The Lies We Tell

  Chapter 18

  Guildford – February 1989

  As soon as Jude saw the pale but determined look on Siobhan’s face she knew something was up.

  A wary aloofness had marked their relationship in the weeks since their argument over the picture of her so-called dad, yet in an instant Jude instinctively knew now was not the time to try to score points. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ she asked, putting her school bag down on the kitchen table beside a box of official-looking letters and bills.

  ‘The surgery …’ Siobhan did not look up as she spoke in a low, controlled monotone. ‘They’ve let me go.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jude, unsure what else to say. Staring at the pile of papers she noticed numbers on a bank statement underlined in red.

  Following her daughter’s gaze, Siobhan hastily placed a cardboard folder on the top of the pile. ‘Sit down,’ she said, patting the seat beside her. ‘We need to talk.’

  For the first time in months, Jude mutely did as she is told. A ball of panic nudges the back of her throat.

  ‘Right,’ her mum began, crisply, picking up a sheet of paper littered with hastily calculated sums. ‘I’ll have to get another job, of course, and – thank goodness – the school fees are covered by the scholarship, but in the short term things will be tough.’ Jude said nothing. ‘So there will be some changes. We’re going to have to tighten our belts to keep up the mortgage repayments. Cut back on any extras. I may even have to sell the car, if we really want to stay.’

  ‘What about Dave?’

  Siobhan looked blank. Dave had gone away for the week with a bunch of biker friends to watch the TT Races on the Isle of Man. ‘Of course Dave will help, too,’ she replied. ‘And when he gets back he’s promised to help me work through all our finances – ’

  How generous, thought Jude, recalling all those times when Siobhan had complained about his reluctance to re-stock the fridge or make any other contribution to the gas and electricity bills. ‘He could start paying rent,’ she suggested.

  Her mum’s face darkened. ‘Rent?’

  ‘It’s about time he started to contribute – you know, financially.’

  ‘When I need your advice I’ll ask for it,’ snapped Siobhan. Sitting back in her chair, she pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. For a moment Jude thought she might cry, but she was wrong. ‘I had Yvonne from the surgery on the phone a little earlier, the interfering cow,’ her mum continued. ‘Some woman she knows who’s about to have a baby needs a home help. The bloody cheek. As if I’d take on any old thing. I didn’t work so hard for so long to iron other people’s underwear. But then Yvonne’s always looked down on me, the patronising bitch.’

  Jude hesitated. ‘Perhaps she has a point –’

  Siobhan looked up sharply. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean, you are going to have to get something to tide us over until you find another proper job, aren’t you?’ Jude stopped, realising she’d gone too far, but it was too late to disengage, so without pausing for breath she carried on anyway. ‘Not that you should do something like that. I just meant –’

  ‘I know exactly what you just meant,’ Siobhan cried, rising to her feet. ‘Well don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. Mummy will sort it out. Haven’t you got some homework to do?’

  Jude stepped back to let her mum push past her then watched in silence as Siobhan opened a bottle of wine, found a glass then left the room to make her way upstairs where she would steep her wounded pride in a long, hot bath. Jude waited for a few minutes then slipped into the kitchen and took a can of Dave’s lager from the fridge. Back in her room, she threw herself down onto the bed and closed her eyes, ignoring the homework she’d yet to complete. If we really want to stay. The doubt in her mum’s words was unsettling. For despite her reluctance to leave the south coast, Jude had come to like her new life.

  She’d done well in her mocks and her teachers were predicting six As and three Bs. If she achieved these grades or above she would have the chance of a scholarship into the sixth form at Clark’s, a boy’s school on the outskirts of town. Otherwise there was the tech or staying on at St Mary’s. Whatever she chooses to do, though, one thing was for sure. She needed three good A-levels, including English, to get a place at the London University college she had in mind for her English and drama degree.

  Some time later, having spent at least an hour on her bed reading the latest Armistead Maupin, Jude slipped downstairs to make a sandwich. The sitting room door was shut, the ground floor was in darkness, yet from behind the closed door she could hear her mother’s voice. Intrigued, Jude hesitated, hovering on the bottom stair.

