The Lie of the Land

by Amanda Craig

  There is only one person she can trust with this secret, and that’s her sister Anne; Anne to whom she had introduced Josh Viner, all those years ago, after Sally’s affair with his brother Tom. Josh is a lovely man without a bad bone in his body, and has given Anne five handsome children. Sally would have happily married him herself, had she had the luck. But whether he would agree to become a secret sperm donor is another matter. Thinking it over, she very much doubts it. However she framed it, it would be an immoral act, and one that, as a doctor, he’d probably refuse.

  ‘What am I to do?’ Sally asks; and Anne says,

  ‘Well, it’s obvious.’

  The mechanics of it involve an ovulation kit, a diaphragm and a syringe. Anne’s husband will never know why his wife happened to turn enthusiastically to him in bed one particular morning, or why almost immediately afterwards, she announced she must dash over to Sally. They are both nurses, pragmatic and practical, and though neither had done this before it’s straightforward. Baggage was the only witness, and seeing her dog’s loving face with its white hourglass reassures her. Of course Sally does feel bad about deceiving Josh; but it’s not, after all, adultery.

  ‘You know you have less than a five per cent chance of conception, being over forty?’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ll take my chances with that.’

  ‘It’s bound not to work first time,’ Anne says; but it does. Three weeks later, Sally’s periods stop and the test kit shows that she is pregnant. She keeps her jubilation secret, and will do so until she’s sixteen weeks. The following May, if all goes well, she will have her heart’s desire, and neither Josh nor Peter will be any the wiser.

  ‘I know, I feel bad about deceiving Josh, bless him. But in the end, it’s we who really want babies, not them,’ Anne says. ‘The human race would die out if men had any choice.’

  Will Peter ever suspect? Probably not, and if he does, how will he ever be able to confront her without revealing his own lie?

  The child Sally bears will look like his or her cousins, given that both sisters have married tall men with curly brown hair. The rest – well, heredity is always a game of Russian roulette, and people see in a child what they expect to see. Josh’s child may have different talents, and ideas about a future that does not involve farming; but that doesn’t matter. All that does is that Sally, at forty-one, will become a mother.

  ‘Don’t ever tell,’ Anne says.

  ‘I won’t. He kept his secret, and I’ll keep mine.’

  ‘Every married couple needs a secret or two,’ Anne says.

  Sally wonders what her sister’s is, but knows better than to ask.

  The Bredins, now they can afford to divorce, are in a strange state. They discuss it in an endless iteration, much as they once used to quarrel.

  ‘Why didn’t we see she was off her rocker?’

  ‘Because it’s not what you expect.’

  Lottie shudders.

  ‘Violence is so improbable.’

  ‘But it’s also real. Almost everyone encounters it at least once,’ Quentin points out. ‘Think how often Xan got mugged when he was young.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘We believe violence to be something extraordinary and exceptional, whereas the opposite is true for most people, in most of the world.’

  ‘Any minute now you’ll tell me this is the justification for the male sex.’

  Xan had gone off for a fortnight to Croatia with Bron and Dylan, and returned with a tattoo and a bead necklace. As university approaches, his excitement is such that his hair looks as if it’s been electrocuted. Lottie has bought him all the basics he will need, from a new laptop (also his birthday present) to a wooden doorstop.

  ‘Just so you don’t get locked out in Halls,’ Quentin said.

  Xan rolled his eyes.

  ‘Stop helicoptering, Dud.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that,’ Lottie said; but Quentin answered,

  ‘It’s OK. I’m not your dad.’

  Xan said, ‘I’m going to meet my real father, you know.’

  ‘What? How did you find him?’

  ‘The Internet.’

  There was a small pause.

  ‘Does your father live in England?’ Quentin asked.

  ‘Yes, in London. He’s a molecular physicist at Imperial, how cool is that?’

  ‘How did you trace him?’

  ‘I found some kids on Facebook with the same surname, and they look a bit like me. They’re Nigerian. So I messaged them, and they turn out to be my half-brothers and -sisters. They sound really nice. I’m going to meet them before Freshers’ Week.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lottie; ‘and when you do—?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell him I’m glad.’

  Quentin wonders whether Lottie, too, will want to meet Xan’s father. He has no idea what the situation is with Martin. Lottie continues to go to work, but whether her boss is more than that to her is something he can’t bring himself to ask. He does all the shopping, he takes over the cleaning, he even lures McSquirter into a cage, and takes him to the vet.

  ‘Sorry old chum,’ he tells the yowling ginger fury, who manages to get in a good few scratches nonetheless. ‘Your tomcatting days are over.’

  He had done so well out of his account of the drama on Tore’s doorstep that he is, once again, in demand. Even if it’s short-lived, the attempt on his life has reminded people of his existence. But there was one thing he had withheld.

  A few days after this, Quentin rings the Tores to ask for a private meeting.

  ‘I know what the real connection between you and Randall was,’ he says, without preamble.

  The Tores exchange glances.

  ‘Oliver Randall was your son.’

