perhaps it was a routine peacetime frippery.
‘Bound to have trauma,’ said Parsons. ‘Natural feeling, old boy.
Thing is, not to let it get on top of you.’
‘It doesn’t,’ he said quickly.
Parsons regarded him, considering, it seemed, what next to say.
‘Must have been a bit grim. That close up.’
‘It was.’
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Close, were you? You and this interpreter?’
‘Not particularly. We worked together.’
‘Socialize together?’
‘Just the normal amount.’
‘Good man, was he?’
‘He was all right, yes.’
‘I see. Must have been distressing for you.’
‘How would you feel if someone you’d been working with had
his face shot off in front of you?’
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Parsons seemed to give the question fair consideration. ‘Dreams?
Nightmares?’
‘No.’
‘Chose not to go back to Blighty, I see?’
‘I want to return to duty as soon as possible.’
‘Right. That’s the spirit.’
Several of their conversations followed this well- worn path and
left Parsons with a furrowed brow as he wrote his notes at the end
of their sessions. He would leave the office, pull the door quietly behind him and return to his book. He presumed that at some stage
Parsons would give him the all clear.
It was not normal for him to prevaricate over anything, but he
put off for as long as possible the letter addressed to the Rev. and Mrs J. M. P. Courtnay at the Vicarage. One long July evening, as twilight began to fall and martins fluttered outside the window against the darkening blue, he sat down at the typewriter and composed a
reply to the several anxious letters he had received. His arm allowed some movement now in the fingers of his right hand and this was
good exercise.
‘Dear Mother and Father,’ he began. ‘I am sorry I have not been
able to write until now. Thankfully my arm is healing and I am bet-
ter able to produce this most difficult letter.’
He considered what he should write next, deciding finally that he
should keep it brief. The accident, as he called it, had changed his life irrevocably. Perhaps it simply typified the change in him since military service. He would not be returning shortly to England,
either to his place at Oxford or to the family home. He saw a com-
pletely different future for himself. For the time being he planned to remain in some capacity with the military, though front- line activity was out of the question. He would then see where fate took him.
He thought a clean break was the best solution all round, so he
would not be writing to them again. He would not reply to any let-
ters they sent him. He assured them that he was perfectly well, both physically and mentally, and that this full and final decision was
made perfectly rationally. He regretted the upset this must cause
them and thanked them for his loving upbringing.
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He signed the letter with a jagged, painful ‘Roy’ and placed the
paper once again into the machine to add a postscript apologizing
for his inability to write by hand.
He had had enough of this place now and lobbied for a posting.
After three weeks he was sent to the office in Brussels that was
beginning the work of codifying the Allied Forces’ operating status in Europe following the war.
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Chapter Thirteen
Holding On
1
He emerges from a fitful sleep into the bright light of the ward.
Around him he can hear the sound of businesslike bustling, but it is not to do with him.
He can recall vividly the moment the revolver skidded to a halt
on the floor and that split second when all three men saw that they had arrived at a turning point. He can recall his heart leaping in
fear- fuelled exultation as he made for the weapon. He can recall the two other men doing the same, and the silence of an age before the
coming- together. He can remember little else. In his mind there is a blur of action, the flash of the blade, pain in his arm and then the absence of pain, blood spattering, the crunch of bodies colliding
and the report of the Webley, astonishingly loud at such close quarters. It booms now, in his head. But then what? He is not even sure who he is.
He opens his eyes. The activity in the ward concerns a patient
across the way whose bed linen is being changed. Nothing too dras-
tic and thankfully no one looks towards his bed. He closes his eyes again to think. He hopes he will shortly be released from here and
resume real life. The office in Hannover has always seemed so hum-
drum; now it is enticing. Marjorie, the office dragon, and Derek,
Bert and Ernie, the three clerks. He has managed to get hold of
some real coffee from the American PX. They will love that. But
then it begins seeping back. Things will not return to normal,
though he does not quite know why.
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position and pain jags through him. The odd thing is that it seems
to be in his side rather than his arm. Even to think is an effort and he feels tired.
The next thing he knows, there is a gentle voice flowing over
him. ‘Wake up, Roy,’ it says. He wants to say: I am awake, don’t you realize? I just want to keep my eyes closed. I just want everything to stop moving, existing. But the voice is sweet, as is the waft of ver-bena perfume, and he cannot resist opening his eyes.
There she is. How can that be? Sweet little . . . No. Impossible, he realizes as the thought swirls in his brain.
Gradually he is able to focus. No. How could he be so stupid? It’s
that old woman. The one he lives with. What’s her name? Such a
simple thing, a name. At least it should be. He’s always prided
himself on his memory for names. Almost within grasp. Betty.
