards with Mrs Gould and Mother.

  ‘Vivian has got to see sense. Formula is perfect for the baby,’ Mrs Gould said. ‘And she can be down here with us.’

  ‘It’s what she wants to do,’ Max murmured, playing a card that she knew Mrs Gould had needed.

  Mrs Gould’s face tightened. ‘She’s martyring herself to the baby.’

  ‘But Samantha is adorable,’ Mother said. ‘I understand why she wants to hold her so much. I look forward to being a grandmother.’ She smiled at Max.

  Must she?

  ‘Apparently some people find Southern accents charming,’ Mrs Gould said.

  ‘And I imagine some people find New England accents rather grating,’ Max replied. A foot hit hers, no doubt Mother’s. ‘How is your room, Mrs Gould?’ She kept her smile pleasant.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mrs Gould’s own smile looked strained. ‘Still, he is handsome. I imagine you’d have perfectly presentable babies.’

  ‘You could wait till I’m not right here, you know,’ Max said.

  ‘Vivian tells me you did so much together, Max. School and Vassar. Surely you want a home of your own?’ Mrs Gould asked. ‘But why did you graduate from Vassar later than Vivian?’

  Did she imagine some type of scandal? Mrs Gould would probably enjoy that.

  ‘Max flew planes for the war effort here,’ Mother said. ‘We were terribly proud of her.’

  Max kept her eyes on her cards. Proud? Her father had been clear about it, but Mother had only fussed.

  ‘How on earth did you know where to take them?’

  ‘I was in the Air Transport Auxiliary. Like the WAFS or the WASPs in the States. Civilian too.’ John glanced at her from the sofa.

  ‘You must have been petrified.’

  ‘Our loss rates were quite low, despite Amy Johnson.’ None of her flights in the War had been as terrifying as her crash landing on Mull.

  ‘Who?’ asked Mrs Gould.

  ‘She was a famous aviator,’ Max said. She played a last card and won the hand, steeling herself for another three or four.

  ‘Darling, do you want to show Mr Knox the gardens?’ Mother asked.

  ‘What a good idea,’ John said.

  ‘I’d like a walk,’ Charlie said as John rose.

  ‘We need you to play, Charlie,’ Mother said. ‘Take a torch.’ She smiled at Max.

  They stepped out into the hallway and John sighed. ‘Do you have a flashlight? I have one in my room, if not.’

  ‘I want to change my shoes.’ They climbed the stairs together. ‘How much of that could you hear?’

  ‘They’re naming our children.’ He smiled. ‘Could we skip ahead and go to bed instead?’

  ‘I suspect they’d notice.’

  John laughed as he turned down the guest wing. Max replaced her kid heels with flats and ran back downstairs.

  John held the door as she went out. He reached down for her hand. ‘It’s beautiful here.’

  Max led him down the terrace steps towards the rose garden. ‘Henry, our head gardener, has a particular talent for roses.’ The scent was heady, and she felt even more light-headed when John kissed her. He flashed the torch at a stone bench.

  ‘Wet,’ he said. He switched the torch off and wrapped his a
rm around her. She nestled close. He sighed. ‘If I ever ask Charlie to teach me anything again, stop me.’

  ‘Fully versed in cricket now?’

  ‘Expert.’

  ‘Charlie’s never opened up like that. He getting a serious case of hero worship, you know.’

  ‘He’s just lonely. Poor kid. Was his father your uncle?’

  ‘Cousin. Dad was the younger brother. My uncle and grandfather died in a car crash when I was eight.’

  ‘That sounds difficult.’

  ‘My parents shielded us as much as they could. But it certainly changed our lives radically.’ She exhaled. ‘But Charlie just calls them aunt and uncle—well, the age gap, I guess. I don’t know exactly.’ The silence stretched for a long time. ‘How did your father pass away?’

  John’s shoulders bumped her as he shifted.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable question. A mill accident.’ He stroked her back. ‘I wasn’t kidding about my family being poor, you know.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But my job does.’

  ‘I just need to figure out… how it can work.’