  Tore claps.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘You do have a reputation,’ Quentin says, with what he feels is flattering tact. ‘Also, Randall had your eyes and chin.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tore says. ‘He did. His mum said that, too. I never saw him.’

  ‘Your own son.’

  ‘Look, I’ll never not feel bad about what that girl did to herself, but I never promised her anything. She had this fixation. You get such a lot of that, you know, in the business, and you don’t think about what it can lead to. Just that they’re there, when you’re bored and lonely. Know the feeling?’

  ‘Yes. It has led to catastrophe for me, too.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was local, I thought she was just another groupie. I was drunk, I was high, there was nothing different from a thousand others … I was a bastard, but so was everyone. Correction: so is everyone, given the chance.’

  ‘It must have been terrible,’ Quentin says, with irony.

  Gore waits a beat, his dark eyes gleaming; then cracks up.

  ‘No, man, it was great! For a while. Everything you ever dream of happening when you get rich and famous is great, for a while. But then you realise, you’re pissing away the only thing that matters.

  ‘Ollie found me when he turned eighteen; he didn’t understand why he was so musical when neither of his parents had the slightest interest in it. When he got into the Royal Academy, they told him he was adopted, and he discovered he was my son.’ Tore pauses, and looks up. ‘He was the only one of my kids who had any talent.’

  ‘Dexter’s musical,’ says Di, affronted. ‘He’s always making up tunes.’

  ‘Sure, he’s a great little guy,’ Tore responds, indulgently. ‘But Ollie had it, the gift and the application, both. I thought that he would take the path I didn’t, and become a classical musician. I said that if there was ever anything I could do to help … And I meant it. But unlike most people, he didn’t want anything out of me.

  ‘He never told anyone that he was my son. I thought it might help him, but he was proud. The life of a musician is always hand-to-mouth unless you’re very, very lucky, but he was a good session player and a better composer, so he began to make his way. You remembe
r what it was like in the boom, when the money got going? Yeah, well, a bit of it even came into the arts.’

  ‘Only, he met Janet,’ Quentin prompts.

  ‘Yes. I never met her when she was young, but from what Ollie told me they had nothing in common, apart from the child. It only lasted a few days. She got pregnant, wanted him to marry her, and he wouldn’t.’

  ‘But Janet didn’t know he was your son?’

  ‘No. If she had, it would have been far worse. She didn’t even know he was the one who got her the job here.’

  ‘How did that come about, really?’

  The dazzling smile vanishes.

  ‘I thought I was doing a good deed. He was desperate to be near his kid, and Janet wouldn’t give him access. He paid her maintenance whenever he could – in cash, of course – but she hated him with the fire of a thousand suns. Otherwise, she was doing some agency cleaning when she could get cover. He hated it. However much he disliked Janet, he adored his daughter. It was such bad karma. But his worst problem was, he couldn’t afford to go on living in London.’

  Like so many of us, Quentin thinks. He asks the other question he wanted answered.

  ‘So when did you discover you were a grandfather?’

  Tore grimaces.

  ‘Not for a while. Thing is, Ollie told me about the situation, and finally asked me for help. I was in. We were moving down here, and I thought, why not let him live in one of the empty properties on the estate? He went to live in Home Farm, and he got back on his feet again teaching. That part was easy. But there was something else he asked for.’

  ‘Janet?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You asked her to come here?’

  ‘My PA found out where she was working, in a hotel, and told her she had a client who was looking for a live-in housekeeper in a country house. We brought her down here, told her she’d get her own home and a good salary. She didn’t know she’d be working for me at first. I didn’t feel too happy about it, but on the other hand, we knew we needed someone to clean and help with the boys.’

  ‘She was a good cleaner, I’ll give her that,’ Di says. ‘And her cooking wasn’t bad. We got caterers in when we had people over.’

  ‘I liked the idea of helping my granddaughter and doing her mother a good turn, without her knowing. After all, I’d grown up in the gatehouse with my own mum, just the same.’

  Quentin looks at him, and sees neither the tramp nor the rock star but somebody naïve, idealistic, and rich. He likes Tore, while wondering how many lives this combination has ruined.

  ‘Did you get to know Dawn?’

  ‘No. I’d see her, from time to time, but I didn’t get to know her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well—’ Tore is embarrassed, then admits, ‘I wasn’t sure I was ready for the world to know about Dawn. And then, when she got fat—’

  Not by one flicker does Quentin show how much this shocked him. He remembers what he’d said once to Lottie, about morality not applying to the rich.

  ‘It’s been awful being without a cleaner, I’m exhausted,’ says Di. ‘Look at my nails.’

  ‘Babe, I’ve told you, just call my PA. She can sort everything.’

  ‘No need. This local woman, Maddy, she’s called me to ask if she can be given a chance. I checked her out. She’s been working in the food factory, but Sally knows her.’

  ‘Ah, Sally the spy.’

  ‘Sally found Dawn’s baby, remember? Your great-granddaughter, sweetie.’ Gore groans. ‘Better get used to it, there’ll be more on the way. Anyway, this Maddy is honest, hard-working, and she’s got a disabled husband who used to be in the Army. Ideal for keeping paparazzi at bay, though he’s mostly going to shoot grey squirrels, if you want him on the payroll too.’

