A Good Liar Page 21

  ‘How did you find out about it?’ he asked. John expected him to pour the tea but he didn’t.

  ‘My adopted mother told me herself. She didn’t mean to. She was … very ill, and she thought that I was my father – her husband – and started to talk to me about how I was adopted, just after I was born.’

  ‘That must have been a shock.’

  ‘Yes, it was. All of a sudden you realize you aren’t who you think you are. Don’t know who I am really. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with the choir at St Luke’s?’

  ‘Well, my mother who brought me up, the one who was ill, she died.’

  Isaac murmured something in response as he stirred the teapot, but John didn’t respond and carried on.

  ‘After she died – her name was Enid Pharaoh, by the way – I searched the house looking for any information about where I’d come from, but the only thing I found was half a letter that mentioned the choir.’

  ‘And you think the choir was my choir, the one at St Luke’s?’

  ‘That’s what my aunt told me, my adopted mam’s sister. They live close by, in Ulverston.’

  ‘So how did you track me down? It’s a while since I left Barrow.’

  ‘I went to St Luke’s and met the vicar there now, Mr Blount.’

  Isaac Crane helped himself to a piece of toast. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever met him.’

  John went on, ‘No, he’s only been there a few years, since you left. But he took me to see some other people, Mr and Mrs Finn,’

  ‘Ah, yes, Honoria Finn, I remember her. She was a regular at church, and he came occasionally. They knew everything and everybody, enjoyed the gossip like some people do.’

  ‘Well it was Mr Finn who remembered most.’ John hesitated, remembering the excruciating conversation in the front room, and Mr Finn’s gleeful thirst for scandal. ‘Anyway, the letter mentioned the surname of a woman whose daughter was having a baby –’

  ‘Thompson,’ said Isaac suddenly, ‘Cora Thompson.’ He spoke the name quietly, and sat quite still, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth.

  ‘There was a sister, too,’ said John, aware that his heart was beating very fast.

  ‘Yes, Barbara. Barbara Skinner.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said John. ‘But – ’

  Isaac put down the toast and looked at John intently. ‘What year was this John? When were you born?’

  ‘Nineteen seventeen.’

  ‘The photo. Let me see it, please.’

  John noticed that the old man’s hand was shaking as he held the photo close to his face. Isaac patted his pockets, then stood up abruptly and headed towards the counter, still holding the photo. A moment later he returned with a magnifying glass and used it to look once more. As he raised his face, he looked pale and anxious.

  ‘John, let me be sure about this. You think that Cora Thompson and her sister Barbara Skinner had something to do with arranging for you to be adopted.’

  ‘That’s what it sounds like, from what I know so far.’

  ‘And this was in 1917?’

  ‘Yes, early in the year.’

  Isaac Crane sat back in his chair. He rested his hands on the small table in front of him, then found a handkerchief in his pocket and patted his forehead. He seemed unwell.

  ‘John, will you excuse me?’

  John had no time to respond before Isaac stood up yet again, steadied himself for a moment, and then walked away, this time towards the stairs and the sign depicting a pointing hand. Left alone at the small round table, he took a bite out of a glutinous piece of toast and poured himself a cup of tea that was over-brewed and dark brown in the delicate cup. He drank the tea and waited. Maybe this was all a waste of time.

  John was filling the teapot with fresh hot water when Isaac returned to the table a few minutes later.

  ‘I think there may be something you need to know, young man,’ he said gravely. The tone of his voice made John look up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something that happened before you were born.’

  John’s heart raced.

  ‘They came to see me,’ said Isaac.

  ‘Who did? Who came to see you?’

  ‘Mrs Skinner and her sister, Mrs Thompson. They came to my house one evening, after New Year, in 1917, after the busy choir season was over. I was surprised to see them at my door. I knew Barbara, of course, from the choir, and I’d met Mrs Thompson but …’

  ‘What did they want?’ John interrupted.

  ‘They wanted my advice. I asked why they didn’t talk to the vicar, but they said they wanted to talk to me, in confidence. They thought I wouldn’t, well, judge.’