  John sighed. ‘I don’t know either, to be honest. The last time I had anything approaching serious with a girl I was nineteen.’

  ‘How old are you?’ Max asked. That definitely fell outside of permitted questions to ask a date. But so did everything else they talked about. Including cream Austin A90s following them.

  ‘Thirty.’

  At nineteen, Max had been flying planes in Britain. ‘What happened?’

  ‘To what? Oh, the girl. She dumped me for the son of the local mill owner, while I was away at university.’

  What did John think of her house? He’d gotten so angry at Will Firmin when he talked about money. Her money. ‘Eleven years is a long time,’ she said instead.

  ‘I’ve come to that realisation lately.’ His fingers traced her cheek. ‘Casual…’

  ‘Sex?’ Max asked.

  ‘Flings, I was going to say, haven’t prepared me for you.’ His lips found hers. ‘I don’t think anything could.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

  ‘It’s meant to be. You’re unlike anybody I know.’

  ‘Look.’ A light danced down the terrace steps towards them. ‘Pick a favourite—my mother or Charlie?’

  ‘Even money,’ John said. ‘Have we been out that long?’

  ‘Time for you to propose, insufficient time to have sex in the grass.’

  John laughed.

  ‘Miss Max? Mr Knox?’ A maid peered around the roses. ‘Lady Bartlemas asked me to come find you.’

  ‘John, this is Lucy Evans. Lucy, John Knox.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lady Bartlemas says it’s getting damp,’ Lucy said.

  ‘We’ll be right in. Thanks, Lucy.’ Max watched as Lucy went back to the house. ‘Lucy took care of me after Scotland. She was a nurse in the War.’

  John squeezed her hand. ‘Is Mrs Gould always like that?’

  ‘Last time I saw her, yes. Poor Vivian. Did you have a chance to ring about the car?’

  ‘They’re looking into it.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  MAX DROVE HER car around to the front of the house, and John and Charlie climbed inside. She circled the Daimler around the loop and headed down the drive.

  ‘Why do we have to go to Thetford first?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Dad wants us to say hello to Group Captain Knocker. Plus, I’d like to see their site.’

  ‘I’ve never seen an archaeological dig before,’ John said. ‘Well, besides St Bride’s, but that only briefly.’

  ‘And a well-rounded gentleman should have many interests,’ Max said.

  John laughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand adults,’ Charlie said glumly.

  ‘We won’t stay long. And then we’ll get lunch in Thetford before we drive to the beach.’

  ‘You realise we are going in exactly the wrong direction to get to Sheringham. Are we supposed to wear our bathing things under our clothes all day?’

  ‘Shall I take you back so you can change?’ Max asked.

  ‘No.’ Charlie stared out the window.

  ‘Besides, I like driving.’ She glanced in the rearview mirror. ‘How’s your leg?’ He’d brought his walking stick today for the first time. Otherwise, she would have suggested they all walk to the garage together.

  ‘Fine,’ Charlie said.

  ‘If it still aches, we could call the doctor.’

  ‘Leave me alone, Max.’

  ‘Okay.’ John looked so relaxed in the passenger seat. Daniel would have fumed, and mere seconds would have passed before he started criticising her driving. Charlie and John stayed silent until they reached the Gas Works on Bury Road in Thetford.

  ‘Do they know what they’re looking for?’ John asked.

  ‘Dad said they think it’s a church. St Edumund’s.’ They closed the car doors and walked towards the trenches. Charlie leaned on his stick.

  Group Captain Knocker stood next to the trench edge, pipe in hand. He glanced up. ‘Hello, Max.’ He walked towards them.

  ‘Group Captain Knocker. This is my cousin, Charlie, and my… friend John Knox.’

  They all shook hands, although Max avoided looking at John’s face. How else could she introduce him? ‘How’s the dig going?’ she asked instead.

  ‘It’s a small one. We’re finishing, actually. Found some foundations, a couple burials.’ Five men worked, refilling the trench. ‘The foundations were quite thick. Five foot nine inches.’

  ‘Suggesting a tower?’ Max asked.

  Knocker nodded. ‘Congratulations on your PhD, by the way. Bartlemas is terribly proud, you know.’