  ‘ … I know Nan, but we can’t come back,’ she heard her mum say. ‘Jude’s settled at school and we like our life here. I’ll find another proper job, and until I do I can take on some other work … Of course he’s said he can help, but that’s not a long-term solution …’ There was a long pause followed by a sharp intake of breath. ‘Absolutely not. He gives me what he gives me and that’s that – I am not going cap in hand to beg for more … Look, it’s an arrangement that works and I want it to stay that way …’

  At least it sounded as if Dave was paying his way, Jude thought as she crept into the kitchen to make a snack. She was glad, too, that her mum seemed reluctant to accept Nanny P’s apparent suggestion that they move back to Portsmouth. After weeks spent in opposite corners, it seemed she and Siobhan now stood united – on this issue, at least. Then, at around eleven, her mum came back upstairs.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Siobhan called, briefly popping her head around Jude’s bedroom door,

  ‘Oh, you know –’ he daughter sighed. ‘You?’

  ‘Fine,’ her mum said brightly, but her eyes looked dull. ‘Keep up the good work.’

  A little later, Jude heard her mother talking on the phone again. To Dave, probably. Turning back to her book, she realised her brain had disengaged from the written words at least half a page earlier, if not more. It was late, almost midnight, and she really should turn in. But as she made her way along the landing towards the bathroom to brush her teeth, something about her mum’s tone – an urgent whisper punctuated by an occasional sob – lured her back down stairs.

  ‘… I said it’s not enough.’ Siobhan’s voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Not now I’ve lost my job. Which is another thing. You can’t drop it off at the surgery anymore, you’ll have to deliver it here … I don’t know how, that’s not my problem. Just get it to me, alright? … Of course I haven’t told Jude. When I say we’ve got a deal we’ve got a deal. And we have got a deal, Charlie, haven’t we? … Well that’s alright then …’

  Now seated on the bottom stair, Jude’s body tensed. Even if she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t move – as if the bones in her legs had become rubber, or the connectors linking her feet to her brain were severed. So silently she listened at the sitting room door, her hopes fluttering moth-like. Until she heard the dull click of the phone being replaced. A sound like rustling paper followed by a cough. Then the unmistakeable sound of tears.

  Softly, Jude pushed open the sitting room door to see Siobhan sitting hunched on the sofa, her face in her hands, slowly rocking to and fro. The scene was unsettling, and Jude held back as her mind raced. The right thing to do would be to rush to her mum’s side and give her a hug. Yet she cringed at the woman’s lack of self control. Her vulnerability and despair. For an instant she contemplated a retreat from the room, unseen, but then it was too late. Siobhan was turning towards her having sensed her presence.

  ‘What is it, Jude?’ her mum asked, weakly.

  ‘Nothing. I just wondered if you were … OK.’

  Siobhan sat up. Her face was red and blotchy. ‘Oh, I’ll survive,’ she murmured, softly, as she unfolded then re-folded the situations vacant section of the local paper which was still on her lap. ‘I always do.’

  ‘I heard the phone. How’s Dave?’

  ‘What? Oh, fine – h
e’ll be back tomorrow night,’ Clearly flustered, Siobhan reached for a half glass of wine on the floor by her feet. Having drained the contents in a single gulp, she replaced the glass and as she did so Jude noticed her hand was shaking. The bottle, now empty, stood by the phone reminded Jude to dispose of the beer can she left upstairs before her mum could find it.

  ‘Look, um, I just wanted to say … sorry.’ The words were out before Jude had even thought what to say. But she’d struck lucky. Contrition was always a winning hand to play.

  ‘Sorry?’ Siobhan looked confused. Perhaps it was the wine.

  ‘I know how hard you’ve worked,’ Jude gushed. ‘And I didn’t mean to suggest … Look, I’ll help any way I can, alright? And when Dave gets back I know you’ll feel a whole lot better.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ her mum sighed. ‘He said to say hi, by the way.’

  Liar, Jude thought as she undressed for bed a few minutes later. As she angrily sifted her memories for any previous mention of someone called Charlie. Lying in bed, she reached for her Walkman and pressed play. But as soon as the music started to play, she ripped out the cassette and flung it across the room.