  John couldn’t wait to hear more. ‘It was one of the daughters, wasn’t it, in trouble, having a baby? Tell me!’

  People in the crowded café heard the urgency in John’s voice and looked across at them.

  ‘Not in here,’ said Isaac. ‘Let’s talk outside, more private.’

  Isaac whispered something to the woman at the counter, who nodded. John stumbled across to the door and yanked it open. He waited for Isaac in front of the café, unaware of the faces inside turned towards him, like the audience at a play. When Isaac joined him, John seized him by the shoulders. The audience inside the café caught their breath.

  ‘Tell me,’ said John.

  Isaac held John’s wrists and gently pushed him back, wishing he were tall enough to put his arm round the boy’s shoulders. Out of the view of their audience, he found a bench and eased John, unresisting, onto it.

  ‘You know,’ said John. ‘For the love of God, tell me, please.’

  ‘Cora Thompson had two daughters, Jessie and Beatrice.’

  ‘Which one was it?’ asked John

  ‘It was Jessie,’ said Isaac, ‘the eldest. That was what they found so difficult. Jessie. The brightest, the one with the future. “Thrown away,” they said. “All that future thrown away.” Mrs Thompson, your grandmother, she cried I remember. She was angry and upset. Barbara was the calm one.’

  ‘Jessie Thompson,’ said John. ‘My mother.’

  ‘Yes, John, she was. They persuaded her to go to Carnforth and have the baby there, out of sight. Mrs Thompson, for all she said, was as much ashamed as upset, I have to say.’

  ‘Why you? Why did they want to talk to you?’

  ‘They wanted to know about the Pharaohs, Enid and Arthur. They knew that I’d known them for many years. Arthur and I went to the Grammar together, way back. And Enid and her family lived in the next street. I knew they’d wanted children ever since they married, Arthur told me so himself. I knew that they were good people, and I said so. Barbara, your aunt, wanted to know if they’d be willing to adopt the baby that Jessie would have.’

  John stared at him. ‘And did you? What did you say?’

  ‘I told them that they should make the approach themselves. Adopting a child is a huge step. I told them that. I asked why they couldn’t keep the child, bring it up within the family.’

  ‘And why couldn’t they?’

  ‘Cora said she couldn’t possibly manage to bring up a child, with her husband gone, and the whole street watching. That’s what she said. And they were sure that it would be impossible for Jessie, too. She couldn’t keep the child and be allowed to teach. I don’t know how true that was, but that’s what they told her, I’m sure. She would have had to choose. A terrible choice for a young woman, even one as strong as Jessie.’

  ‘You knew her too?’

  ‘From the Sunday school, when she was a child, and then watching her take charge of some of the younger children. She was a natural teacher, even then. Such a lovely young woman.’

  ‘And what about the father?’

  ‘The father of the child? Your father? I don’t know, John. If I did, if they’d said, I would tell you, but they never told me and I didn’t ask. Maybe they didn’t know themselves. I don’t know, truly. I do know that your mother, Jessie, would
n’t … wouldn’t have given something so precious to someone she didn’t – care for.’

  John put back his head and closed his eyes.

  ‘Oh, my poor boy,’ said Isaac. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve had to wait so long. I can’t imagine …’

  Suddenly John remembered the photo in his pocket. He fumbled for it with his gloved hand, pulled it out and tore off his glove in frustration to get hold of the battered paper without damage.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘One more thing, please. You looked at this before, but you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure.’

  ‘So look again now and tell me. Is she there? Is Jessie Thompson there?’

  Isaac Crane didn’t need to look. He’d seen her straight away.

  ‘She’s there. The girl at the end of the row, hair blowing over her face. That’s her, Jessie. Such a lovely girl. I wonder what happened to her?’

  John looked at the photo in his hand and touched the image of his mother.

  Chapter 27

  It was cold, very cold. The temperature had been dropping since the pale sun had sunk exhausted below the western horizon, at its most southerly point of departure. From the next day the point of sunset would begin to travel northwards again, slowly, inch by inch along the horizon. The group of women gathered outside the village hall stamped their feet and rubbed their gloved hands as they waited under the stars. A small cloud hung round them, rising slowly into the freezing air. The ladies from Newton Women’s Institute were going carol singing.

