My Lies, Your Lies

Andee regarded him curiously.

He shrugged. ‘I’m only saying, if there’s going to be a retelling of a big event, could that be it?’ Realizing he was losing his audience he said, ‘OK, maybe there was a major extra-terrestrial incident that’s been passed off as some kind of special forces activity?’

Andee said, ‘And F.M. Donahoe knows about it because …?’

‘Well how do I know? I’ve never met the woman and I know absolutely nothing about her life or her tragedies. I thought we were searching for ideas.’

Laughing, Joely said, ‘I think it’s safe to assume that her own experiences and what she knows, or at least believes, to be true will be paramount to the memoir. And as we know, tragedies have a way of reshaping our lives, so writing a memoir can often be about revisiting past traumas to try and exorcise them.’

Andee looked faintly alarmed.

‘Bad choice of word,’ Joely smiled, ‘but you know what I mean. Although I have to say, Graeme, I like your theory of UFOs if only because it’s not something I’d thought of myself. Is there a lot of that sort of activity around the moor?’

‘Depends who you talk to,’ he replied drolly.

Joely’s smile faded as her phone buzzed with a text. She knew it wouldn’t be from Callum – and if it was she needed to tell him to stop contacting her.

It turned out to be … she froze in furious astonishment. It was Martha the meat-eater wanting to know if she could share any details of her mystery assignment yet.

As if she’d share them with bloody Martha.

‘Is everything all right?’ Andee asked curiously.

Joely put away her phone. ‘The minor-role actress, aka my ex-best friend, seems to think she still has the part,’ she replied smoothly. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Graeme, ‘nothing worse than a bitter female. Now, enough about me and my next job, let’s talk about you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Have I already told you that I call my parents the weekend hippies? It always makes them laugh; I think it’s a label they’re quite proud of. They’re very easy-going and probably over-indulgent where I’m concerned, but they work hard during the week at jobs that call for a lot of discipline, so they make it a rule for us all to let our hair down at weekends. I’m not allowed to be at most of their parties, it’s all too grown-up for me, they say, but I’m usually in the house so I know what’s going on. They smoke a lot of weed and trip out on acid, and everyone seems happy and in love so they take off their clothes and have orgies.

They are surprised and thrilled when I tell them I want to learn the piano. I haven’t shown any interest in it before, but that doesn’t matter; all that does is the satisfaction of knowing I’m happy at school and focused on doing well even in subjects I’ve shown little aptitude for in the past. They are keen for me to explore every avenue that’s open to me, and aren’t at all judgemental or disappointed when things don’t turn out so well. We know already that I’m never going to be an athlete, or a scientist, I probably won’t make much of a pianist either, but they consider it a wonderful skill to have even if I’m not going to be the next Clara Schumann. Everyone agrees with that – it was discussed amongst their guests during the weekend I broached the subject – and before I returned to school on the Sunday evening many piano recitals were played on the new stereomaster that Daddy bought for Mummy’s birthday. It looks like a small sideboard and has taken the place of Grandma’s old writing desk in the niche to one side of the marble fireplace.

The question of who is to teach me was never in doubt. My parents have met Sir on visits to the school and were as charmed by him as they are by anyone who has kind things to say about their daughter. (I don’t think Sir ever utters a bad word about anyone, it’s not in his nature, but his praise for me is fulsome enough for my parents to feel certain he’ll do a magnificent job of bringing out any hidden talent I might have.)

‘Have you got a crush on him?’ Mummy asked when she came into my room to help me pack for the return to school. She’s lovely and willowy, eyes deep, dark pools of dreaminess, wide lips always slanting towards a smile. ‘I know I would have if I were you,’ she confides with a laugh that seems to float on her perfumed breath.

I tell her I might have if he weren’t so old and she laughs again. ‘He can’t even be thirty yet,’ she gently scolds. I don’t tell her he’s twenty-five because I see no reason to. She comes to clasp my face between her delicate hands and gazes into my eyes. Her own aren’t fully focused, which tells me she’s stoned, but I’m used to her being that way and usually love her even more when she is. ‘Do you think we should invite him to one of our weekend parties?’ she whispers mischievously. ‘Would you like that?’

