that peculiarly masculine vanity whose futility is cruelly exposed
in the inevitable waning of virile power. She feels sorry for him, in a way.
The conversation flows easily.
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‘This is nice,’ she says untruthfully, looking up from the mess on
her plate.
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘You can rely on them here.’
‘How is your steak?’
‘Splendid. Another drink?’
‘Why, yes, Brian. I won’t say no.’
‘Not driving then?’
‘No. My grandson drove me here.’
‘Your grandson?’
‘Yes. Stephen. He’s waiting outside in the car. Immersed in a
book no doubt.’
‘Close to family, then?’
‘Yes,’ she says decisively. ‘There aren’t many of us. But we’re very close.’
‘Tell me about them.’
This is one of the obvious topics of conversation and she is pre-
pared for it. Her son, Michael, the pharma executive who lives near Manchester, and his wife, Anne. Their son, Stephen, a historian
working at Bristol University. Their daughter, Emma, studying Eng-
lish at Edinburgh. She briefly mentions Alasdair, her late husband, but she knows that now is not the time to visit the private sadnesses that have, in part, brought them to this table.
It is Brian’s turn. His son, it seems, designs kitchens in Sydney
and their contact is infrequent and casual if amicable. No, he has no grandchildren. It is evident that Brian is not at ease discussing his son. Brian himself was the eldest brother of three and his siblings have passed away. And then of course there was his wife, Mary.
Poor, poor Mary. He looks down and Betty suspects a tear might be
forming.
‘You know,’ he says, looking up, re- energized, ‘one of the things I dislike intensely is dishonesty.’ He looks at her and she returns his gaze evenly. ‘It seems no one today feels a bit of shame about lying.
When they’re caught, of course, oh yes. But it seems dishonesty is
all right if you can get away with it. I deplore that. Do you understand me?’
She looks at him and smiles, saying, ‘Yes. I think so.’
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‘So I have to confess to you an act of deception on my part. In
meeting you.’ He pauses and adopts a solemn expression. ‘I’m afraid my name is in fact not Brian. It’s Roy. Roy Courtnay. Brian was a
kind of nom de plume for this meeting. If you see what I mean.
One feels so exposed.’
Nom de guerre, she thinks, mildly irritated.
‘Oh, that,’ she says with cheerful dismissiveness. ‘I’ve never done this before but I more or less assumed it’s par for the course. Natural self- protection. I suppose now’s the moment where I confess
that my name’s not Estelle. I’m Betty.’
They look at each other seriously for a moment before laughing
in unison.
‘I can promise that was the last time I will lie to you, Betty. Everything I say to you from now on will be the truth. Total honesty I can promise you, Betty. Total honesty.’ He grins broadly.
Steady on, she thinks, but returns his smile with neither reserve
nor equivocation. She says, ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
They have crossed a line, each feels privately, and they relax. They chat, talking about young people. It is safe territory and in plati-tudes they can share bemusement at life these days.
‘They’re so brave,’ she says. ‘I’d never have dared do some of the
things they get up to.’
‘But so casual,’ he replies, ‘everything’s so easy for them. No
perseverance.’
‘I know. They haven’t a care in the world. Not like us. I’m glad
they’re like that.’
Betty supposes this must be a necessary part of the process, a
step on the path to greater intimacy. She believes little of what she is saying; she is making it up as she goes.
She tells Roy that Stephen doesn’t even have a telephone in his
flat; his mobile smart thingummy is all he seems to require. He carries his life in his back pocket. When they were young, they agree, the ultimate status symbol was a telephone in the house. Now it’s a social faux pas. Her son owns three cars. And there are only two
people in the household now both of the children are away. Or
rather he doesn’t own them but pays an extortionate amount each
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month to a finance company and simply cashes each in for another
at the end of three years, an abstruse arrangement he has patiently explained a number of times but which she fails to ‘get’, as he puts it. No one would dream of actually saving up to buy something
these days. Her granddaughter is twenty years old and has visited
more countries than Betty has in her lifetime. She is burbling, rushing headlong, she realizes, but it doesn’t matter. It is all right.
Stephen is duly summoned and approved of. ‘A fine young man,’
says Roy while said young man is visiting the lavatory. ‘A tribute to you, Betty. A fine young man.’
Telephone numbers are exchanged as well as genuine expres-
sions of intent to meet again, very shortly. They offer Roy a lift to the station but he declines. ‘Not quite decrepit yet,’ he says. ‘It’s only a short walk.’ He stands as they leave and kisses Betty on the cheek. She reciprocates, squeezes his arm and pulls him slightly
closer, though not yet to the intimacy of an embrace. Then she
extends her arms, holds him there and looks into his eyes.
‘Until next time, then,’ she says.
‘Au revoir, Betty,’ he says.
