The White Lie (47 page)

“I’m leaving today,” he said to her.

“Yes.” They sat together, Alan looking at the loch, following Ursula’s gaze, his attention returning from time to time to her face. Eventually he said, “Well, that’s that then, I just wanted to say goodbye” and got to his feet, brushing damp stones from the seat of his trousers.

“Why did you lie?” Ursula asked him.

“About what?”

“My father telephoned me this morning. He told me what you’d said to him, in private, after Michael died. That Michael hadn’t died, that it was a mistake. I don’t understand. Can you explain it to me?”

“I wanted him to be alive for your sake. And for your father’s sake.”

“Did I hit him on the wrist, Alan? Was it his wrist that I hit?”

“No.”

“Why did you tell me afterwards, on that day afterwards, that it was his wrist and that he chose? Why do you lie to people in private, Alan?”

“We needed to make it better. First we gave them the wrist. Then we said he’d survived it.”

“I didn’t. You did.”

“I did.”

“Why did you lie? Lying causes suffering to God.”

“I wanted you to be happy, to have a happy life. I wanted Henry to have a happier life, knowing Michael was alive. So it was a kindness, you see. And I wanted to protect you.”

“You should have protected me at the beginning, then. Why did you lie to Rebecca?”

“I was afraid you were about to be arrested.”

“It’s a sin to lie.”

“No. You’re wrong about that. People lie all the time.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not a sin.”

“They lie all day, sometimes in unusual ways. Just by doing things they lie, sometimes. Life depends on lies. It runs on them. Your father lies.”

“He doesn’t. He doesn’t.”

“He does: he’s adjusting what he says, what he says he believes, all the time, depending on who he’s talking to.”

“Why did you think I’d be arrested?”

“The police have been here, talking to your mother.”

“A policeman.”

“Yes. Somebody told them Michael was dead in the loch. I don’t know what your mother told them but she wouldn’t lie to a policeman, would she?”

“She’s lied for me all along.”

“They all have. They’ve all pretended Michael left Peattie.”

“I’m not talking about Michael. You wouldn’t understand. Mummy did, though. The policeman would understand if she explained it to him properly.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“They’ll see how it happened. They’ll tell me it’s alright.”

“Talk to your mother about it first,” Alan told her.

“I’m going to see my father; I’m going to talk it over with my father. He’s coming here now, to talk to me.” She looked towards the path. There was no sign of Henry yet.

Alan began walking across the beach. “Goodbye then,” he said, turning his head and raising his hand. “I don’t think we’re going to meet again.”

“Alan!”

He stopped and turned properly to face her. “Yes?” He began walking back.

“Joan was here. She told me that Euan has gone to live at the flat, that he won’t be doing the garden with me today. Usually we meet at two o’clock on Sundays.”

“I know. I know you do.”

“Was it because of you? Did you tell Joan? I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Euan told her himself.”

“I think you were wrong when you said that I should keep Euan and Ottilie’s baby a secret. I should have told Mummy.”

“At the time it was the right thing. It was the kind thing. It wasn’t your secret; it was theirs.”

“But does Joan know, now?”

“Yes. Joan knows. It’s not a secret any more. I think it would be best if you told everyone about their baby now. That would be best.”

***

Henry’s depression arrived the day after this. It was there when he woke, like a delivery, like new weather, having settled over him in the night. While he slept it had taken shape in him and taken root, and he woke to find its reflection in the mirror already embedded there, waiting. There wasn’t any point in carrying on: he said this to himself without self-pity. It was merely a fact. He got up and went to the bathroom and then, too exhausted to wash, he returned to bed. Edith found him there later in the morning. He wouldn’t leave the bedroom, or dress, and wouldn’t at first give reasons. This was a source of some exasperation to Edith. She wasn’t able to do as Joan urged and leave him alone. The days turned into a week and Edith began to feel desperate. She went and tapped on the bedroom door several times a day, asking if she could do anything for him, if she could fetch a doctor, if he wouldn’t perhaps feel better if he got some air and exercise. He ignored her questions. She’d sit on his bed, looking at him lying on his side, one side or the other, the quilt grasped tight in his hand and lifted to rest at his mouth, his eyes open and his expression unreadable. She’d open curtains that became closed again during her absences. She’d fuss over undrunk pots of tea and eggs left to go cold.