Knowing I’d rather keep him to myself than share him with my parents’ promiscuous friends, I say, ‘The taxi should be here any minute.’

She laughs and hugs me close. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, my darling, probably more beautiful than you know, but you will, soon and when you do you’ll begin to understand how powerful you are. Don’t squander that power, use it wisely and you’ll make all your dreams come true.’

During the journey back to school I sit staring at the passing countryside, thinking over her words, and trying to understand what they really mean. Was there something tucked away in between them that I’m not clever enough to catch? We’ve had plenty of chats about intimate things, in fact, thanks to their parties, I know quite a lot about sex without ever having experienced it. I’ve even been invited to join in on occasion, but Daddy is having none of that.

‘This is for the grown-ups,’ he tells me, sending me back to bed, ‘and you’re not there yet, my angel.’

‘Your first time,’ Mummy sometimes says when we’re lying together on her bed chilling out to Cream or Hendrix or The Doors, ‘has to be special and with someone who matters to you and cares about the way he takes your most precious gift.’

‘Did Daddy take yours?’ I ask.

She smiles and stretches like a cat. ‘Yes, my darling, he did and we both treasure that truth, that memory almost as much as we treasure you.’

There’s so much to think about on my return journey, much of which I don’t really understand even though I think I do.

Now here I am in the music room with Sir having my first private lesson. School has finished for the day so everyone else is either in the dorms or at their own after-hours activity leaving this wing of the main block quite quiet. Sir is sitting beside me at the piano showing me how to find middle C and explaining its importance. His voice is soft and low, and I wonder if he knows the real reason I’ve asked for these lessons.

I listen closely to what he’s telling me, catching the words in a web of understanding that is uncomplicated and complex at the same time. I ask questions such as ‘Is middle C always played with the right thumb,’ and ‘Why does the scale begin with C and not A?’

He smiles at that and says, ‘I’ve never tried to find out the reasoning behind the keyboard being set up the way it is, but I can tell you it was invented by an Italian, Bartolomeo Cristofori in the sixteen hundreds.’

‘Bartolomeo Cristofori,’ I echo in a whispery attempt at an accent, and as my eyes go to his a smile remains on his lips even though he blushes and looks away.

I’m not sure why he blushes, but I think I do too.

He puts a sheet of music on the stand in front of me and points out middle C so that I can see how it appears between the five lines. I look at his hand, his long fingers and short, clean nails. I follow it as he reaches across me to begin playing a scale, his hand cupping as though, he explains, he is holding a ball. I can feel his chest close to my arm, his breath on my hair. My heart is beating hard, and I wonder if he can hear it over the notes he’s playing. On E he tucks his thumb under his fingers to reach F, and on the way he back he crosses his middle finger over his thumb at the same place to end smoothly back on C. It’s simple and almost tuneless, and yet this is the foundation, the start of everything he is going to teach me.

He encourages me to play the scale myself, and a hint of humour comes into his voice as he tells me to relax my thumb. I press the keys awkwardly at first, but then experience a childlike pleasure as I travel steadily through the eight notes and back again.

I hope he’s pleased by my dexterity. As I look at him to check the door opens and Mrs Green, the new English teacher comes in. She asks if she can have a word with him out in the corridor, so he tells me to practise the scale again until he comes back.

I’m not worried that there might be something going on between them because Mrs Green is at least as old as my grandma and has a hairy wart on her chin. And she’s married, although that probably wouldn’t count for anything if she were young and attractive.

I think about asking Sir if he’s married, but I know I won’t. Mandy Gibbons is sure he has a girlfriend, but I think she’s making it up, because how would she know?

I play the C major scale again, slowly at first, bringing flexibility into my fingers and thumb, then I go faster and faster making my fingers fly over the keys like a practised musician. When I stop abruptly the notes take a moment to fade into silence, which isn’t silence at all, because many sounds are drifting in through the open windows. A netball game in the distance, a car driving away, girls laughing, footsteps, a radio playing ‘Hurdy Gurdy Man’. I can smell the grass, fresh and sweet, and feel the penetrating gaze of classical composers watching me from the walls of the room. Mozart appearing pleased with himself; Beethoven looking slightly mad; Vivaldi a bit female; Debussy handsome and not unlike Sir.

