Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

Lord Stanbrook’s son, Rupert, whom he once dandled on his

knee, is now the ailing fifth earl, with the scandal- beset feckless playboy son. Rupert’s own father, Charles, is long departed.

He hasn’t kept tabs on them. He’s picked bits up in the media and

the rest he’s just invented. It doesn’t matter. Dead. All dead. To him, leastways. And none to be grieved, save perhaps Bob. Bob was a

good lad, like Vincent is but in a different way, impressionable in the right way, malleable. And who could argue that Bob, in his death,

had not been extraordinarily helpful?

‘Fuck!’ he shouts loudly. There is yet fire in his belly. ‘Fuck.’

What is he doing? Rambling away like some muttering old pen-

sioner. Get a grip, man. At least now he knows when he’s drifting.

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The time may come when he doesn’t even realize it. Better dead

than gaga. But he knows he isn’t. He doesn’t forget. He remembers

everything. Dementia isn’t his problem; fixity of purpose is. Losing the will to strive is what he fears.

‘Fuck,’ he says again, more quietly as he regards the face in the mirror with a cold dispassion. He does not particularly like what he sees.

‘Roy?’ calls Betty from downstairs.

‘Yes?’ he replies.

‘I heard you shouting. Is everything all right? Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine, my dear,’ he replies evenly. ‘I thought I’d cut myself

shaving. Not so nimble as I once was. But it’s all right. Sorry. ’Scuse my French.’

2

He has begun recently to call her ‘my dear’ more often. Too often,

really. At first it was occasional and hesitant; now it is close to automatic, especially when he chooses to be patronizing. Which is not

infrequently.

She is not sure whether this is a considered process of establish-

ing himself yet more prominently in her life, or whether it is entirely unconscious. Need she fear a proposal? The thought of his attempting to go down on one knee is almost enough for her to dial 999.

Finally, she supposes it is harmless and quite sweet in its way, if sweet were ever a term one might use in connection with him. And

she remains glad that he is still here.

They have had their sandwich lunch and she has lit the gas fire.

They sit together in the living room, she with her book and he with his hands in his lap, bored and irritable.

‘What do you really think of women?’ she asks, for want of some-

thing better to say.

Roy’s heart sinks. Not one of those interminable discussions that

come from nowhere, head in no direction that he can distinguish

and seem calculated to humiliate him. He’d had enough of that

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to last a lifetime from Maureen. But better not turn this into an

argument.

Men and women, he thinks. Two completely different species.

‘What do you mean, my dear?’ he asks civilly, but glaring.

It appears she is not going to be put off. ‘I suppose our genera-

tion’s accustomed to a different relationship between the sexes.’

Give me strength, he thinks. But he retains his composure.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says, treating the question as though it

were reasonable enough. ‘I’m not an expert on these things.’

‘You don’t have to be an expert, surely?’

‘Well, no. I didn’t mean that. I’ve known a few women in my life.’

He hopes the arch smile might do the trick.

‘Yes?’ says Betty.

‘And. And, well, I’ve always found that I get on with women. See

eye to eye with them. Lots of men don’t, you know. I like women.

Especially you.’

‘I understand that. But in general? The differences between men

and women?’

He thinks: they do like to talk, don’t they?

‘Well, I could ask the same question of you. What do you think

of men?’

‘Fair enough. I find men these days more insecure than they

were. There are plenty who seem utterly secure in themselves.

Rather more secure than they should be, in reality. But . . .’

He looks and listens.

‘ . . . overall men seem less . . . solid . . . than they were. And more full of spite. I suppose it’s only natural. As we’ve become “liberated”. Though I can’t say I feel especially liberated,’ she continues.

‘Before, our roles were clearly defined. But two wars have seen all of that change.’

History, he thinks. More history. She’s bloody lecturing me. Good

God. But he beams polite attention at her.

‘I suppose it’s only to be expected that men should feel unset-

tled and threatened. Not that women seem to be the winners,

particularly.’

‘Hmm,’ he says.

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‘One sees more extremes. Lack of confidence, but also aggres-

sion. Expressions of insecurity, both of them.’

‘I suppose so,’ he says. ‘I’ve never lacked confidence.’

‘No, but that’s you, isn’t it? You were taught to be in charge.

Simply because you’re a male. You were conditioned not to think of

things any differently.’

Saved a lot of bloody time too, he thinks.

She continues. ‘What I’m saying is that men no longer quite

know what they’re supposed to be.’

‘Weak, a lot of them. We’re pretty straightforward when it comes

down to it. No complications, no hidden emotions. Don’t think I’m

against women’s rights. But men who are unsure of their quote

unquote identity are drama queens. I just think we are who we are

and getting on with things is all we can do. Thinking too much can

get you into all kinds of grief.’

And talking.

‘So, women. What are we like?’

‘Where do I begin?’ he says, smiling. ‘Marvellous. Wonderful.

Confusing. Frustrating. Illogical.’

She says nothing. He knows he is striking the wrong note but

cannot find the right one.

‘What I mean is,’ he ventures, ‘I’m all for a bit of mystery between men and women. If I had it all worked out I’d be a much unhappier man.’

‘I thought you did have it all worked out,’ she says, smiling.

Good. We may be making our way back to terra firma.

‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘Certainly not. Everyone has to have an answer

for everything these days. Not me. If we just lived a little, did what we were good at, toned down the thinking, we might all be a bit

better off.’

‘So a lack of knowledge is a good thing?’

‘Oh no. Of course not. But . . .’

‘You still haven’t answered my question. About women. About me.’

He ventures another sheepish grin.

‘Betty, I’ve nothing but respect for you. You’ve achieved so much

in your life. You leave me standing.’

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It is an unstoppable, pointless juggernaut. Roy is not concerned

about the sense of what he says; it simply fills the gaps. He hardly stops to consider whether his statements are comprehensible, let

alone cogent, still less whether he actually believes this garbage. It’s all just part of the game, he thinks: men and women.

He bestows on her a look of undiluted venom veiled by a benefi-

cent smile. She is too stupid to see it, he thinks.

He doesn’t realize I can see it, she thinks. She enjoys making him

squirm, in a way. He cannot, or will not, marshal an argument. He

is right that he is less intelligent than she is, so there is an element of cruelty in her tweaking him like this. It is good, though, to see him floundering, mildly discomposed and losing control. He is just bab-bling. It is a small vengeance, perhaps taken unwisely. She supposes she will later need to make it up to him, by saying the thing he