  Tore perks up.

  ‘Definitely. Those bastards are always killing my new trees.’

  ‘They don’t want to live in the gatehouse, because they’ve got three kids, but she’s signed the confidentiality agreement.’

  Gore gazes at Di with admiration. ‘What would I do without you?’

  Di smiles serenely.

  ‘Sweetie, I don’t know what you would do, but whether you could is another thing.’

  She leaves the room. Both men follow her retreating bottom with their eyes, but over Quentin’s there floats a black shape, either very large or infinitesimally small. He wonders if it’s a hallucination, or a warning.

  Gore says to Quentin, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about my legacy.’

  ‘For, um—?’

  ‘My autobiography. Or rather’ – he waves a hand – ‘my biography. Your agent’s been calling my agent, suggesting you write it, and as you’re not a total cunt, I think we could do it.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gore gives him a look in which shrewdness is mixed with mischief. ‘Otherwise, it’ll go to somebody I don’t trust.’

  Quentin is moved. What would that be worth? Half a million? Quarter of a million?

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I am thinking. Thank you. It’d be a great – that is, I’d really like to accept only first I must – you see, I need to—’

  He hears himself floundering and sees Gore’s expression darken.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I think what I’m trying to say is that I need to consult my wife.’

  When Quentin gets back, he sees two young rabbits making purposefully for his vegetable patch. He’s too tired to frighten them away, and besides, what’s the point? They’ll only return. The feeling that the wildlife all around is merely tolerating human presence is always strong: no matter what he does, nature will win in the end.

  Lottie is in the garden, watching the two buzzards wheel over the valley, calling to each other. He stops. She’s wearing a blue dress, cotton or linen, with a full skirt, like a figure out of an old painting. Her skin and hair seem to glow in the afternoon sunlight.

  ‘Were you right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expect Dawn will end up living with him and Di.’

  ‘He’s asked me to write his biography. Tore, I mean.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I know nothing about rock music, but it’d be interesting. He’s interesting, even if he’s a shit.’

  They sit outside, under the shade of the old ash tree. He thinks of all the myths about the ash: how it was believed to hold up the sky, but have its roots in the Underworld, continually gnawed yet continually renewed. Its thick trunk is corded with bark, as if it is straining. Its feathered branches are already falling off, leaving the inky nibs of before. It’s so bright and warm that the season might almost be mistaken for another; despite the field maples beginning to turn orange and red, many roses and primroses have produced a second flush of blossom. There is a fresher feel to the air, as if the year were quickening rather than dying.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Quentin says, ‘that I might collect the girls from school every day, until they’re old enough to go by themselves.’

  Lottie is silent. She knows what he’s really asking.

  ‘Quentin, I’ve thought a lot about this situation, and the future.’

  She can see a ghastliness creep over his features.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I still want a divorce.’

  He says,

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that. I won’t fight it, as long as I can still see the girls.’

  ‘I have to divorce you, because it’s the only thing that works for me. I need legal independence from you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But you could stay, on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You give all the money you made on the house to the children – to Xan, and Ian too.’

  ‘Everything, then.’

  ‘Yes. They’re going to need it. They’ll need tuition fees for uni, and a deposit for a home of their own, one day. Ian is about to become a father himself. You hav
e the option to divorce, and get some money with which to start a new life. But if you stay with me, as my partner, you have nothing. If you stray, I will find out, because now I know what you’re capable of, and then you will have less than nothing.’

  Quentin says in a dry tone, which has a tinge of amusement to it,

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Lottie.’

  ‘Think of it as a post-nuptial agreement.’

  ‘Money is a sordid thing to base a relationship on.’

  ‘Actually, it’s very traditional. I gave you love, and you didn’t value it. Now you say you do. Well, prove it. Prove it by giving away all your money. Or you can go back to your old life. You’d lose the children, because most divorced fathers who move away do, and you’ll probably be miserable – though of course you might not be. I’m not the only woman in the world, any more than you’re the only man.’

  ‘And what if you’re the one to stray? You could find someone else yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I could. That’s a risk you’ll have to take.’

  Quentin cries,

  ‘But I love you, Lottie. All I want is for you to forgive me.’

  He reaches out and touches her arm. She flinches, but doesn’t withdraw.

  ‘Some people are lucky enough to get it right first time, and go on living happily ever after, but we aren’t those people, are we? I wish we were, but we aren’t. I don’t think any marriage, any real marriage, is like that in fact. It’s work, and it’s sacrifice. It’s not about romance. It’s not about being young and beautiful. It’s not about power. But it is about being brave, and honest and true, and the best people we can make ourselves for each other.

  ‘You were prepared to die for my child, and that’s the reason why you might be worth a second chance. But I am never going to be deceived by you again.’

  She can see a kind of struggle going on in him, and turns away so that he won’t see the tears in her eyes.

  Eventually he bursts out, pleading,

  ‘But what if I can’t help myself?’

  ‘You can. If you want to enough.’