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Chapter Two
Mistletoe and Wine
1
Here they come. The innocents abroad, toddling down the street.
The sun has got his hat on and all is well with the world.
They tumble and rush shrilly over the cobbles, ties askew, satch-
els flying, shirts out of trousers, hair tousled. School shoes clatter on ancient stone as they find their way down cut- throughs from the school towards the pedestrian shopping zone, flowing like liquid,
and young voices clamour and vie in excitement.
The girls come more slowly, and more neatly. Well, girls always
are better- behaved, more circumspect. Except for the naughty ones.
And they can be very naughty. Oh yes.
The Green is bathed in placid sunlight, with its refuges of shade
under the venerable trees. This is how it has been for centuries:
young people flooding out of the cathedral school with not a
thought, brimming with life, eager to resume their dodges and
weaves, while old men regard them with ill- disguised envy from
their mews cottages and contemplate bitterly their own youth.
With interest but no compassion, he watches them from his chair
in the corner of the living room. The girls are particularly fascinating. Boys of secondary school age are mere blustering rhinos,
carried on a wave of hormonal surges of which they are the helpless victims and to which they are utterly oblivious. Their female peers have gained an awareness. And with awareness comes uncertainty,
expressed in various ways. The plain and studious invest their faith that diligence and intelligence may help them to navigate the horrors, away from loneliness and failure. The fresh- faced
, pretty girls of the class – pretty vacuous too, most of them – sense inchoately 11
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that their attractiveness may be ephemeral and dependent on the
vagaries of their coming physical development. And the little tarts, who aren’t especially clever but are smart enough to know that they aren’t bright or in the first ranks of prettiness, use cunning, hitching up their skirts as soon as they leave the house, teasing the males.
They know that thing called sex lurks somewhere close by; and they
quickly learn their power. Oh yes.
Now the older ones. Pimply youths with lank long hair and dole-
ful expressions dance attendance on unattainable girls. Roy likes the girls’ disdain, though his scorn for the hopeless male specimens
exceeds even the girls’. With flashed mascara glances between
them – they tend to walk in pairs – and grins that are intended to appear shy but which Roy knows to be smirks, the girls disguise
their feelings.
He cannot see himself in the boys. You fools, he thinks; you
fools. I was not one of you. I was bold and handsome. I did not falter or trip.
He is no longer fifteen. Or fifty, or eighty for that matter. But your instincts never change. Once a charmer, ineffably attractive to the opposite sex, always a charmer. He could not help it even if he
wanted to.
There she is. The one he has selected for singular attention. Regu-
lation short black skirt and black tights encasing slender womanly
legs. The tights are at odds with the school uniform, yet, he thinks knowingly, perfectly congruent given context. Perhaps fifteen,
maybe as young as a well- developed thirteen; they grow so quickly these days. Petite anyway, with that wild blonde- streaked Medusa
hair that seems never to go out of fashion. Eyeshadow daubed inex-
pertly but to good effect from where he is sitting. She thinks she is a rebel, an individual, but she is simply treading a familiar path to eventual conformity. If only he were younger he could teach her a
thing or two. She might feign haughtiness and indifference, a lan-
guorous pretence of experience. She might be enthusiastic as she
ventured on the path of discovery, but eventually she would show
fear. Roy can deal with fear. Oh yes.
*
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Stephen, meanwhile, is running late. Story of his life. He has promised to deliver some books to Betty and then he must be back for a
meeting with Gerald at six that is sure to be gruelling. He can predict the questions: Everything on track? All the corners covered? All the boxes ticked? Let’s just sit down and make doubly sure, shall we?
This project is pretty damned important, after all.
To be honest, the questions are pertinent and Stephen requires
supervision. This, not Gerald, is what troubles Stephen. Gerald is all right, though he does revel somewhat in his position. The fundamental issue is, though, that Stephen does not know whether
everything is on track. He can’t see the track, let alone the corners.
He hasn’t yet worked out what the boxes are that need to be ticked.
This thing seems to have a life of its own.
Project management is not Stephen’s thing. Management isn’t
his thing. Purpose, mental exertion, careful research, the joy of
winkling out new facts that change the terrain, a sense of creating something worthwhile, these are the important things, not dry process. Gerald is a necessary evil, he supposes. What would he do
without him?
He finds the alleyway between the chemist’s and the estate
agent’s that connects the new town with the old and hastens up it
from standard issue high street to centuries- old cobblestones and the Green. The clock is chiming the half- hour somewhere behind
the screen of oaks whose leaves rustle in the breeze and dapple the sunlight, casting undulating light and shade over the fine verdant
carpet.
It is a gorgeous day in England, one of few so far this summer.
