A Good Liar

by Ruth Sutton

  ‘Here it is.’ John handed the photo across to the man in black.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘In the front corner of the picture, do you see? The man in the hat. We think that must be the choirmaster. He looks as if he’s in charge.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘On a boat, going to Blackpool. Some of the names are on the back. The man’s name looks as if it’s Crane or something. It’s very faint.’

  ‘Mr Crane! Of course. He was here for years. Well, well. Let me look again.’

  The vicar held the photo nearer to the dirty bulb that hung from the yellowing ceiling of the vestry.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Well I never. What year was this?’

  ‘It was 1914, according to the scribble on the back. Must have been before the war came. The boats stopped after that.’

  ‘Let me think. I came here in 1932, and he’d just retired as choirmaster. That’s what, twenty years or so after this was taken. He was probably about sixty, maybe more, when he gave it up. That looks about right. He might have been forty, maybe forty-five, in this picture.’

  Peter Blount held the photo up again. ‘Look at them all. Not a care in the world. What a terrible folly it all was. So many taken, so many widows. And for what? Oh dear, now I’ve forgotten what you told me. There’s someone in this picture who’s important, isn’t there?’

  ‘Someone who knew my mother, my adopted mother, well enough to tell her about the baby, about me. We think that my mother was called Thompson. The one who adopted me was called Enid Pharaoh, and she was on the trip, too. Here.’ John pointed to Enid.

  ‘Goodness, how complicated,’ said the vicar, trying to hide his confusion. ‘That’s very personal, yes, indeed.’

  John persisted. ‘I was given away, adopted, when I was born. I found out just a few months ago. And now I want to find my real mother. This was all we could find, this and half a letter.’

  ‘A real mystery,’ said the vicar. ‘Goodness … and now you think that Mr Crane might remember something. What other clues do you have already?’

  ‘That’s it. This is all we have really, apart from the letter.’

  ‘A letter? That must help, surely?’

  ‘But it’s only half a letter. We don’t know who wrote it. It mentions the name Thompson, and a reference to the choir, at this church.’

  ‘I see,’ said the vicar, trying to keep up. ‘I’m sure you’ve worked all this out. And you think it would it help to find Mr Crane? I’m sure I would have heard if he – if he was no longer with us. He retired as we know, but maybe he stayed locally. I don’t know but I’m sure we could find out. Mrs Finn was here this morning. She’s been with this church for forty years, she’d know. She lives just round in Gloucester Street, a few minutes away. What time is it? They may be having lunch but I’m sure she’d be willing to talk if I came with you. Do you have time?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve come specially. But what about you?’

  ‘Nothing waiting for me except an empty vicarage, unfortunately. I was married but … So let’s go, shall we? Just a few minutes. We’ll get wet, but it’s only water after all. Won’t do us any harm. Don’t forget that photo. Put it somewhere safe.’

  They walked together back to the church door, stepped out into the wind and rain and the vicar locked the door behind them. He took John’s arm and propelled him across the street and down to the left. They turned right at the bottom and then crossed the street again, heads down against the rain, making a car screech to a halt.

  ‘More cars all the time,’ he said as they reached the safety of the other side. ‘Can’t get used to it. They seem to go so much faster than horses, don’t you think?’

  ‘Only ever been in one car,’ said John. ‘Not long ago, actually. Exciting. I loved it.’

  ‘Too noisy for me,’ said the vicar. ‘Here we are. Thirty-seven. That’s the one.’

  He knocked on the door and they waited. John felt inside his coat for the envelope.

  The door opened, and the glorious smell of roasting beef enveloped them before being whisked away on the wind.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, vicar,’ said a short balding man, red-faced with a perfectly round red nose. He was wearing a waistcoat and braces holding up trousers that were slightly too short. ‘Have you come for lunch? She didn’t say ’owt about it, but come away in, both of you.’

  The vicar stepped up into the narrow hall, and John followed, closing the door behind them. They stood, waiting to see what to do. ‘Hang on,’ the vicar whispered to John. ‘It’s obviously lunchtime. With any luck …’

  A woman emerged from the room at the end of the narrow hall. She looked flushed and reminded John of Mrs Barker.

