Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

appearance of complete transparency and not to arouse even min-

imal doubt. This is well- trodden territory for the two of them, with far tougher adversaries, and they shake hands before Roy heads for

the return train. It will not be a problem. Oh no.

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3

‘I think,’ he says, ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Oh?’ says Betty. ‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ve been thinking. While I’ve been away. You’ve told me all

about your life and your family and I’ve been a little . . .’

‘Reticent?’

‘To put it mildly. Unlike you, there’s been little of interest. But you see, I can’t say I feel any pride in my life. And I don’t care for opening up, or whatever they call it. I was brought up to mind my

own business. But I owe it to you to tell you rather more about me

than I have. If, that is, we’re about to take the next step.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If, as you suggested, I’m to sell up and to move in with you

permanently.’

‘I rather thought you’d already moved in. And I didn’t know it

was my suggestion,’ she added pertly.

‘Yes, well. Selling my little flat will formalize it. As well as giving us the funds to secure a wonderful future together.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I want you to be clear on one thing. I’ve never told you any lies.

I’ve simply been, well . . .’

‘Economical with the truth?’

He scowls and says emphatically, ‘Oh no. I don’t like that expres-

sion. Perhaps I’ve not been as forthcoming as I might have been.’

‘I was joking, Roy. Only teasing you.’

‘Oh. Yes. Well. At any rate, this is me. It’s a short and humdrum

story. There’s nothing to alarm you. A good cure for insomnia. To

begin with, I come originally from Dorset. I have to tell you that I was something of the black sheep of my family. My father was a

country rector there, like his father. As the eldest son, I was expected to follow in their footsteps. I was put up for a private education and slated to study theology at Cambridge. But then the war intervened.

And besides, I was – I am indeed – something of an adventurer. I

signed up as soon as I was able but sadly never got to serve on the 87

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front line in the push. It was a mixture of the training requirements, the chaos of the times and the fact that the war was in fact entering its final phase and fizzling out. Those who had fought the hard yards were generally permitted to apply the coup de grâce. We youngsters were held in reserve. It’s always been a regret of mine. I was in what they laughably call military intelligence. But I suppose I served my country as best I could. I was part of a small group sent to Europe to investigate incidents and try to locate fleeing war criminals.

We had some success. It taught me a lot about life, though there are some experiences I’d not want to wish on anyone else.’

‘For example?’

‘Oh,’ he says, discomfited. ‘Things I don’t speak of to anyone.’

‘Even me?’

‘Especially you, my dear. Things of which you should not know.

Things that changed me as a man and made me what I am today.’

He regards her sadly, and she fancies she might see tears form

in the watery corners of his eyes. But then again, she may be

mistaken.

‘I moved on. I didn’t leave the army immediately, though I could

have returned to my studies and faded nicely into a rural curacy. I did have my chance to serve on the front line, in Korea. By then I

was a captain, promoted through the ranks. Those were tough

times too. They have bitter winters there. I’d all but lost contact with my family. My perspectives on life were rather different from

my parents’. Less timid, I have to say. But I regret bitterly not having made the effort. I’ve never found the courage to pick up the threads.’

‘You could do so now,’ she says. ‘I could help you.’

He shakes his head vehemently.

‘No. All gone now. They’re all dead now, no doubt. There are the

later generations, I suppose, but the last thing they will need is some distant long- forgotten relation landing on their doorstep.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

‘No,’ he says decisively. ‘No. Anyway, I left the army in 1953 and

was at a bit of a loose end for a while. I had a variety of jobs. Before I knew it I was pushing thirty and it was time to do something with my life. I was living in London then but decided I should be out in 88

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the sticks. I moved to East Anglia, near Norwich, and that was

where I met Mary. She was an uncomplicated girl, from a modest

background, with simple needs. I’d long lost any desire for status or position. I was more interested in starting a family and striking out on my own. So with a small plot of land I began a market garden. I

taught myself everything. I’d read avidly into the early hours and

then spend the next day putting my learning into practice. And

shortly we had Robert. It would have been the most joyous day of

my life had the birth not been so difficult. From then on, there was little to report. I was building my business up and to be frank I spent most of my time on that. It does me no favours to say so, but I neglected Mary and Robert as the business became more successful.

Until, that is, she fell ill. It was a terrible few years, as she slowly became worse and worse. And then she was gone. I’ve never felt so

low in my life. That would have been the early 70s. Robert was

about fifteen. We grew apart – it must have been at least partly the grief we couldn’t express to one another – and eventually, when he was about nineteen, he left suddenly. That almost did me in, I can

tell you.’

He pauses.

‘What did you do then?’ she asks gently.

‘I sold up. I told myself I needed a new start. Moved back to Lon-

don. Got into property. And investment. It was the beginning of the boom years. That was a mistake. City folk. I got mixed up with the

wrong crowd. I was getting drunk every night and my so- called

partners were fleecing me left, right and centre. I was almost ruined.

Eventually I saw sense and in 1985 took what I had left and returned to Norfolk. I managed to buy a small nursery there from a chap I

used to know who was retiring, and that kept me going until I

retired myself. In fact it did quite well and I could live in some modest comfort. And that’s the whole story, more or less. Until you

came along.’

‘And Robert?’

‘He travelled the world and we had no contact until 1995. Then

out of the blue I had a letter from him from Australia. I don’t know how he found me again. Probably the internet. I’ve still not seen

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him since we parted and we’re in touch only infrequently. He never

comes to England.’

‘Would you like to see him?’

‘Not really,’ says Roy. ‘We have so little in common. And I’m

afraid I’m unduly rigid when it comes to my moral standards. I

don’t approve of his lifestyle and I doubt I could reconcile myself to it. Best just to leave it as it is. Anyway, there you have it. I felt it only fair as we enter this new phase in our lives . . .’

‘The last movement, possibly,’ she says with a smile.

‘Yes. I felt you needed to know about me. I’m afraid my experi-

ences have made me rather taciturn. There’s little I can do about