A Good Liar

by Ruth Sutton

  Christmas at Applegarth had been difficult. Agnes’s dream of an unconventional family of three was too hopeless to be discussed, and the reality was too painful. The two women had colluded in keeping silent about anything that really mattered, filling the quiet of the short dark days with reading aloud to each other and playing rummy. Their only visitor had been Caroline Leadbetter with news of a telegram from Liverpool. Andrew had sent his mother his love and the news that he was going to Montreal.

  The news was received quite differently by each of them. Caroline was ashamed at her relief that the unbearable tension between her son and her husband was removed. She had no doubt that Andrew would be safe and prosper. Agnes was more pleased at Andrew’s disappearance than she could show: her hopes of quiet domesticity with Jessie rose again. Of the three of them, Jessie was the least surprised, but the possibility of never seeing Andrew again seeped slowly into her mind, and she cried in private when Caroline was gone.

  For the quiet week after Christmas at Mill Cottage, John relished his time with Hannah and Fred, absorbing the tolerance and compassion that he so admired in them and had found so hard to emulate. His feelings about Jessie veered between confusion, acceptance and disappointment with a speed and unpredictability that upset him too much to share. While Fred was out one evening, Hannah watched John carefully, before speaking.

  ‘She’s a fine woman, your mam.’

  He didn’t reply, still pretending to study the map in front of him.

  ‘It’s hard for you,’ she went on. ‘Hard to sort out what happened all them years ago, why she did what she did.’

  ‘That was twenty years ago,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I thought that now, you know, she’d be able to …’

  ‘To love you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Not so easy, lad. There’s something between a mother and a baby, though I’ve never ’ad it myself, nor likely to,’ said Hannah, her knitting abandoned on her lap. ‘Something in the blood, they say. But who knows really? Love grows when folk are together. You and ’er don’t know each other. It’ll tek time, I reckon. Don’t want too much lad, not yet. Give ’er time, ye ken, to recover.’

  ‘How long?’ he said. ‘She might not even like me. Don’t know much about me dad. She loved him, but was he like me?’

  ‘You dinnat need to be like ’im,’ she said. ‘You are who you are. She’ll see that soon enough. Patience. Just think of ’er as a new friend, someone you’ve met, someone worthwhile. Talk to ’er like you talk to us, me and Fred. We like you. She will too, just give ’er time.’

  A few days later John’s mind was made up. Jessie was surprised by his announcement about leaving the valley. His words fell between them like a stone into a well, and it was a few moments before she responded.

  ‘Will we see each other?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘It took me a long time to find you, Jessie. I wanted to know who you are, and who my father was. After that I had no idea what would happen, and I still don’t. I didn’t think ahead, about how you might feel, about your job …’

  ‘I never thought I would ever see you again,’ she said, flatly, as if she were talking about the weather. ‘Are you disappointed? Did you want me to welcome you with open arms?’

  John dropped his head. He could not tell her how much he had wanted that. He was trying to think of Jessie as a new friend, as Hannah had suggested. The effort exhausted him.

  Jessie broke the unbearable silence.

  ‘It’s not far, if you buy that bike you want,’ she said, aware how trite she sounded. ‘Not far to Mill Cottage, or to Wasdale. I know you love it there.’

  ‘It’s not far to Newton either,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure you want to see me.’

  Jessie felt the lie before she spoke it. ‘Of course I want to see you,’ she said. ‘After all these years I want to find out who you are, be part of your life, as long as …’ She faltered, losing the words.

  ‘As long as nobody knows who I am?’ he asked, turning towards her.

  Silence returned. Jessie pulled her coat tighter around her against the wind. Rain was hiding the horizon. They would have to move soon. John raised his head as the first pricks of the shower reached them.

  ‘Didn’t you have a sister?’ he said. ‘One of the people I saw in Barrow mentioned a sister, and Mr Crane did, too. Younger than you. Where is she now?’

  ‘Beatrice, her name is,’ said Jessie. ‘She married very young, just after the war broke out, and they went to New Zealand.’

  ‘Do they have any children?’

  Jessie shielded her face with her scarf. Suddenly she grasped what he was thinking. ‘You mean, we could say that you are her child, my nephew?’

  The rain was heavier now, but neither of them moved. ‘That would explain a family likeness, wouldn’t it?’ he said, looking at her. ‘What would Beatrice think about that?’