  ‘Vicar,’ she said. ‘Is there anything wrong? I’ve only been home a few minutes.’

  ‘No, nothing wrong, Mrs Finn, nothing at all. So sorry to intrude at lunch time, but this young man …’ He turned, revealing John standing quietly behind him.

  ‘John Pharaoh,’ said John, extending his hand, which Mrs Finn grasped. Her hand was damp. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure, ‘ said the woman. ‘Any friend of the vicar’s. Come in the front room, the pair of you. Can’t stand here like folks at a funeral. Arnold,’ she shouted towards the back room, ‘Just take the potatoes off the heat and turn the oven down a bit.’

  She ushered them into the front room. It reminded John of Enid’s parlour, rarely used.

  ‘So sorry to bother you right in the middle of it all,’ said the vicar again. ‘Would it be better if we came back later?’

  ‘Not at all. Any road, now you’re here, you’ll stay, won’t you? Our Betty and her man often come on Sunday but they’re away to Lancaster today to his folks, so there’s plenty to go round. You need feeding up, vicar, and your friend looks as if he could do with it, too. Whatever it is can wait for a while I’m sure. Everything’s nearly ready. We’ll eat in the kitchen if you don’t mind. Warmer than here on such a miserable day.’

  ‘But –’ began John, hesitating as he felt the grip of the vicar’s hand on his arm and heard Peter Blount’s voice speaking over his own.

  ‘What a kind offer, Mrs Finn. We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, John?’ It sounded like a question, but was more of a statement. John nodded.

  ‘Grand,’ said Mrs Finn, and the three of them smiled at each other. The smell of the beef made John’s mouth water.

  Two delicious courses later, they left Arnold clearing the table and went back into the front room.

  ‘Now then, food’s eaten and time for talk,’ said their hostess. ‘What’s brought you both here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Peter Blount, ‘I was just locking up after the service, just after you left, and this young man appeared with such an interesting tale to tell that I wanted to help him straight away. No time like the present, eh, John? Do you want to tell Mrs Finn what it’s about? Start at the beginning, it might be easier that way.’

  John told his story again. He remembered the photo in the pocket of his coat that was now hanging in the hall and excused himself to fetch it. As he did so, Mrs Finn raised her eyebrows to the vicar, who nodded his reassurance. John returned with the photo and handed it to her.

  ‘We think it’s the choir trip to Blackpool, in 1914, before the war started,’ he said, as she peered at the photo before taking a pair of spectacles out of the pocket of her skirt. ‘The man at the front is Mr Crane –’

  ‘So it is, indeed,’ said Mrs Finn suddenly. ‘Look at him there, so young! And look, there’s Eileen Robinson too, and her little one. What was her name, Mary. Mary Robinson. What year? Why she must be nearly thirty now. What a sweet child she was then. And Caroline. Caroline, what’s her married name I always forget. Wonder where she is now, not seen her in years –’

  ‘Do you remember a family called Thompson?’ John interrupted with an urgency that caused the vicar’s smile to become a little strained.

  ‘Thompson, Thompson,’
said Mrs Finn. ‘Hang on a minute.’ She raised her flushed face and shouted towards the door. ‘Arnold, Arnold!’

  ‘What?’ came the voice from the kitchen.

  ‘Remember Barbara Skinner. Big woman. Bossy. What was her sister called, the funny one?’

  ‘Thompson,’ Arnold replied without hesitation. John’s stomach tightened.

  “First name?’

  ‘Hold on, it were a long time ago. Let me think. I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Mrs Finn turned triumphantly to John and Peter. ‘ Well, we’re getting somewhere now! And you’re looking for your mam? There she is!’ She pointed a red finger at the edge of the photo.

  ‘Where?’ John seized the photo, his heart thumping.

  ‘Your mam. There she is.’

  John looked at the image of Enid. ‘You mean Mrs Pharaoh? Yes, I know she’s there. I’m looking for the other one.’ His voice faded.

  ‘What other one? Oh, your real mam. Hold on a minute, ‘ said Mrs Finn, ‘Let me see again.’