  The door of the schoolhouse opened, and the women turned towards the sound. Jessie called from the doorway.

  ‘Come and wait inside, we can watch from the window.’

  Gratefully, they crowded into the warm sitting room. Agnes had a few carol sheets and handed them around. They talked about which carols they could all manage, and which verses to leave out.

  ‘Are we expecting anyone else, do you think?’ she said, putting the rest of the sheets into her handbag. ‘Bit thin on the ground tonight. Too cold for some, and it’s a bit slippery underfoot.’

  ‘And they’re plucking tonight up at Tawbank,’ said Frieda Satterthwaite. ‘That’ll take a few out.’

  It was nearly eight when they reached the end of Tawbank Farm lane. They had sung well at various doors around the village and debated whether they should call it a night. The moon was rising above the line of the fells to the east, improbably golden.

  ‘Are we going down to the farm?’ asked Jessie. ‘They might be finished in the barn by now, worth a try. If they’re still working they’ll be glad of the interruption. Hard work, plucking.’

  ‘Let’s give it a go,’ suggested Agnes. ‘We’re warmed up now and it’s not far. After that we can go home.’

  They straggled down the lane that was pitted with small frozen puddles, and reached the farm door. No light there. No sign of life.

  ‘In the barn,’ said Maggie Adamson. ‘There’s the light. They’re still at it.’

  Indeed there was light, seeping round the door of the barn across the yard as it stood almost closed against the night and the cold.

  Agnes pulled open the barn door. A swirl of feathers rose gently on the air, catching the light from lanterns strung around the barn. Turkey feathers, some dark, some light, drifted around the barn like mottled snowflakes. One knot of women stood at the door, looking in: the other women sat on straw bales, legs apart, holding the half-plucked birds like small, white cellos. All the women stared at the feathers, mesmerized. Jessie held her breath.

  ‘Close the door, quick,’ cried a voice. The singers shuffled into the barn and pulled the door closed.

  ‘We thought you might come,’ said another voice from beyond the veil of feathers. ‘We need a break. Sing us something. We can join in.’

  And so the women sang together as the feathers sank slowly onto their coats and aprons and shawls. ‘In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,’ they sang, and in the neighbouring barn cattle lifted their heads to listen.

  ‘Ee, that was grand,’ said Nellie Kitchin. ‘Our Alice, she had a lovely voice …’

  ‘There now,’ said another, putting an arm round Nellie’s shoulders. They all remembered Alice.

  ‘We’re nearly done wi’ these birds.’ Janet Lowery’s voice filled the brief silence. ‘Just a couple left. Farm door’s open. Go in and put kettle on. We all need a drink. Get the place warmed up for us, we’ll be there in a tick.’ She pulled another dead bird off the pile at her feet. Jessie turned and opened the door again, more slowly this time, and the singers picked their way across the frozen yard.

  Alice. Jessie hadn’t thought about her for a while, but there she was in her mind’s eye, singing in the school Christmas play not many years ago. Such a sweet voice she had, and so self-aware, looking not at the back wall of the room as other children had done but boldly at her audience, smiling at them, confident, fearless. And now she was gone.

  They sat together, the women of the village, and drank tea in the cluttered kitchen, huddled round the range for warmth. Branches of holly brightened the walls, stuck behind curtain rails and round the frame of a faded photograph. The farmhouse was three hundred years old, Jessie remembered. All those years hovered in the air they breathed.

  Each of the turkey pluckers had a bird to carry home, and the singers offered to help as they trudged back down the lane towards the village.

  ‘Bring your bird back to the schoolhouse, Nellie,’ said Jessie. ‘We’ll leave it outside in the cold and you can send the children up tomorrow to carry it back. No point in you struggling with it on your own.’

  By the time they reached the schoolhouse they both had wet feet and cold hands.

  ‘Drop the bird in the porch and go in,’ said Jessie. ‘The door’s open. I’ll stir the fire up and we’ll get your shoes dried off a bit. Will the children be alright for a bit longer?’