  Her sleep was fitful that night – disturbed by her mother’s lie, troubled by the thought of moving away, excited by the looming exams which would bring her eventual liberation one step closer. Then she was woken just after six the next morning by the dull click as someone pushed open the front gate and then, a minute later, pulled it to again.

  Unable to go back to sleep, she tossed and turned for a while then conceded defeat, climbed out of bed and padded downstairs to get herself some juice. Only as her foot touched the bottom step on her return journey, however, did she see it – a cream-coloured envelope lying on the mat at the foot of the front door.

  It was expensive paper – ridged, like corduroy. The handwriting on the front was written in ink and addressed to Miss Davies. But no-one called her mum Miss, ever. Despite this, Jude somehow knew the envelope could not be intended for her. Yet as she thoughtfully turned it over in her hands she found herself seduced by its dull weight and unknown contents. The mystery of it. Besides, she could always say she’d made a genuine mistake, couldn’t she?

  Slowly, very slowly and after a furtive glance up the stairs behind her, Jude slipped her forefinger beneath the flap and gently edged it around the V then eased open the seal without a tear in case she needed to stick it back down.

  The slim bundle of £20 notes inside was wrapped in a piece of notepaper which, like the envelope, was textured and bore a watermark. There must have been at least twenty notes, Jude marvelled, fanning them out like cards in her hand. But why? An accompanying slip of paper had dropped to the floor. Hungrily, she grabbed it and read the brief message: ‘You keep your side of the bargain, I’ll keep mine’.

  Bargain, what bargain? Jude wondered, puzzled. Then she remembered her mum’s words on the phone the night before. Something about a deal being a deal, and not telling her about something. Somehow Jude knew this anonymous note must be from the Charlie her mum had been speaking to. But Charlie who? He clearly knew Siobhan had a daughter, but Siobhan had never mentioned knowing anyone of that name. There was only one Charlie Jude could think of. Or rather, Charles.

  Laughter bubbled in her mouth. The possibility that her mum and Mr Parker could possibly have some sort of a deal was simply ludicrous.

  Jude looked up. From where she was sitting, she could see through the sitting room door across the room to the mantelpiece and the gap where the photograph of her so-called dad had once stood. Her mouth was dry, her throat felt tight. No, absolutely not. She made some quick calculations. Kat was four months older than her, which meant he would have been with her mum when his own wife had been pregnant … Then she remembered something. Didn’t Siobhan mention something about seeing her father one last time just before Jude was born outside his house on Pilgrim’s View, and that they had an older child?

  Jude wondered, briefly, if the child had been a boy. An older brother. Andrew. But the idea was stupid. Ridiculous.

  Carefully, she re-wrapped the notes then slid them back into the envelope. The seal was still shiny with glue. But as she stuck out her tongue to lick it she hesitated. In her hands seemed to be a clue about her real father’s identity. Now, surely, she had a chance to discover the truth. A truth no-one in their right mind – Siobhan especially – could deny she had a right to know. So instead of sealing the flap Jude tucked it inside itself and slipped the envelope into her dressing gown pocket before softly making her way back upstairs.

  *

  It was raining when they got off the bus at the end of Kat’s road. Tugging their school coats over their heads, they ran as one along the sodden lane. Ignoring the school bags pummelling their thighs, the mud splattered by their pounding legs, they dashed towards the open five bar gate and the gravel driveway beyond that led to the front door of Kat’s house.

  Jude no longer felt awed by the place’s grand scale. Familiarity had shaped her conclusion that its mock Tudor timbering was artifice rather than awesome; that the building’s wisteria-hung façade was twee, if picturesque. Today, though, other matters were playing out in her mind as Kat, who unlike Jude did not yet have her own front door key to let herself in and out whenever she so chose, rang the doorbell. Then, a beat later, Mrs Parker was hastily stepping to one side in the open doorway as the girls tumbled inside.

  ‘Goodness, you’re both soaked!’ Kat’s mum exclaimed as they shrugged off their coats and shook their hair.