Finally Edith rang Pip at the office.

“I wish you’d told me before,” he said to her. “I’m sorry I haven’t telephoned. It’s been mad here and the hours run away with me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Edith told him. “I’m confused by what’s happening. I thought that it would lift on its own, but things aren’t improving. I thought he’d be happy that Michael’s alive. That he might be alive.”

Pip decided against taking on this statement. Surely even Edith would have to let go of this absurdity now.

“Have you heard any more from Alan?” he asked her instead.

“No. George says he rings every evening. He’s setting up a gardening business. For British people, George says, and not for the French; he despises the French. British people with holiday houses out there.”

“How are you bearing up?”

“I’m worried about everybody. About Henry. About whether your parents are alright.”

“My parents are fine. Don’t go wasting a minute fretting about them. They’re fine at the flat, getting along fine.”

“Joan said she’s moving out of the gatehouse.”

“Best thing that could have happened to them. They’re united in outrage.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Ottilie’s the common enemy now. Mum takes Dad’s side; thinks him noble for keeping quiet.”

“It’s Ottilie I worry about most.”

“You haven’t told her? Nobody’s told her?”

“No. Henry’s adamant. I don’t know what to do.”

“I had better talk to him.”

***

When Henry answered the phone it was clear from his voice that he’d been woken by its ringing.

“I’m sorry, you were sleeping; I’ll call again later,” Pip said.

“It’s fine,” Henry told him. “It’s fine. I’d rather not have to worry about being here later.”

“You’re going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Are you feeling alright? You’re speaking a bit oddly.”

“Am I? Odd how?”

“Slowly. Very slowly. The words spaced out.”

“I’m not aware of slowness.”

“I told Gran that I’d call. She’s worried about you.”

“I wish she’d stop. Her worrying about me is tiring. I’m so tired.”

“She can’t help it. Maybe if you made an appearance . . .”

“I can’t do anything about it, and that’s that.”

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing I can really talk about.”

“Tell me what it is. What’s it about, specifically?”

“Something Ursula told me.”

“Something Ursula told you. About Michael?”

“Not about Michael.”

“What then? Please tell me. What did she tell you?”

“Your grandmother has lied to me for a very long time.”

“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“It wasn’t something she said. It was something she didn’t.”

“Something she didn’t.”

“This Rebecca business,” Henry said, changing the subject. “About Michael, Alan saying Michael is alive. I need to make sure you know it isn’t true. Michael’s dead. He’s dead, Pip. And Ursula killed him. That’s the truth. The whole thing opened up suddenly.”

“I think you need to see a doctor. You don’t sound yourself.”

“No doctors.”

Pip heard Henry putting the receiver onto the table and blowing his nose.

“I’ll come up,” he said, when Henry returned. “I can take tomorrow off and make it a long weekend.”

“Please don’t. I’d rather you didn’t. I’d really rather you didn’t. I just want to be left alone. For now. I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Pip.”

“What can’t you do?”

No answer.

“Gran,” Pip said. “Gran, she believes it, that Michael’s alive.”

“No. No she doesn’t. Edith’s only saying that she does for my sake. I wish she wouldn’t. I’m so sick of deceit.” Henry could be heard breathing. Pip waited. “I’ll try and explain it to you,” Henry said. “It isn’t easy. And then please. Please don’t talk to anyone else about it. Please.”

“I won’t until you give me leave to.”

“Before Alan talked to Rebecca, Michael being alive was something unlikely but true. It was true in all of our hopes. We could keep it as our own unlikely truth, and say nothing, and it got us through the years and years. Secret belief. A secret belief that Alan lied and that Ursula was mistaken, mixing up the day with another day.”

“I see. I sort of see.”

“And even though the edifice, the whole edifice of it depended on my being civil to the man who had lied, I was prepared to do that. Alan became somebody I could talk to about Michael as if he were alive.”

“You talked to Alan about Michael?”

“Frequently. We’d imagine what he’d done, what life he was living.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It was essential to me, Pip. Essential. Like a drug. It kept me going.”

