trouble Elisabeth to tend for her, spending nights soothing her as
she writhed in pain, fetching and carrying, and calmly clearing the mess of her foul bodily excretions as she descended further into the hell of her final months. Nor did what was to come concern Elisabeth. She knew death intimately, and it was not to be scorned or
feared. It simply was.
At the same time she learned again how to be a human being.
She rediscovered compassion. When Eleanor Barber died at the end
of the long winter of 1947 Elisabeth was more affected than she had imagined she would be. The thousands of deaths of which she was
directly aware during the war, the hundreds she had witnessed at
close quarters: these had not evoked similar feelings. For this she was annoyed with herself, but in the midst of his own grief John
Barber said gently that at least she could once again feel.
It was in 1950 that she thought about university. She wanted ini-
tially to apply for a place at Oxford so that she could continue to live in the house with John Barber, but he blocked the idea. One afternoon he made a pot of tea and sat with her in the drawing room,
unembarrassed but hesitant.
‘My dear, I’m afraid I must insist you study elsewhere. The idea
of you studying here at Oxford is simply out of the question. You
need to discover a life beyond this house, a life of your own, and you cannot be tied to me. And for my part, if you do remain it is almost inevitable that I shall form an attachment to you that borders on
inappropriate.’
She laughed and said, ‘John, don’t be so silly.’
‘No. I may be fat and fifty- three years old, but sadly I do continue to have such feelings.’
‘But John, you’re such a lovely man.’
‘I think if you knew me better you might revise that opinion. It is certainly one I do not share. I wish it were otherwise.’
‘I’ll be so upset if you send me away.’
‘As no doubt shall I. But I’m sure it’s the best thing for you. To
discover a wider life. To see new horizons. Become truly independ-
ent. And it will be better for me. We’ll see each other between
terms. If, that is, it’s what you want.’
233
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 233
05/05/15 5:32 PM
‘You know it will be.’
She hid her offended feelings, perversely pleased at the sensation
that affirmed humanity, and acquiesced. It was her idea to change
her name to Barber by deed poll, but she knew it pleased John.
‘In practical terms it may make things easier,’ he said. ‘The
wounds from the war are still raw and even at our most prestigious
academic institutions misunderstandings occur. Besides, the admin-
istrators would no doubt mangle the name Schröder. You could of
course call yourself something even more commonplace, such as
Smith.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Barber will do nicely.’
Elisabeth Barber went up to Cambridge University in September
1951, studying history. She knew that she owed her place in part to a beneficial view of her own history by the authorities and to a degree to John Barber’s contacts. But equally she knew that she was highly intelligent, that she had swept through the previous years avidly
consuming every piece of learning before her, and that academia
would play a vital part in her future life.
8
It was when she graduated that she understood for the first time
that she had become an adult. She had spent the previous three
years studying seriously, as young women needed to do if they
were to stand a chance against their male counterparts. She knew
she needed to be much more accomplished than her nearest male
competitor to succeed.
John Barber attended the ceremony and bought her a mediocre
lunch at the University Arms.
‘And what are your plans now?’ he asked over dessert.
‘I really don’t know,’ she replied, defeated by this innocuous and
obvious question. ‘I hadn’t thought. Relax for a while and then find something to do, I suppose.’
‘The Civil Service might be a good bet. They’re always on the
lookout for bright young things. Or I suppose there’s commerce.
234
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 234
05/05/15 5:32 PM
You’d be a very sought- after commodity, on the strength of your
degree alone. And when they meet you, they’re sure to be bowled
over. But I suppose I’m biased.’
‘Am I a complete idiot, John? I mean, I haven’t given it the first
thought. Not even for a moment.’
‘Well, there’s no rush.’
‘I could become a teacher,’ she said. ‘Yes, that might suit me very well. Or . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think I have it in me to be an academic of some sort? You
know, one of the provincial red- bricks. Nowhere as grand as here.
Might I just be able to make a go of it?’
A broad smile came to his face. ‘There’s no need for false mod-
esty. Of course it would be a possibility. More than a possibility. I’d have you down as a dead cert. Would you like me to have a word? I
do have contacts around the place, not just in Oxford.’
She looked at him quickly. ‘No. Please no. This is something I
want to do under my own steam. I have to find my own way. You do
understand, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ he said, and smiled again.
She realized then that she had found herself, or sufficient of her-
self to live without consulting others or asking their permission.
Opportunities shimmered before her, tempered only by her own
modesty. She was not certain what she would do, but it would be
entirely she who determined it.