  ‘Hello Mrs P,’ Jude grinned, spinning around on her heels with a flourish to hang her sodden coat on a free hook behind the front door.

  ‘Nice to see you, Judith,’ Mrs Parker responded, coolly. ‘And let me take these,’ she added, reaching for their coats. ‘They’ll dry quicker in the kitchen.’

  With barely a backward glance, the girls tore upstairs with their bags. Inside Kat’s bedroom, a large airy room with two sash windows overlooking the back garden and, beyond, spring fields like damp corduroy, the girls spread out their books on the floor – camouflage designed to convince the casual observer they were working. Then they pulled out the pile of magazines stowed beneath the bed.

  As Kat searched for a suitable cassette to play, Jude rose to her feet. ‘Just going for a wee,’ she called out innocently. As she moved towards the door, Kat fine-tuned the volume on the stereo before then leaned back against the bed flicking through last month’s Honey.

  Once inside the bathroom Jude lowered the toilet and sat down. She tore off some loo paper, balled the tissue in her hand then blew her nose. Exhaling, slowly, she tried to focus her thoughts but found herself distracted by Mr Parker’s dressing gown which hung from the back of the bathroom door. It was ankle length, a rather grand navy and gold striped affair, in some kind of satiny fabric.

  Having never met the man in person, she struggled to visualise him in it, though knew instinctively the garment would only ever be worn over pyjamas, never his naked body, Dave-style. Having spent hours chewing over the possible identity of her real dad, Jude’s mind had grown attuned to every father-related nuance. In recent days, for example, she’d logged without fail even the merest mention of a Charlie or Charles living or working some place in town.

  So she’d noticed for the first time the name of the milkman printed at the top of his weekly bill: Bill Charles. The landlord of The Salutation, Siobhan and Dave’s favourite pub on the high street, was a Charles Clifford. And Charlie was the name Ruth Creighton had chosen to give her new pony.

  Yet Jude was no closer to discovering the truth behind the note still carefully folded in her pocket. Just where to begin? Perhaps she was approaching this the wrong way round. Maybe a good place to start would be by ruling out the Charleses Charlie couldn’t be.

  Lobbing the damp tissue into the wicker waste basket beneath the sink, Jude rose to her feet and crept across the room. Softly, she opened the bathroom door. The landing was silent. Mr Parker wa
s away on one of his so-called business trips. Andrew wasn’t due back until after dinner. And from the distant clatter from downstairs, Mrs Parker was otherwise distracted by preparations for tea.

  Crossing the threshold, Jude headed across the landing. But before she’d taken more than a couple of paces her body froze, every muscle tensed at the shrill sound of the trim phone now buzzing crossly on the side table in the hallway immediately below. Barely daring to breathe, she screwed shut her eyes, willing Kat not to come out onto the landing from behind the closed bedroom door just to her left; praying for Diane’s hasty return to the kitchen.

  At last, Kat’s mother answered the phone then, after a moment’s silence, slammed it back down onto its cradle with an audible crack before hurrying back to her tea preparations.

  With no time to lose, Jude crept past Diane’s room with barely a glance, as having explored this room on a previous visit, she knew she would not find what she was looking for there. Passing the spare room, she kept on going until she reached the end of the corridor where there were two doors, both closed. Impulsively, Jude turned to her left and twisted the nearest handle. Without a sound, the door swung open.

  Peeking inside, Jude saw a room the near mirror image of Kat’s but with walls hung with rock posters and shelves cluttered with old books and football memorabilia. It was the first time she’d seen Andrew’s bedroom and being there, poised in the doorway, staring at the intimate footprint of his childhood, made her feel at once both excited and confused.

  Up until that point their relationship had been conducted outside the confines of their respective homes on spare beds at student parties, the back seat of his second-hand Ford Escort, and on the bathroom floor of ‘Jinx’ Jones’s parent’s recently-refurbished granny flat – twice. Now, staring into his room uninvited, Jude couldn’t help but think the reality of who he was and where he’d come from diminished him somehow and yet, at the same time, her entire being craved his touch.