  ‘Haven’t heard from her in years,’ said Jessie, ‘Not since our mother died. They had two children, Rebecca and Norman. The elder one must be about your age now. My mother just seemed to cut Bea out of our lives after they went away, just like she did with my dad. It was a kind of delusion. She put all her hopes on me, and then …’

  ‘You haven’t forgiven her, have you?’

  ‘For throwing me out like she did? No, not really. It was a shock. I expected more from my mother.’

  John said nothing. His silence struck Jessie like a blow.

  ‘And you expected more of me,’ she said, as a tear ran unchecked down her face. ‘Maybe you have to learn how to be a mother, and I never did.’

  Still he was silent.

  The rain drove them away from the exposed hilltop. As they walked down into the noisy town, the pit wheels were turning, bringing gangs of blackened men up from the coal seams beneath the sea.

  Jessie was ahead of John on the narrow track. She turned and looked up at him. ‘It would be very hard for you to lie about where you came from,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a life in Ulverston, your aunt and uncle are still there.’

  John stood still, thinking, and she waited. When he spoke it was clear and quick. ‘We could say that it was your sister that had the baby, before she married and went away. I was adopted by Enid and Arthur, and everything since then has been the same, except that one thing. Beatrice need never know. I was looking for my mother, just like I did, and I found you, my aunt. How does that sound?’

  Jessie didn’t reply at once. She was shocked by the ease with which she was losing a son and gaining a nephew.

  ‘What about the people who already know?’ she said. ‘There’s the Porters, and Agnes, and your aunt and uncle in Ulverston.’

  ‘Uncle George and Aunty Anne know I’ve been looking for you but they don’t know I found you,’ John replied evenly. ‘I didn’t tell them. I don’t have to, although I don’t really want to deceive them about it. Leave that with me. If we ask the others, they’ll respect what we want, don’t you think?’ He remembered something. ‘Sometimes Fred talks about other peoples’ lives, and how little we know about them. He believes – they both do – that people have a right to live their lives without being judged and gossiped about. I must tell George and Anne the truth, but I know they would respect it, I’m sure they would.’

  ‘And Agnes would, too,’ said Jessie. ‘Agnes is a good friend.’ Now that Andrew has gone, she added inwardly.

  ‘I think so,’ said John. ‘She’s always been very kind to me.’

  In the small café by the market Jessie and John drank hot chocolate and shared a piece of cake. The grey January day moved towards darkness, bringing with it the end of a private truth and the start of a public lie.

  Next Book

  If you’ve enjoyed the story, you may want to…

  • Order another copy to pass to a friend

  • Learn more about Parts Two and Three of the story of Jessie Whelan

  • Find out more about the author and read her blog

  For al
l of these, check out the publisher and author’s website www.ruthsutton.co.uk

  Copyright details

  First published in United Kingdom by Hoad Press in 2012, 2 Lowther Street, Waberthwaite, Millom, Cumbria LA19 5YN

  www.ruthsutton.co.uk ruth@ruthsutton.co.uk

  ISBN–13: 978–0–9523871–7–6

  Copyright © Ruth Sutton 2012

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The right of Ruth Sutton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Prepared for publication by Aldridge Press: enquiries@aldridgepress.co.uk

  Cover illustrations: schoolchildren in 1930s © Pam Moore; young woman, 1900s, courtesy of Doris Dean and gallery.hd.org; Wast Water, Cumbria © Mike Franklin (http://mikefranklinphotography.wordpress.com)

  Editorial: Charlotte Rolfe

  Design: John Aldridge

  Cover design: Kevin Ancient

  Text illustrations: Heather Dickinson

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank many people who have in various ways helped with the writing of this book.

  The staff and facilities at the local history libraries in Barrow-in-Furness and Whitehaven, and at the Dock Museum in Barrow, have been invaluable sources for historical background. Dave King at the Eskdale Mill provided much of the information about its history. Above all, many of my neighbours and friends have shared their memories of our community that have helped me to create a context for this story. I am very grateful to all of them.

  Others have supported me through the long and difficult business of drafting and re-drafting, encouraging me to keep going and set my sights high. Special thanks for this must go to Judy Coghill, Charlotte Rolfe and Mick Shaw. Along the way I’ve also had the great good fortune to work more briefly with Louise Doughty, Tobias Hill, Gillian Slovo, Sarah Dunant and Sarah Bower.

  Finally, as the book finally came together Heather Dickinson’s illustrations, Charlotte Rolfe’s editing and John Aldridge’s book design and production skills have all been invaluable.

  Many thanks to you all.

  RS, Waberthwaite, March 2012