I wonder what’s taking so long, but then the door opens and he comes back apologizing and making a joke that I don’t really understand, but I laugh because he does.

He returns to the chair that’s next to my stool and I play the scale again, quickly and fluidly as though I’ve known it all along.

‘You’re a natural,’ he tells me and we laugh again.

I want to touch him, and at the same time I’m terrified that he might touch me. If he does I shall start to shake and the sensations throbbing like bass notes at the join of my thighs will explode.

‘Will you play?’ I ask him.

He looks surprised.

‘I don’t mean scales, I mean something by one of them.’ I wave towards the long-dead men in the posters.

‘But how are you going to learn if I do the playing?’ he asks lightly.

I can’t tell him that I want to watch his hands moving over the keys, his body swaying and his eyes closing as the music transports him to a place of pleasure. I don’t even know how to put it into words, but it’s what I want.

When I look at him he seems confused, but there’s more. I catch the slight tremble of his lower lip as he traps it between his teeth. A kind of energy flows between us like music, gentle chords and scales that only we can feel or hear. I think he’s reading my mind, I can sense the thoughts going to him reaching him like a song.

He knows why I’ve asked for this private tuition. We both do.

His eyes drop to my mouth and I think he’s going to kiss me.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asks quietly.

I know he could mean the lessons, but he doesn’t.

My voice catches like a quaver on a whisper as I say, ‘Yes.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Exmoor was proving every bit as bleak and dramatic as Joely had expected, flowing and stretching its uncompromising landscape to each horizon with the sea crashing onto the cliffs to one side and stark acres of bracken and gorse giving way to cultivated fields and feeding livestock the other. The road they were travelling was a long, winding ribbon of grey threading through mile after mile of steep inclines, twisting bends, dense forests and seeming for a while to have no end.

Andee slowed as they passed a handful of red deer grazing a nearby bank, every one of them appearing oblivious to the moving vehicle only feet away. Joely relished being this close to wildlife, taking in the stags’ antlers curling imperiously from slender handsome heads, and the females’ sleek bodies, smooth and lush and lithe.

Minutes later they stopped for an Exmoor pony to amble across the road to join the rest of the herd, and around the next bend there were sheep with horns curling out of their heads like fancy hairdos.

They passed signs to places with quaintly intriguing names such as Dunkery Beacon, and Lorna Doone Farm Shop. They glimpsed old villages, drove through fast-gushing fords and all the time Joely drank in the austerity of the wintry landscape as chill as the empty sky, as forlorn as the abandoned picnic tables and lookout spots.

‘It’s eerie,’ she decided, ‘but beautiful and compelling and kind of otherworldly.’ She considered this a moment and added, ‘I don’t have to ask if it’s haunted, I can already feel it.’

Andee smiled.

Joely turned to her. ‘What am I going to do if Freda Donahoe’s place is full of friends from the other side? Who might not actually be friends?’

Andee had to laugh.

‘You might think it’s funny,’ Joely retorted, ‘but me and ghosts, we’re in the same place as me and Martha the man-stealer. I don’t want them anywhere near me, and any attempt to speak to me … Well, it won’t end well, I can tell you that.’

Andee laughed again. ‘Given your occupation, I’d have thought you’d have an affinity with them.’

Joely threw her a look. ‘Ha, ha,’ she responded, smiling in spite of herself.

‘Well, if Dimmett House does turn out to be haunted,’ Andee said, steering around a sweeping bend that ended with a breathtaking view of the Bristol channel, ‘and I’m sure it won’t, you can always say you want to stay in a hotel. There are several places in both Lynton and Lynmouth.’

‘Which might be haunted too,’ Joely mumbled, absorbing the magnificent vista ahead where bold cascades of sunlight were streaming through dark, dense cloud into the sea. ‘It must be wonderful here in summer,’ she stated, although this was pretty spectacular too.