As things worked out, it was as easy as John had predicted.
She had already arranged an appointment with her tutor to thank
her for her help. Over tea she asked tentatively, ‘I wondered whether you might consider supporting me in an application for further
study?’
‘I was rather hoping you might ask me that,’ said the tutor, lean-
ing back on the battered leather couch. ‘Of course. I’d be delighted.’
‘Do you know what the process is?’
‘Process?’ she said. ‘Oh, no doubt there will be the odd form to
fill out. There may be an interview at some stage during the sum-
mer. But I rather think the important parts of the . . . process have 235
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 235
05/05/15 5:32 PM
been completed.’ She looked at Elisabeth and gave a smile before
continuing. ‘Of course we’ve informally discussed potential candi-
dates for postgraduate places in the Senior Common Room, and
your name comes up with regularity. You may take it as read that
you’ll be accepted. And you can be fairly sure a scholarship will also be forthcoming.’
9
Cambridge became her town, rather than simply the venue for her
education, as she came to inhabit her adult life. She made the rooms she had been allocated comfortable and began to buy cheap but
tasteful works of art in the market. She worked less frenetically and anxiously and in her spare time learned to cook. She regretted
not having had the opportunity to study a musical instrument,
remembering Charlotte, at eighteen
an accomplished flautist with
prospects of a place at a conservatoire in a European capital. For
Elisabeth, it was now far too late to acquire a level of expertise that would satisfy her. Instead she consumed classical music avidly and
attended all the concerts she could.
Every inch of the quiet, benign town was hers. She explored its
alleyways and parks, now shunning the college life in which she had previously been immersed. She enjoyed exchanging gossip with
those she met on the communal stairways but little else of the fer-
vid intellectualism of the place. She made friends but preferred to meet them in pubs in the surrounding villages, reached by bicycle.
She continued to discover what she consisted of and what made her
happy and unhappy. Eight years earlier, the concept of happy or
unhappy would have been alien to her.
She was not a conventional student. She kept herself apart from
her fellow postgraduates and was to be seen only rarely in the Mid-
dle Combination Room of her college. She studied how her few
female peers dressed and chose differently. She began for the first time to say what she thought, rather than what she thought
she ought to think, as she built her thesis on the economic
236
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 236
05/05/15 5:32 PM
circumstances underlying the First World War. Her new supervisor,
once an iconoclast but by now a fully paid- up, sweaty, sherry- drinking old fart, viewed her as a dangerous quantity, which she took as a
compliment. It may have had something to do with the fumbling
pass he had made at her that she rejected, leaving him no scope to
fall back on ambiguity or misunderstanding.
There were, depressingly, other men too. The experience of
meeting them was dispiriting because, like her supervisor, they
seemed interested only in what she symbolized: an attractive young
woman and the promise of sex. Any attempt at intellectual inter-
course with her was superficial and patronizing, designed to nudge
her towards the other kind. And they knew so little, so very little, of this world. She rebuffed them steadfastly until she met Alasdair
McLeish, a graduate law student, a diffident Scot with dark Celtic
good looks.
What followed was as straightforward, low- key and sensible as
they were. Friendship was followed by a formal courtship and finally by an awkward visit by Alasdair to Oxford to see John Barber. The
awkwardness was largely Barber’s: he felt he had no locus in the
matter of Elisabeth’s choices. Things eased when Alasdair explained that this was a formality and a courtesy. If Barber had reacted
adversely he and Elisabeth would have married in any case. But
Alasdair McLeish liked to do things by the book.
Elisabeth then became a fellow of the college and her life seemed
to be on a straight track to distant retirement. It was she, rather than the demands of her future husband’s career, who changed that
course, applying for a lectureship at Edinburgh. She was successful and while Alasdair completed his studies at Cambridge she moved
to Edinburgh to set out just how she would pursue her research.
Elisabeth McLeish would not have described herself as a particu-
larly contemplative person. The demands of an academic career,
together with the upbringing of her children, would have been suf-
ficient to distract her from introspection had she been that way
inclined naturally. Which in fact she wasn’t.
It was not until 1997 that everything stopped again and she was
237
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 237
05/05/15 5:32 PM
delivered back to the spiritual emptiness of 1945. Keenly aware
though she was of her self- indulgence, she felt that all that had been built in her life during the intervening years had been destroyed.
She was smiling when this thought struck her. The occasion was
Alasdair’s funeral, as they waited to enter the church, when her
granddaughter blurted out the question. Blurting was rather Aman-
da’s way.