The sun is high in a blue sky and pristine white powder- puff clouds skim on the breeze. Children swarm busily from their daily endeavours, the adrenalin of release fuelling their exuberance. At a distance their uniforms look neat and tidy but as he approaches he can see
that the demands of the day, as well as sundry attempts to declaim
individuality, have taken their toll. Blazers are tossed on shoulders, shirts are crumpled and grubby, shoes are scuffed. And there is the smell of schoolchildren, their sweat and urine and dirt intermingled with heavy- duty synthetic fabrics and that odd faint reek that seeps 13
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from the institution itself, combining the almost metallic smell of cleaning fluid and polish with the aroma of dusty wooded age exuding from its parquet floors and the august panelling of the main hall.
There is a cheeriness about the children that bolsters his opti-
mism. He passes through the melee of boys and behind them are
the various phalanxes of girls, more cliquey, quieter, more guarded.
Older in fact, and more self- aware.
Stephen is careful to be careful about the way he regards the girls, for he knows of the suspicion of every male that must reside in each female heart these days. Was it ever so? He does not know but cannot risk his look being mistaken for a leer.
He is interested in the phenomenon of youth, though not quite
sure why. It could be simple curiosity about the human condition,
piqued by these young things in that phase of growing, as they
observe, mimic, experiment, revise, adapt and finally begin to
achieve identity. Perhaps it is because he himself has not yet com-
pleted that final phase, despite pushing thirty.
Across the Green he sees a young girl, maybe fourteen, walking
on her own, gawky, uncertain, meaninglessly defiant. Her skirt is
short, her eyes blackened, her chin juts with attitude, yet she is just a child and in her eyes he sees fear. Her affectation provokes a series of emotions: a flood of something he can only think of as love, an
acknowledgement of her vulnerability and a desire, despite his
powerlessness to do so and the absurdity of the proposition, to protect. He examines his motives, searching for the shadow of lust
contorted into more palatable expressions. He can honestly say that it does not lurk, but it is interesting that he needs to check.
And then he sees him, in Betty’s chair by the window. Roy, who
has been living at Betty’s for two months now. Those lizard eyes are fixed on this girl, acquisitive, hungry. She continues to walk, oblivious as she composes a text. As she passes Stephen, Roy sees him and their eyes lock. Inside a second Roy’s expression changes from incredulity to hostility and finally to the sad old man harmlessly passing his days looking out on the world. Roy smiles experimentally and
Stephen returns the smile, waving diffidently. He thinks: I know
you. However much I dislike you.
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2
‘I’d be very careful if I were you,’ says Roy when Stephen enters the room.
‘Sorry?’ says Stephen.
‘I said you want to be careful,’ repeats Roy, jerking his head the-
atrically towards the window.
Stephen frowns in puzzlement, opens his mouth to say some-
thing, but thinks better of it. Roy’s eyes are on his face.
He says, ‘Cup of tea?’
&nb
sp; ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ replies Roy, leaning back in his chair again.
When Stephen has brought the mugs of tea – terracotta- strong
with three sugars for Roy, milky- white with none for himself – Roy resumes.
He says, ‘Can’t be too careful.’
The words hang in the air for a moment.
‘Er, yes,’ says Stephen finally. ‘Pardon?’
Away with the fairies, thinks Roy. Mind off somewhere else.
Hopeless. All over the place. Typical academic.
‘Misunderstandings,’ he says.
‘Oh, yes,’ says Stephen, inattentive, smiling weakly. ‘Yes.’
‘Don’t patronize me, son.’
Stephen stares at him blankly and says nothing.
‘Betty not around?’ he comes up with finally.
Roy backs off. Like being cruel to a puppy. Not, necessarily, that
that would stop him. But Stephen bores him. Unlikely to be any
sport there. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Out meeting a friend for tea.’
‘Oh, right. Any idea when she’ll be back?’
‘Oh no. She’s a law to herself, that one.’ Roy chuckles. ‘I’m not
her keeper.’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘You in a hurry? You seem distracted.’
‘A lot on at the moment. I just dropped by with these books I
promised Betty.’ He holds out the orange carrier bag as evidence.
‘She said she’d like to borrow them.’
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‘Oh yes,’ says Roy, looking at him steadily.
Stephen places himself on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward,
elbows on thighs, jacket still on despite the heat, ready to leave.
After a pause Roy asks, ‘Your work going OK?’
‘Fine,’ replies Stephen. ‘It’s going well. I’m on my way to a meet-
ing with my supervisor, actually.’
‘Hard taskmaster ,is he?’
‘He’s all right, Gerald. Keeps me on the straight and narrow. I
need that.’
‘I can see that,’ says Roy, and they fall silent.
‘What is it exactly you’re studying?’
‘The Jacobite Rebellion,’ says Stephen eagerly. ‘Specifically John
Graham, his role in the instigation of the movement and his influ-
ence on the Fifteen and the Forty- Five.’
‘Really?’
The Good Liar Page 2