And with the name fragments come drifting back, weightless.
That little mews cottage by the Green. Vincent. Oh yes. Vincent.
The drugs they give you. That must be it. A bit off- colour, that’s all. He takes her hand and holds on for dear life.
A doctor comes into view, carrying a clipboard.
‘Well then, Mr Courtnay,’ he says.
Yes! Courtnay. Captain Roy Courtnay if you please. Present and
correct.
And then it begins to float into place. The world turns slowly.
Planets coincide gently. His memory docks again inaudibly and
there is clarity. Just a little turn, he thinks.
‘You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr Courtnay. A couple of cracked ribs.
They’ll be quite painful.’
Why is he telling him this? Why is he speaking so loudly? He
doesn’t need telling his ribs hurt. But he is mute, staring up at the man- child who is attending him. Long tousled hair, T- shirt under his white coat. Hasn’t shaved. Complete mess.
‘You’ll be right as rain in a few days. I said right as rain,
Mr Courtnay.’
The doctor smiles encouragingly. Roy thinks: have I turned into
>
some imbecile overnight? He coughs but still does not speak.
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‘And after that perhaps we need to discuss options.’
He notices he is still holding Betty’s hand and his grip is becom-
ing tighter. He looks up at her but she is looking at the doctor.
‘Perhaps we might have a word after your visit, Mrs Courtnay.’
‘I’m not Mrs Courtnay,’ says Betty with a shy smile. ‘I’m just a
friend.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says the young man. ‘Please forgive me. I just
assumed.’
You might almost believe in his sincerity. It seems Betty does.
The doctor wanders off in his trainers, his hands in the pockets
of his coat.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Betty.
Did she not hear the doctor? I feel terrible. I’m in pain. But he
smiles, and says, ‘I’m all right. Just a bit of a turn.’
‘Maybe you’ve been overdoing things.’
‘How?’
‘All the financial stuff. Vincent.’
‘Oh no,’ he says decisively. ‘Just a bit peaky. Must be some kind of virus. Back on my feet in no time.’
‘I’m worried. You mustn’t rush things.’
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he says. ‘Be back home in two
shakes.’ He looks up at her.
‘It gave me a fright,’ she says.
‘No doubt. Must have been a bit of a crash.’
‘The ambulance crew were excellent. They were there in min-
utes and took charge.’
‘Good. Listen. Could you get in touch with Vincent? I’m sure
he’d like to know and, depending on how long I’m laid up, he might
want to drop in on me.’
‘All right. Do I have his number?’
‘I think your Stephen does. If not it’ll be on the papers he
gave you.’
‘All right.’
‘Betty?’
‘Yes, Roy?’
‘Don’t let them put me in a home. Please.’
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‘What are you talking about, Roy? Who’s said anything about a
home?’
‘It’s just a funny turn. I’ll be fine. Don’t let them put me in one of those places.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, smiling. ‘You’ll be back home before you know it.’
2
‘The doctor wanted a word afterwards,’ Betty tells Stephen. ‘He suggested we should consider “other options” when he’s discharged.’
‘Such as?’ asks Stephen.
‘Isn’t the euphemism obvious? Some desperate institution with a
Happy Valley cover name. He wants social services to do an assess-
ment of care needs. You won’t be surprised to learn that he doesn’t want a bit of it. He can see the slippery slope.’
‘You should consider it seriously. What’s the diagnosis, anyway?’
‘A couple of cracked ribs. Painful, but he’ll recover. They put the fall down to high blood pressure. Anxiety may have brought it on.
He has a heart condition that’s kept under control by medication.
They’ve upped the tablets.’
‘Anxiety?’
‘Yes. Presumably all the stress with Vincent and the money.’
‘We’ve done nothing to heighten his stress levels. It’s all going
remarkably smoothly. Whatever he is, he’s not a panicker.’
‘I know. But he is very old, you have to remember. Like me. And
he’ll be more frail than he looks.’
‘We should think about the home option.’
‘I heard you the first time. They did some cognitive tests on him
too. For signs of dementia. He’s been disorientated since the fall.
The tests aren’t fully conclusive. They need to do more, but it could be that onset is occurring. If confirmed, given his age they’d anticipate full development being quite swift.’
‘How swift?’
‘Months, probably. Maybe a year or two. Possibly weeks.’
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‘Doesn’t that settle it? You can’t possibly take on that burden. He has to go into a suitable home. Then disengage.’
‘If it is dementia the early stages shouldn’t be too problematic,’
she says in a matter- of- fact tone. ‘There’ll be long periods of lucid-ity. As time goes on the confusion will increase. The doctors will
monitor it and there’s always the option of a nursing home later.’
