Nicholas Searle: The Good Liar

‘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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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