“With Alan, though. I can’t imagine it.”

“We invented this whole other life for him. A woodcutter. It sounds faintly ludicrous, like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? A woodcutter. I doubt that woodcutters even exist any longer. Probably not. It’s an archaic description, but maybe that was part of the point. It’s just men in overalls and protective goggles now, working heavy machinery. But anyway, that was the story. A woodcutter, and a greeneyed auburn-haired wife.”

“A green-eyed auburn-haired wife?”

“That was Alan. His idea. I gave Michael the children. Two lively daughters. In a cottage in the woods. We’d go into such detail. So much detail. We’d pretend we’d had letters from him. That’s how we’d recommence.
I had a letter from Michael
. We gave him his writing, the way he wanted. He was writing for the newspapers. It started as an article about being a woodcutter and not being able to write. Alan didn’t care. He just waved it through. He was kind to me, Pip. That’s the thing I don’t get. Why be kind to me? And then Michael went on to write a book about living in the woods. I wrote some of it for him, at night when I couldn’t sleep. I imagined parts in which he talked about his life at Peattie, missing Peattie; it helped. It was about to be published, in the game I mean, when Alastair and Rebecca arrived. But it’s all come to an end now. It’s come to a halt in any case. Alan’s gone. It’s all over.”

There was a pause and then Pip said, “Jesus.”

“And then I talked to Ursula.”

“I wish you’d tell me what Ursula said.”

“I can’t. I’ll write it down. I’ll write it all down.”

“Do it then, do that. Please.”

“Michael being alive: it didn’t ever bear much examination, is the truth of it. Not talking among ourselves about it was what kept it true. Like a deep-down faith in God.”

“Which you have also.”

“Only if I don’t allow myself to go into the detail. The way He behaved in the Bible. So morally inferior to humanity.”

“This is all very odd.”

“We tolerated Alan because he was Michael’s father. We knew that for sure. And now he isn’t. He isn’t, suddenly, and we’ve had 30 years of being sure that he was. Over 30 years. It’s shocking. It’s been a real shock.”

“Yes.”

“His revenge on us doesn’t make sense now. It doesn’t follow. When he was Michael’s father I could make allowances, do you see? I was guilty. About the way we’d treated Alan. I made allowances. But now that Michael’s your half-brother . . .”

“It’s not an idea I’m ever going to get used to.”

“I heard about your meeting with your dad in Edinburgh.”

“He came down, made speeches. It wasn’t a good day. But I don’t want to talk about that now. Carry on. You were saying.”

“What was I saying?”

“You made allowances.”

“I made allowances for Alan when he was Michael’s father. But now he isn’t . . . The only explanation is that he’s a bad person. An evil man.” Pip could hear that Henry was becoming upset. Henry paused, blowing his nose again, and when his voice returned it was more composed. “It’s going to be easy for people to blame Ottilie.”

“It is easy. It’s what’s happening. Everyone’s furious with her for letting us think it was Alan. Letting us argue between Alan and the boys.”

“Ottilie’s the one, all along, the only one who never held the secret hope. She said from the beginning that she could sense him, Michael, his spirit, when she went into the wood. She says that sometimes she can almost see him.”

“I thought Ottilie didn’t believe in life after death.”

“Ah but she saw him you know. David. The day the children saw him. She was shaken up by it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Pip, I need to go back to sleep. I’ll talk to you again soon.”

***

Pip rang Henry again in the early evening.

“It’s me again. Sorry to pester you. Did you sleep? Are you feeling better rested?”

“I slept. What do you want to know?”

“This thing about Ursula,” Pip said. “What Ursula told you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“We need a plan. We need to get you up and about.”

“I can’t do it any more. Carry on. Out there. Outside the room.”

“It’ll get better. I think you should get some help. Get Dr Nixon in. She’s lovely. Warm. Lovely voice.”

“I can’t talk to her. I can’t see her any more.”

“Dr Nixon?”

“Ursula.” His voice wavered, speaking the name. “And I mean it. I’m afraid that I mean it. I can’t speak to her again. I can’t see her. Not even far off, over in the garden. It’s not safe to leave the room.”