Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

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unaccustomed disarray and nervousness confer a certain glowing

radiance. There is a fixed smile on her lips and the soft light draws out the depth of her brown eyes. She has been to the salon and her

hair shines and hangs straight and elegant. She is on stage. To him, her performance shines. At the end of the table Roy holds court

with his smile. He neither helps Betty nor contributes much to the

conversation yet is the conductor of proceedings. Everything refers back to Roy eventually. Which is only natural, since this occasion, postponed from the summer, is intended to introduce him, induct

him indeed, into this peculiar family. It is only natural that they should show such interest in him and he deals with their inquisitive-ness with a rediscovered bonhomie and energy. He does not,

however, display a corresponding curiosity about them.

‘Christmas,’ says Michael apropos of nothing, it seems. They all pay attention and it is implicit among them that the statement is directed at Roy.

‘Oh yes,’ Roy says in response, a wary curiosity infusing its rising pitch.

‘It’s only a month away. Are you one for Christmas, Roy?’

‘Well, put it like this, Michael,’ replies Roy. ‘Time was, I was as keen as the next man on Christmas. Those were times of austerity,

mind you, when if you summoned up an orange for the boy’s stock-

ing you were something of a magician. I used to make toys, you

know, for my son, from odd bits of wood. Good with my hands, I

was. But these days, with all the commercialism and what have

you . . . And when you get older . . .’ He pauses for a moment of

reflection. ‘I was on my own last Christmas. I had two pork sausages and a tin of beans for my dinner and I don’t mind telling you I shed a tear or two while I was watching the Queen’s Speech.’

Stephen and Emma share a glance, and Roy senses the begin-

ning, quickly quashed, of a smirk passing over her face.

‘Well, it doesn’t have to be like that this year,’ says Michael. ‘We were wondering whether the two of you might like to spend Christmas with us. I’m happy to come down on Christmas Eve to pick you

up, so you don’t have to worry about the train.’

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‘Well,’ begins Betty, smiling, but Roy talks across her.

He says, ‘Too kind, too kind. We couldn’t possibly.’

‘No,’ says Michael quickly. ‘You must. Betty would normally

come to ours anyway and it would be nice to have the two of you.’

‘Ah no,’ says Roy, looking directly at Michael. ‘You misunder-

stand me. Betty and I have set our hearts on our first Christmas

together being here, alone. Haven’t we, my dear?’

Betty, looking at Michael, says, ‘Oh yes. I was going to mention

it. I hope you don’t mind.’

There is an awkward moment in the air. Roy can see Michael

thinking, battling perhaps with an instinct to vent his annoy-

ance. Come on, man; show some spirit at last; spit it out, he thinks.

But no.

‘Oh well,’ says Michael. ‘It was just an idea. A romantic Christ-

mas with just the two of you. Wonderful. Great.’

Is that relief Roy sees shimmering on Stephen’s face? Possibly, but then again maybe not. It was there for just a second and he finds

these days that his senses are not as finely tuned as once they necessarily were, and his eyesight not so sharp.

5

It’s a truism that the older one grows, the more conscious of the

seasons one becomes and the separations and transitions between

them. Maybe it’s just true. Or possibly, Betty thinks, our weather

has become more extreme, as the experts say, and the seasons are

consequently delineated more starkly.

Whatever. A young person’s word that, with its tone of resigna-

tion and extinguished hope, signifies the point this generation has reached on the journey from inquiry via bewilderment and disillusion to despondency. Not, therefore, a word for Betty. She rephrases the concept in her mind: it’s beyond me. Accompanied by a win-some girlish giggle, it will suit perfectly, she thinks; a suitably little- woman expression.

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Roy would know the answer for sure. Which is to say he would

be sure he knew the answer, whether or not he did, and would be

able to state it with sufficient authority to brook no argument. He is very strong on certainty, Roy, and this is a good thing for Betty.

At any rate the season is currently biting at its coldest, with relentless ferocity. In September she found herself wishing away summer

and welcoming in cooler evenings and the march of the night. Bet-

ter a genuine autumn than the apparition of summer. Strange for

her. Since her childhood she has been a creature of the summer:

those hot days whiled away in the garden with her sisters, the sounds and cares of the city beyond the high rose- covered brick wall; white dress, bare legs, dipping her toes in the clear pond by the summer

house; playing with Elsa, the dog; and those fragrant evenings

watching the elder girls through the balustrades of the gallery as

they were courted in their ball gowns by dashing army officers. So

long ago. Autumn brought gloom and equinoctial winds blowing

leaves and dust along grey avenues under grey skies.

Now the moon is full and she watches through the kitchen win-

dow as from a leaden sky snow falls in clumpy flakes too heavy

almost for their intricate fragility. There is a feeling indoors of cosi-ness, of protection from cold and misery in this warm centuries- old mews cottage. Perhaps it is another facet of age, she fancies: a

greater comfort with the season of winter and its imposed seden-

tary inwardnesses and reliance on such protections as fluffed- up

duvets, strong stone buildings and roaring fires.

Yet she knows this to be counter- rational. In the summer you

may at least sit out your dotage on the small patch of lawn under

the lilac tree, drink a cup of tea and read a book. You may pretend for a moment that the ageing isn’t happening. It is winter that brings arthritis, the inability to venture far, the seclusion that imprison-ment at home denotes, the reinforcement of helplessness and

uselessness. And she knows that despite the impression of cosy,

tucked- up warmth, she may be anything but safe. The wolf lurks,

yet his tune is siren- like. She must keep her wits about her.

Christmas has come and gone, a miserable non- event under

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sodden skies. Still, it was probably better all round that they were on their own. Roy’s present to her was a box of supermarket chocolates, the upmarket range admittedly. He accepted the sheepskin

coat she bought him with muted thanks but no embarrassment.

They ate Christmas dinner in silence and watched television while

Roy drank and snored. No walks in the rain. No giggling. No silly

games. No friends by the fireside. No family. These are the sacrifices she has chosen to make.

In the evening, while Roy dozed on, she spoke with Stephen by

telephone. He was solicitous and concerned, and quietly stricken.

Call it off, she could hear him uttering wordlessly down the line in the interstices of their conversation. Call it off. But she knows she will not, cannot.

She sits now at the kitchen table, her laptop unfolded before her,

while Roy watches the television at something approaching full vol-

ume. The neighbours have complained repeatedly but Roy is hard