  John held out the increasingly battered photo and sank onto a chair. This was hopeless. He was going round in circles. But Mrs Finn continued peering at the photograph. ‘Yes, there’s a few people on here I don’t know at all. Must have opened up the trip to families or something. Makes sense. I’d just forgotten about that. We do things differently now, don’t we, vicar. The war changed everything.’

  ‘I’m sure it did, indeed, Mrs Finn,’ Peter Blount replied, wondering about what to do with the angry and miserable young man he seemed to have inherited. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, I wonder?’ he said, catching her eye and nodding towards John, who was sitting forward now with his head in his hands.

  The woman looked down at him and shook her head. He tried again to salvage something.

  ‘If I understand this right, John’s mother must be the daughter of Mrs Thompson, and the niece of Mrs Skinner. I wonder if either of them is in this picture?’

  With admirable timing, Arnold Finn put his head round the door, saying, ‘Washing up’s done. And I remembered! Cora Thompson, that was Barbara Skinner’s sister. You remember, you never liked her, said she fancied herself. She died, big funeral. Must be five years ago or so. What about her? What’s going on?’

  ‘Don’t just stand there gawping,’ said his wife. ‘Come in properly and look at this.’ She pushed the photo into his hands. ‘Can you see Cora Thompson? It’s a choir trip but she might not have been in the choir, so –’

  ‘Give me a minute. Still don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ said Arnold, casting his tiny eyes over the photo, The small group waited anxiously, watching Arnold Finn. John wanted so badly to get out.

  ‘There!’ Arnold’s red face lit up like a beacon. ‘Cora Thompson. Typical. Not in the choir but she wangled her way onto the trip. There, right hand side. Look at the hat!’

  ‘Show me,’ said John, getting up suddenly and towering over Arnold’s smooth head as he peered at the photo.

  ‘There,’ Arnold said. ‘Standing at the end of the row, next to that girl with the hair blowing all over the place. Must have been windy. Hang on a minute. What’s going on? I’ve missed everything. What’s all this about?’

  Peter couldn’t bear to hear John tell his story yet again, and began to tell it himself. John who was still examining the photo suddenly interrupted.

  ‘What about the daughter, Cora Thompson’s daughter?’ he demanded, looking directly at Arnold.

  ‘Well, there were two that I can remember,’ said Arnold, finding himself under discomforting scrutiny. ‘Could have been more. The older one didn’t go out much. Went off to college, somewhere. Can you remember, love?’

  Without waiting for his wife to respond, Arnold Finn continued. ‘Elder one had just gone to college, so she must’ve been eighteen or so when the war came. Apple of her mother’s eye that one. Barbara went on and on about that college. You’d think she’d gone to Oxford they way they carried on. Now the younger one, she was different, bit of a madam. What was ’er name, oh aye, Betty, no Beattie. Beatrice probably. She got married and went off to New Zealand, or Australia, somewhere down there. Maybe she got into trouble. She was, you know, a big girl. No one ever said owt, but then they wouldn’t would they?’

  Arnold beamed at his wife, enjoying the unusual position of being the centre of attention. ‘All right then, Mr Memory,’ she said. ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘Bloody – begging your pardon, vicar – blimey, why me? Can’t you remember anything?

  ‘I can remember Barbara Skinner going on about one of them going to college,’ said his wife, ‘but not the names. You remembered the younger one’s name, what about the other one?’

  ‘Mary, was it? Polly? Now there was a Polly, ‘pretty Polly’ we used to call her, but she was a Carson, lovely girl … One of the Thompson girls, eh, up the duff, who’d have thought it. Bet that gave old Cora a shock, and that Barbara, well –’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake Arnold,’ said his wife, swiping at him with the back of her hand. ‘Have some respect. This young man thinks that one of those girls was his mam.’ She pointed at John, who felt as if he were going to burst.

  ‘By ’eck,’ said Arnold, as the information began to sink in. ‘So you think one of the Thompson girls was, y’know …’ He too pointed at John, opening his eyes wide. ‘Give me another look.’