‘Weren’t you ever fed up with each other?’ she asked, as if it were a requirement of every human relationship. ‘Didn’t you ever just
want to do your own thing?’
With someone she loved less, Elisabeth might have employed a
rather more stern tone. But the query prompted that distant, reflective smile that would be seen on her face in years to come, her eyes following her mind to a distant place. In some part of her she could not stop herself again being pleasantly surprised by Amanda’s lovely sing- song Scottish lilt.
‘Well, I did rather do my own thing,’ she said. ‘Alasdair wouldn’t
have wanted me not to. But my thing was all about stability and
continuity. And friendship. I’m afraid we were rather boring. But
back then individuality wasn’t really regarded as a virtue, least of all in a place like Edinburgh. There aren’t any skeletons in our closet.
We must have been rather a disappointment to you all.’
‘No, no,’ said Amanda. ‘We looked up to you so much. I wish I
could live my life so simply.’
‘It’s a complex world, my dear. Perhaps the 50s were some kind
of respite, or a delusion. My early years weren’t exactly simple.’
‘I know. I didn’t mean. It’s just.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve no lessons to offer. Maybe because I’d had such a tumultuous life I yearned for something more steady and solid.
I’m sure millions of others did after the war. It doesn’t make it right.
But I do feel for you young people, trying to make sense of every-
thing. There, listen to me. So very patronizing. I’m sorry. What was it John Lennon said? Whatever gets you through the night. I’m sure
he was right.’
She was aware that, while her words might appear deliberately
spoken and to make sense, the centre of her consciousness was
238
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 238
05/05/15 5:32 PM
elsewhere. This was not such a challenging facility for one who had been accustomed professionally to operating on several levels, mentally constructing a thesis during a boring departmental meeting or internally testing an idea during a tutorial. But it was not something she generally deployed with her family.
It was, she supposed, excusable given the circumstances that she
should be thinking of her dead husband, her parents, her sisters and herself.
Alasdair’s death had been far from unanticipated. Diagnosed
with prostate cancer some four years previously, he had immedi-
ately retired and begun planning the period of between two months
and five years he was told to anticipate. World cruises, sports cars, bucket lists and mawkish farewell parties were not on his agenda: a simple, gentle wind- down with his family was what he sought. He
hadn’t done so badly on the prognosis, he’d said the week before,
when the immediacy of death was so obvious. For her part, Elisa-
beth had deluded herself that she could cope with this, riding her
grief with her customary fortitude. She was, after all, accustomed
to loss.
In fact her life imploded. That detached smile, the fixed display of control, would remain and she would continue carefully to regulate
outward displays of emotion. In private only would there be tears.
She would discipline herself not to lose control of her pract
ical
life – the few pieces of research that continued under her supervision following her retirement, maintenance of the house and
grounds in immaculate condition, diligent attention to her good
causes.
She foresaw all this as she sat without expression in her pew, the
service occurring around her somewhere far away. Grief was to be
expected, she knew, though its self- absorption must be curbed. Her loss was a bottomless well into which she found herself calling con-tinuously, with no echoing response. This much was routine, she
told herself. Was it more than that? She could no more answer that
question than attempt the pointless comparison of her grief with
another’s. It would have been unnatural not to have felt his absence keenly, that man who had been remarkable precisely because he
239
1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 239
05/05/15 5:32 PM
had seemed so unexceptional to others. Competent, but diffident
and lacking in charisma, would have been the faint praise. Not to
her, nor to her children and grandchildren.
Somehow she must reconstruct. Guilt flooded together with the
pain at her selfishness. Even now she found it impossible to mourn
for her parents and her sisters, whose lives had been unarguably
more tragic and their deaths immeasurably more horrific. Impos-
sible to visualize them in life, she thought as the obsequies played out. Impossible to imagine them as warm, physical beings, with
thoughts and emotions and character, or to think of their deaths.
Let alone to weep.
Some three years later she resolved to discover what had happened,
back then. She had never before sought any answer to the conun-
drum that was her past, never subscribed to theories that she
needed, for true contentment, to winkle out the truth. She had
never looked for that dreadful American thing, closure – being perfectly content for it all to be there, packed in the recesses, never to be aired again – and certainly for not revenge.
But now she wanted to know. She was not sure what precisely
she was seeking: knowledge, the truth, retribution, repayment of
some obscure debt. She engaged Gerald Glover, once a postdoc-
toral researcher under her supervision, now a professor at a
university in the north of England, to undertake research on her
behalf in his spare time. She could have done the work herself but
The Good Liar Page 29