honest with you, Mum was never much of a masterpiece oil painting – not even one by a Post-Impressionist – but she could arrange her face more carefully than the Mona Lisa.
‘I didn’t bring my daughter up to be a liar,’ she said quickly, turning back.
There wasn’t even a flicker in the eyes to give the game away and I knew then that she was the most brilliant liar. The very best liars, after all, are the ones you never know about.
At least now I do know. Poor old Mr McCracken. He didn’t stand a chance against us. He was the only person left and look what I did to him? Why did I want everyone to suffer for my mistakes? It wasn’t fair, but nothing was fair and I couldn’t change that. I wanted to believe the lies I was spinning, and I needed to feel like an innocent victim – even if I wasn’t. I can’t explain why. I just did.
I suppose it was one of those lessons I had to learn myself.
[PRESS CUTTINGS FILE]
Guernsey Evening Press
Tuesday, 21st December 1965
PUBLIC NOTICES
DEATHS
Rozier, Charles André, died after a long illness at his home in Icart, robbed of his youth but not his dignity.
– A bientôt, mon vier.
‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgement ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’
Matthew 7: 1–2
22ND DECEMBER 1985, 2 a.m.
[In bed, still, of course]
I’m quite a fan of the Bible, which is very gripping, especially the Old Testament. Whenever I can’t sleep I read about plagues of locusts or people being turned to salt. The New Testament is more predictable but plenty of bad stuff still goes on. It’s amazing what people did to each other, and all in the name of Love.
I know a lot about this thanks to Grandma, who was a bit of a religious megalomaniac. She was forever spouting great chunks of the Bible. That’s when she wasn’t telling me about her Genius Son Emile, who won every prize in school, or the sea monster in the Little Roussel or the witches of Les Landes. She used to tuck me up in bed so tight I could hardly breathe, and make me promise not to run off anywhere in case I got lost and didn’t come back. She asked that most nights because she was going senile. Dad told her to stop scaring me and when I was ten she had a stroke so he pretty much got what he wanted. We put her in the Câtel hospice and I remember she’d always be sitting up in bed, smelling of lavender talc, staring at the photographs on the dresser. There was one of my Grandpa in profile, and another of that blonde boy with crooked teeth holding up his baby brother. I was amazed to think that Dad had ever been so small.
Grandma died just before I turned twelve. Mum said Dad was very upset about it and I do remember him spending hours and hours alone on the boat. Then he decided to write Grandma’s life story and went back into his study. I listened to the tap-tap-tap of his typewriter and wondered what I’d have to do to make him write my story. Of course, back then my story wasn’t so riveting, whereas now he’d have plenty to get his teeth into, and he’d do a much better job than I am doing. He’d be good at skimming over the ugly stuff and he’d make me a much more sympathetic character. He’d make sure you knew that I was lonely and eager for approval, and he’d explain that I only made stupid jokes out of serious things because I was scared. He’d also call me naive and easily-led, and I honestly wouldn’t mind.
I made such a mess of things and, please note, I am truly sorry.
After my shameful accusations as per Mr McCracken I had plenty of time to think about what I’d done. I had to stay off school while they sorted things out. I felt terrible but there was no way back, and I went a bit demented, pacing about the house and weeping into the fridge. By now Mum’s patience was rice-cracker thin and she told me to pull myself together. She started to say that a lot, actually. She also decided we should re-paint Dad’s study. She didn’t announce this publicly, but I was woken up one morning