‘It is,’ Andee assured her, ‘and if you’re still around by then, who knows, it might be because you’ve met your very own John Ridd.’

Joely wrinkled her nose. ‘Who? Oh, you mean from Lorna Doone. I’m not sure I can remember the story, and I missed the TV series. Does it have a happy end?’

‘Eventually.’

Joely’s heart tightened as the flippant talk of romance pulled her back to the very place she was trying to escape. Cal had texted this morning to have another go at being friendly in much the way Martha had last night, Don’t forget to let us know about your assignment, and wherever you are, take care of yourself. She had no idea whether the ‘us’ referred to him and Martha, or him and Holly, perhaps it was all three. What she did know was that it had cut deeply into the sadness she was feeling, and ludicrously, she’d felt she really didn’t want to take care of herself at all.

Childish and attention-seeking, she’d scolded herself, and knowing she could do better she’d composed a message back to them both saying, Leave Me Alone.

And she’d sent it!

It had felt good at the time, but it didn’t feel all that great now.

What felt better was the message she’d received from Holly shortly after midnight saying, Good luck tomorrow.

She’d stared at the words for a long time, pretending to herself that Callum hadn’t talked their daughter into sending them.

She wondered if it might be easier if he was being mean to her, or carrying on as if she’d stopped existing.

‘Distraction,’ she announced, as they began the descent from the moor. ‘That’s another very good reason for taking this job. I can throw myself into work for the next few weeks and by the time I look up again who knows where we might be?’

A few minutes later as both Lynton and Lynmouth came into view, seeming almost too much too soon, Joely said, ‘OK, you need to slow down, because this is seriously lovely.’

With a smile Andee did as she was told, giving them as long as she could for their northerly approach from the moor to take in the small sprawl of a town at the top of the cliff, and the seaside village at the bottom. For the moment Joely was fixed on Lynmouth where the tide was lapping over two rocky beaches that fanned out like skate wings from the river at their centre making its way through to the sea. There was a small scoop of a harbour, with grey stone sea walls surrounding it, a Rhenish tower and a handful of single mast boats moored in the mud. A long, thatched terrace of white cottages, a pub, a café and shops slanted up an incline alongside the harbour, and the rest of the shore village curved around the seafront like a protective arm.

After crossing the West Lyn river, Andee steered the car to the left to begin a steep and winding drive up over the cliff, home to hotels, B&Bs and guest houses, to the high perched town of Lynton. Joely felt herself smiling as they meandered along the main street taking in the olde worlde charm and narrow streets that tumbled away to one side as if pulled in by the moor, while on the other more hotels and guest houses towered over the village and sea below.

‘We’re going to need further directions soon,’ Andee said as they drove out the other side of town where green fields jostled for space in the rough and undulating moorland.

Calling up Sully’s email on her phone, Joely looked around again as the satnav instructed them to keep going straight and her eyes grew round as they entered what could only be the Valley of Rocks. ‘Wow,’ she murmured as they moved slowly through a lunar-like landscape where vast tors of jagged stone patched with grass and lichen soared skywards on one side, and dry, bristled slopes of flinty terrain rose majestically on the other.

‘The largest rock there,’ Andee said, pointing to the right, ‘is known as Castle Rock, and the one over there, to the left, is Devil’s Cheese Rock. Legend has it, if you walk around it a certain number of times, probably under a full moon, Satan will appear.’

Deciding she probably wouldn’t be giving that a whirl any time soon, Joely returned to Sully’s directions. ‘OK, we need to follow the road all the way through the Valley of Rocks to … Oh my God, are they goats? Yes, they’re goats. They’re so sweet.’

‘They live here,’ Andee told her, steering around a handful of the small, feral beasts that had broken off from the main gang.

After taking in more of the scenery, Joely continued with the directions. ‘OK, there’s a small track at the end of the valley that eventually leads to a spiritual retreat. We’re to take that, but about twenty metres in we’ll see another track to the left that we should follow all the way along the ridge to the next vale.’