  ‘Bill’s in, miss. Asleep by now, likely.’

  ‘Not “miss” please, Nellie. Makes me feel so old,’ said Jessie, smiling. ‘Call me Jessie, won’t you? Here, leave your shoes in the hearth and I’ll get the fire going. Not quite dead yet. I’ve got some sloe gin, this year’s brew and just ready. Have a wee drop before you go. You can test it for me. Sloes seemed a bit hard this year, in that hedge down by the river. Someone got there before me, got the best ones. Let’s see if it’s drinkable.’

  Jessie had pricked the sloes, added sugar and cheap gin and left them for three months, turning the jar occasionally. The liquid shone crimson in the tiny glasses and smelled of autumn. They sipped and smiled.

  ‘Good stuff, miss,’ said Nellie, licking her lips.

  And so they sat a while, warming their feet, sipping their drinks, enjoying the peace of the night.

  ‘It’ll be hard for you, Nellie, the first Christmas without Alice.’

  Nellie looked at her, but said nothing.

  ‘My sister Bea went to New Zealand, many years ago,’ Jessie continued. ‘Not seen her since. We weren’t close, but I miss her most at Christmas.’

  ‘Still can’t believe our Alice is gone,’ said Nellie. ‘We ’ad our moments, but she meant no ’arm to no one. Lively as a lark, she was. She’d ’ave been with us for a day or two at Christmas, bossing us all about. Grand with the kiddies, such a help to me.’ She paused. Jessie said nothing. ‘Stood up to ’er father too, that’s the trouble. Made ’im real mad at times. That was the hard part. Got worse after she went to th’ Hall. Got ideas above ’erself, mixing with that lot.’

  Jessie remembered something. ‘Mr Alex was fond of her, she said.’

  ‘Oh, she told you about that, did she? ’Ad some daft idea that he was sweet on ’er, wanted to – you know – marry ’er or summat. Daft. Old man’d never –’

  ‘Bill, you mean?’

  ‘Nay, t’other one. Sir John. All very polite and such, but that’s it. Let his precious son bring a village lass into t’family? Nay. Never.’

  Jessie ha
d to ask.

  ‘Nellie, did you know?’

  ‘About Mr Alex? Told me ’erself.’

  ‘No, not that. About … the baby?’

  Nellie got up suddenly, shouting down at Jessie as she did so. ‘A babby? Our Alice? Nay. When? Did you know? She never said owt, never told me.’ She put her hand to her mouth and sat down again.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nellie. I thought she must have told you. I urged her to. She came to see me, you see, just a week or two before. She just blurted it out. Not asking for help. Said she knew what to do. I tried, Nellie, believe me. I tried to get her to talk to you. I hoped she did. She said she couldn’t, that her dad would –’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Nellie, holding one hand to the top of her head. ‘A babby. Dead with its mam. Why did no one know, at the inquest, all that talk? And you knew and said nothing.’

  ‘I couldn’t, Nellie. I thought you and Bill would know. You could have said something, but no one did. Why make more upset and grief?’

  ‘What about the father? Someone must know that they … you know, that they’d had her, like. Not Mr Alex? Surely not. Turning up at funeral bold as brass, the bastard. Bill’d kill ’im. I’d do it meself.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Nellie. Don’t say anything to Bill for pity’s sake. We don’t know who it was.’

  ‘What did she say? Did she know who it was? She must’ve known, unless – oh, the little – more than one? How could she?’

  ‘I’m not even sure she was telling the truth, Nellie. She seemed to think she could get whoever it was to take her because of the baby and then … It’s what young women do sometimes, to get what they want. You know how it is. Maybe she made it all up.’

  ‘She could do that, God knows,’ said Nellie. ‘She could lie straight out, bold as brass. We’ll never know now. That inquest, just covered everything up. Police weren’t bothered. Just another poor lass from t’village, no one special, not like those bloody Skeffingtons.’

  ‘What about the young woman, her friend,’ said Jessie, ‘the one she was with that night, the Monck girl? What’s her name, Phyllis? Maybe she knew something. Girls talk to each other, don’t they, tell each other secrets?’