‘But why? Just let it all go.’
‘Perhaps I’m selfish, but I can’t. I can’t let go. Not just yet. I’m holding on. Not losing my nerve. We have only a few weeks more
of this, you know, once he’s out. Would you believe, just before he had his accident, he asked me to share the large bedroom with him?’
‘What did you say?’ says Stephen quietly.
‘What do you think? I laughed it off. Perhaps we should consider
getting a double room together in some awful Sunset Pastures
place.’
Stephen evidently does not share her amusement.
‘We spoke of love,’ she says. ‘Or at least I did.’
‘Love?’
‘Yes. It slipped out, rather. It was something to say. I simply said love didn’t seem to be part of his vocabulary.’
‘Slightly injudicious, don’t you think? Talking to him about love?’
‘You sound like Gerald.’
‘Sorry. It just seems a bit risky. To be fair to him for one moment, it’s hardly a question many men in their eighties are equipped to
answer.’
‘No. He was a bit at sea. Anyway, I don’t really care about the risk.
This whole adventure is one big risk. And it is rather amusing to see him so uneasy. With all his certainty. A bit cruel, perhaps, considering what’s just happened. But that’s as maybe. The subject was soon closed.’
She pours the tea.
‘I’m just so . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Concerned for you, I suppose.’
‘It’s all right. I have things perfectly under control.’
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‘I know, but I just worry. It’s a huge thing to take on. And him
being so close, physically. I worry it might end badly.’
‘I’m immensely grateful for your concern, Stephen. And it makes
a huge difference to know that you’re there – watching my back,
isn’t that the expression? But I can cope with him. Really I can.’
‘I just admire you so much and it makes me sick to think he might
be able to hurt you.’
‘Oh, Stephen. He can’t hurt me. I’m pretty tough. And though I
may have experienced a few things in my time I’m not sure I par-
ticularly deserve your adulation. I’m just a perfectly ordinary
person.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Yes I am,’ she insists, and they are silent.
‘But thank you,’ she says eventually. ‘You’ve been such a help, and a good friend too if I may say so. You’ve really made it possible for me to do all this. With your help I can manage him.’
3
‘I didn’t know what to bring,’ mumbles Vincent. ‘Grapes, I thought, or something . . .’
‘I bloody hate grapes,’ says Roy.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘ Half- bottle of Bell’s would be nice. To pop under my pillow.’
&nbs
p; ‘Anyway, I brought these.’ Vincent gives Roy a brown paper bag
containing a box of cheap chocolates, which he accepts wordlessly
and places on the side table.
‘I wanted to make sure we were still on track,’ says Roy.
‘You are kidding, aren’t you? I thought you’d want it all on hold.
Until things were clearer.’
‘By which you mean if I get out of this place in a box or not.’
Vincent stares at him and does not deny his thinking.
‘Nah,’ says Roy. ‘Take a bit more than a little fall to put me out of action. Bruised and battered, maybe, but not beaten. Down but not
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out. Be back home before you know it. Full speed ahead as far as I’m concerned.’
‘You sure? I mean . . .’
‘What? You having cold feet or something, Vincent? Betty flut-
tered her eyelashes or something? You a little bit besotted?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ says Vincent irascibly. ‘If you must know, I’m looking out for you.’
‘Thank you kindly. But no need to do that. I’ve coped well enough
over the years.’
‘This is madness, Roy. It’s suicide, or close to it, you doing her
over. You’ve got yourself neatly set up there. She looks after you
and surely that’s what you need now, not more money.’
Roy laughs. ‘You are having seconds, aren’t you? Not like you.
Think I’m going to pop my clogs in the middle of all this and leave a mess for you to clear up? More for you, I’d have thought. Betty’s not one for reneging on deals. You’d have my stake money in your
back pocket too. You’d be quids in and all you’d need to do is to fade neatly into the background.’
‘No, it’s not that, Roy. This is crazy. Why are you doing this?’
‘I’ve told you before. It’s what I do.’
‘Not good enough, Roy. You’ll destroy her and you’ll destroy
yourself.’
‘It’ll have to be,’ says Roy sharply. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. You get paid well enough to keep your trap shut and do
what I want. Or is that it? You think this is our last gig together and you can shake me down for some more? What is it you want? Sixty
per cent? Seventy?’
Vincent shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not that. I just don’t think you should be doing this.’
‘So does that mean you’re out? Because if so you could have had
the decency to tell me earlier. You leave me in a right mess, I can tell you.’
The Good Liar Page 21