Soon after passing the spiritual retreat in its haven of natural beauty they began a gentle descent from the next hilltop into an enclave of clifftop moor where black-faced sheep were grazing the sloping fields on one side and immense tors clustered like giants to block the sea on the other. Between the opposing swells of nature was a sprawling green meadow rich with tall grass and that appeared at the furthest point to dip down to a cove.

As they drove slowly on they finally realized that down to their right, tucked securely against the protective wall of rocks was a house where it seemed no house should be.

‘Wow,’ Joely murmured again, taking in the pale-coloured limestone exterior with three storeys of tall shuttered windows facing out over the meadow, and a bold, square tower at the far end with a grey slate conical roof. In spring the entire facade would be covered in wisteria, now there was only the climbing ramble of naked branches not at all ready to flower. On the ground level of the tower was a patio with large stone pillars holding up another grey slate roof, and all along the front of the property were clusters of rich green foliage belonging to rhododendrons and camellias.

‘OK, this is awesome,’ Joely stated as the road curved around allowing them a fuller front view of the house.

‘It certainly is,’ Andee responded, and pressing gently on the accelerator she made a 180 degree turn into the drive that ran parallel to the meadow’s edge. They came to a stop in a large space next to the house where an old red Jeep was parked in front of a row of garages.

As Joely looked at the black front door at the side of the house she felt a flutter of nervous anticipation come to life inside her. ‘How far are we from town?’ she asked, as Andee began turning the car around to face back down the drive.

‘Not much more than a mile,’ Andee replied, stopping when they, like all the windows at the front of the house, were gazing out towards the dramatic rise and fall of the cliffs that stretched out along the coast beyond the meadow. The sea was enchantingly visible thanks to a large V in the rugged landscape, while the tors protecting the house from fierce southwesterly winds hugged up closely behind it and into the far side of the tower.

‘So it’s walkable,’ Joely stated. ‘That’s good.’ She was looking now at the random arrangement of garden beds framed by small rocks and filled with succulents, heather, faded hydrangeas, daffs, snowdrops, hellebores and even palm trees.

‘You have to wonder what it’s like inside,’ Andee commented. ‘If it’s as well tended as the exterior.’

Joely turned to her. ‘I wish I could invite you in …’

‘It’s OK, I understand that she doesn’t want visitors.’

Joely glanced over to the front door again surprised that no one had come out to meet them. Or maybe her host was waiting for the uninvited guest to leave before welcoming the one she was expecting. ‘I’ll take photos if I can,’ she said, ‘and maybe when I’ve got to know her I’ll be able to invite you for tea.’

Andee smiled. ‘Do you want me to help you carry your things to the door?’

‘It’s OK, I can manage,’ Joely assured her, mindful of a meeting Andee had to get back for.

After taking her bags from the boot she hugged Andee warmly and walked back to the driver’s side with her. ‘Thanks for bringing me,’ she smiled, ‘and for all the moral support.’

‘It’s always yours,’ Andee assured her. ‘Stay in touch, won’t you?’

‘Are you kidding? Of course. If you’re free, let’s make a tentative arrangement to have lunch next Saturday. We can call or email to confirm when I’ve got a clearer picture of what my schedule’s going to be.’

‘It’s a deal!’ Hugging her again, Andee slid into the car and started back down the drive.

As Joely watched her turn at the end to start along the track towards the Valley of Rocks she gave her a wave and only then realized it might have been a good idea to establish that someone was actually at home before she’d let Andee go.

To her astonishment there wasn’t.

She could hardly believe it, but the white envelope in plastic wrapping that she found attached to the panel of the doorbell with her name handwritten on the front, told her it was true.

My dear Joely,

Please forgive me for not being here to greet you, but I’ve been called away unexpectedly and I was unable to get hold of you on the phone. I expect you were crossing the moor where there’s little if any mobile reception.

Don’t worry, I shall be back tomorrow –

Tomorrow!

– and I’ve left a key under the pot to your right so you can let yourself in. Please make yourself at home. You’ll find more helpful instructions in the kitchen, which is at the far end of the house on the ground floor of the tower. You simply follow the corridor from the entrance hall all the way through to the last door which is facing you. There is plenty to eat courtesy of my housekeeper Brenda Bambridge, who you’ll meet in due course.