Ann Troup - My Mother, The Liar

Children might have helped. However, they had never come along, and if he were honest, he wouldn’t have known what to do if they had. He wasn’t a man able to tolerate mess and chaos so maybe it had been for the best. He had no memory of being a child, couldn’t relate to what it was like at all. Even in his mother’s house, proudly populated with pictures of decreasingly younger versions of himself, he couldn’t make the connection, just felt slightly embarrassed by the tight-lipped, two-dimensional boy that he saw staring back at him from the photographs. Sometimes he was sure that he’d been born old.

Despite all that, the one thing he had never, ever anticipated was the prospect of being associated with scandal. Part of the reason that he had chosen Frances for a wife was because her background was good. Her family were a little odd, but of good pedigree, or so he had been led to believe. Never would he have contemplated that they could be capable of the level of depravity that was splashed all over the newspapers. It had come as a shock.

In some respects his other recent discovery had been a greater shock. When Valerie had died both he and Frances had been relieved – not only were they free of an unlikeable burden, they also stood to inherit a share of The Limes. Initially he had held out hope that Valerie had made a will, cutting out Rachel and favouring Frances above Stella. Typically, she had not.

He had assumed that the process of probate would be lengthy but at least straightforward. He’d been wrong. A complication had emerged already. Not only had Valerie not left a will, neither had William, and to top that, there was no evidence that William Porter was actually dead. When Peter had heard from the solicitor that no death certificate was in evidence he had been incredulous until he had discovered that there was no grave either. No funeral had taken place; no notice had been in the papers. William Porter had simply disappeared into the ether.

The only will that had ever decreed ownership of the house was that made by Stella’s birth mother. Technically William still owned the property. For Peter, it was a nightmare situation – one that was costing him eighty-five pounds an hour every time their solicitor even thought about resolving it. If just one of the bodies found had been William, it would have been far more simple. Distasteful, but simple.

Now that he thought about it, the whole thing had been a sham. In selecting him as a husband, Frances had achieved respectability and had managed to disguise herself and her family so that they couldn’t be recognised for what they were. He’d been duped, all his assumptions now proved wrong.

Stella, the single most ineffectual example of the human condition he’d ever encountered, had been someone to be pitied. Valerie, with all her apparent her pride in Frances, had been nothing but guise and guile, all designed to ensnare him and link him to a family of felons and sycophants. As for Rachel, he’d been fortunate enough to never have met her. From what he’d heard it had been a lucky escape.

He couldn’t even bear to look at Frances lying there seeming so peaceful and oblivious. She had nothing worse than a head wound whilst his whole life had been torn apart by her lies. In a fit of pique and disgust he took the flowers he had bought for her and rammed them into the waste bin. He was a decent man, a good man – honourable and upright. He hadn’t been equipped for this deceit. Without a backward glance at his wife he stalked from the ward.

***

Amy was well and truly pissed off. Sent home from her nurse-training placement early, she had caught a train home and had been desperately trying to phone her dad since. Only he wasn’t answering his phone, and now she would have to catch a bus from the station. She hated buses, especially late buses. They were full of drunks, gobshites, and people with hygiene problems. Some had passengers that combined all three traits – they were the ones who always wanted to sit next to Amy.

She had never come home to an empty house, had never been turned down when she had asked for a lift, had never opened the fridge and found it empty of food. Dad was always there, always had been, and now he wasn’t she was more annoyed with him than she wanted to admit.

It was his fault she was now standing at a freezing bus stop next to a person who obviously had failed to see the relevance of the ‘i’ in iTunes. Tinny music was leaking from his earphones and intruding into her already abrasive mood. Where the fuck was her dad?

They needed to talk. About what was in the papers. About why he was in the papers.

She had been in the office writing up patient notes before handover, when the other student, that supercilious wanker Nick Gribble, had slapped a newspaper down on the desk. Everyone had looked up as he’d said, ‘Never told us your dad was a criminal, Amy.’

Mortification hadn’t been the word for it. She’d told him to fuck off and had got a bollocking from her supervisor and sent home. The prospect of bouncing off the walls in the nurse’s home hadn’t appealed, so she’d come ‘home’ home, and no one was going to be there. What made her most angry was the fact that if something like a bank had gone out of business and money was at stake, the fucking papers wouldn’t have even thought about raking something up that had happened over thirty years ago! Money always trumped people in a news story.

There was a photograph of Charlie taking up half the page. Because a woman who’d gone missing, and who had probably killed her husband and kid, had been a witness at her dad’s trial. Didn’t put a photograph of her in there, did they? How fair was that?

Neither he nor Gran had ever talked about why he’d been in prison. She’d always known he had been, ever since her second day at school when Lee Price, a noxious kid who always had dried snot on his jumper sleeve had said, ‘My mum said your dad is a murderer. He chopped your mum into little pieces.’

She’d stared at him in disbelief, trying to equate what he had said with her big, strong lovely dad. She’d been horrified and angry and had yelled, ‘At least I’ve got a hanky! I don’t wipe bogeys on my clothes.’

She still felt stupid when she thought about it.

Gran had picked her up from school that day, and had been shocked to see a bandage on her hand. Lee Price had stabbed her with a pencil over the snot jibe. The story had come out in a tearful torrent and Gran had told her that it was true that her dad had gone to prison, but that it wasn’t true that he’d killed anyone. His first wife had been killed, but not by him. Amy had taken this on her five-year-old chin, because if Gran said it, the ‘it’ was gospel.

She had never since questioned his innocence. Even though on occasion (mostly when she was pissed off with him, like now) she had been haunted by the thought that he did seem to have a habit of marrying people who had suffered untimely deaths.

After that Gran wouldn’t discuss it, and Amy had been warned on pain of death to ask her father about it. Even so, the story ate at her. The dead first wife became the antagonist in her nightmares and she’d had no choice but to find out what had happened.

When she was thirteen, she’d gone to the library and had mastered the mysteries of the microfiche machine and had read the reports of what her father was supposed to have done. It didn’t stand up in her mind: the words ‘frenzied attack’ in the same sentence as her father’s name were so incongruent she had laughed. Still did. In her imagination she had packed the whole thing away in the same box as her mother’s death. It was all in the mental filing cabinet labelled ‘Romantic Tragedies’ along with other things that were too difficult to think about very often.