  Max smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But he wrote me wrote me about your crash landing too.’

  ‘Did he? It’s all repaired now.’ Surely Dad had left out some pertinent details. Like that it wasn’t her fault. ‘Engine failure,’ she said instead.

  ‘Have you gone up since?’ Knocker asked.

  ‘I flew it back from Scotland. It was fine.’

  ‘Always best to fly again as soon as possible.’

  ‘When do you think people should start training to be pilots?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I suspect Bartlemas would like me to answer in a certain way.’ He smiled. ‘When they are old enough and they find the right teacher.’ He gestured towards Max with his pipe. ‘Talk to your cousin.’

  Max laughed. ‘I know for a fact Mother would like you to give a different answer.’

  ‘See, Max? I told you.’

  Knocker laughed.

  ‘I was hoping to show them an active dig, though. John’s never seen one.’

  ‘Then you might want to go over to Pearson’s field.’ Knocker said. ‘There’s a school teacher that has a bunch of girls from the Grammar School excavating. My assistant told me about it. Said they’re doing decent work.’

  One of the men smiled. Charlie looked up, and then back down to his feet.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ Max said. ‘What good experience for them.’

  ‘Interested?’ John asked Charlie, who nodded slowly.

  They thanked Knocker, and headed back to the car.

  ‘Is that what archaeologists do?’ Charlie asked. ‘I always figured it was more like playing in dirt.’

  Max laughed. ‘Mostly it is.’

  ‘So why was Captain Knocker standing by the edge smoking a pipe?’

  ‘Some archaeologists—quite often men of a certain age—do that. You see photos of Mortimer Wheeler in India in a three-piece suit. Dad said he once read in some minutes from the Society of Antiquaries about a fellow ‘causing the earth to be moved by the men’. That was in the eighteenth century, mind. There’s a long line of gentleman archaeologists.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Victor with a pipe. Or getting his clothes dirty, for that matter.’ John laughed.

  �
�Victor definitely is an in the trench archaeologist. He has surprisingly ordinary clothes for digs.’

  ‘Are you?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Of course. I like playing in dirt.’ She parked her car next to a motorbike. Charlie left his walking stick in the car, but she didn’t say anything.

  They walked up to the field. Ten teenaged girls and a teacher worked in a trench. ‘Looks like they are too,’ Max said.

  Max watched Charlie register the girls in shorts before his face turned red. She hid a smile as the teacher clambered out of the trench.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Max Falkland, and this is my cousin Charlie. And John Knox, my friend. I’m an archaeologist too—we just saw Group Captain Knocker, and he suggested we should stop by.’

  ‘Pearl Wheatley.’ She held out a grubby hand, but retracted it. ‘Sorry.’

  Max shook it anyway, as did John.

  ‘But I’m not an archaeologist,’ Pearl said.

  Max peered in the trench at the neatly cut sections with precise right angles, and the buckets of spoil in regimental lines along the side of the trench. ‘It looks like you are.’

  Pearl smiled. ‘I’ve just had some training through the WEA. They did a presentation at the Grammar School, and I was in charge of the slides.’

  ‘What’s the WEA?’ John asked.

  ‘Workers’ Educational Association,’ Pearl said. ‘It was founded about fifty years ago.’

  ‘They do education in communities,’ Max added. ‘How did you go from slides to digging a trench?’

  ‘My head teacher thought we should get some more training, so we went on a weekend course at Leiston Abbey in Suffolk. It’s a good thing for the girls to do. Last year we excavated what’s now the hard tennis courts, and we asked Mr Pearson if we could do his field this year.’ She smiled. ‘His daughter’s at the school, although she’s not in this group.’

  ‘Have you found anything?’ John asked.

  ‘We’re hoping it’s the St John’s the Baptist church. You can tell by the directions the bodies are buried in, northeast/southwest. They aligned them to the rising sun, for the twenty-fourth of June.’

  ‘Why?’ asked John.

  ‘That’s John the Baptist’s day.’

  ‘Have you found bodies?’ Charlie managed to speak, ripping his eyes from the girls.