  As Arnold reached for the photo, John made a strange strangled noise and threw up his arms with such a jerk of frustration that the three other people in the tiny room stepped away from him, alarmed.

  ‘There now, John,’ said the vicar hurriedly. ‘This must be very hard for you. Mr and Mrs Finn have been very helpful, but maybe it’s time we were going.’

  He looked meaningfully at the Finns, who moved away from the door simultaneously as he steered John towards it. Mrs Finn raised her finger to Arnold’s face yet again and followed them out into the narrow hallway, trying in vain to get to the front door ahead of them. John opened the door and stepped out into the street as the wind hurled rain into their faces. The vicar followed, pulling on his hat. He turned back to Mrs Finn who had half closed the door and was peeping round it.

  ‘We’ll go. Let him calm down, poor lad. Thanks for the lunch, much appreciated, and for the information. Really, um, useful. Best if we say no more about this. We’ll find Mr Crane next – but where is he? Do you know? Forgot to ask.’

  ‘Grange-over-Sands, with his sister. Fernleigh Road, big nursing home. Haven’t seen him in a while. So sorry about Arnold, vicar, hasn’t the sense he was born with sometimes.’

  ‘Not to worry. We’ll just leave it, and look for Mr Crane next. Thanks again. You go in, you’ll catch your death.’

  The door closed and Peter took John’s arm as they walked heads down against the rain, back towards the cold vicarage.

  Chapter 23

  The tiny office in the main quarry building at Beckside looked as if a strong wind had torn through it, scattering papers at random around the room. The bits of slate that Andrew used to hold different piles of paper down in their appointed places were scattered untidily across the table top that served as his desk. Andrew threw himself back in the rickety chair and shouted.

  ‘Ted!’ No response.

  ‘Ted, get in ’ere, now!’ Still no response.

  Andrew pushed back the chair, reached the low door in two strides and bellowed out into the yard.

  ‘Ted! Where the ’ell are you? Get in ’ere, now.’

  A door on the other side of the yard opened and Mick Arkwright, one of the labourers, looked across.

  ‘I’ll get ’im, boss.’

  Andrew turned back into the chaos in the room. He picked up as many papers as he could and tried to form them into one big pile. He put the pile in front of him, sat down and began looking at each paper in turn, starting new piles in a miserable attempt to restore some sense of control. Ted came in from the yard, rubbing his hands on the front of the old jacket he w
ore at work in the winter.

  ‘By ’eck, boss, it’s raw. I’m nithered.’

  ‘You’ll be more than nithered,’ said Andrew turning towards him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  Ted pointed towards the door but Andrew cut off whatever explanation was about to follow.

  ‘Look at this lot. How did things get in such a mess? We’re running a business here, not making a paper trail. Who’s looking after this lot, or not looking after it?’

  ‘That’s what we got the new lad for, boss. But ’e were nae good to us, never ’ere, and now e’s got ’is cards.’

  ‘Well we need someone,’ Andrew was shouting again now. ‘I can’t do all this. We need to get the money in, and how do we know who to ask for it? If we can’t get someone else pretty damn quick you’ll have to tidy this lot up yourself!’

  Ted stared. ‘Cannut. Learned nowt at school, me. Couldn’t even read most of that lot, never mind know what to do with ’em.’

  ‘Well get us someone else, dammit, or I’ll make you do it, and blame you if it’s not right. Right?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘But –’

  Whatever Ted was going to say was interrupted by the sound of a car horn that echoed first around the buildings and then off the slate wall of the quarry itself.

  ‘Fuck!’ Andrew’s anger burst over the room. ‘Get out there, quick. Tell him I’m not here. Quick, man.’

  Too late. Before Ted reached the door the space was filled by Lionel Leadbetter’s large bulk, ducking his head, his long coat almost reaching the dusty floor.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, taking off his hat as he made out his son’s shape sitting at the desk. ‘Paperwork Johnny now, eh?’

  Ted escaped. Andrew pushed back the chair that toppled backwards this time and lay where it fell.

  ‘What?’ Andrew’s voice was bitter. ‘We’re busy here. What d’you want?’