Half-truths & White Lies (2 page)

Every child has an adult in their lives that they call
'uncle' even though he is not a relative. A man who
hides his loose change down the back of the sofa for
you to find. A man who lets you ride on his back
around the living room and tickle him relentlessly. A
man who brings your father home late smelling of beer.
A man who pretends to steal your nose and hides it in
his clenched fist. Who makes you count his fingers
forwards and backwards to see if he still has the full set.
A man who seems to keep the pockets of his work suit
full of sweets. Mine was Uncle Pete, my father's best
friend, a crumpled, lovable mess of a man.

It was Uncle Pete I called the morning after that
terrible news. Before I had the courage to tell Nana, who
had been fast asleep throughout, I needed to experiment
saying the words out loud. Killed in a car crash.
Shoes caught in the pedals. Both killed. No seatbelt.
Staring at her head. Hit by a decapitated lorry. Dead red
sling-backs.

For a long time I stared at the phone, hoping it would
ring, willing it to be him. Car rolled down the bank.
'Dial,' I instructed my hand. 'Dial now.' Rolled several
times. Falling makes you feel free. I made a couple of
false starts, hanging up before he answered. M6. Still
alive when they found him. The time before last, I
ended the call as soon as he picked up the receiver,
unable to speak. Lost control. Rolled over and over.
Ended up in a foreign ditch. It's not the fall that'll kill
you, love. Red lorry, yellow lorry. Red lorry, yellow lorry.

I took a deep breath and rang again.
Answer! Why
don't you answer?

'Look, who is this?' he answered gruffly. 'This is the
fifth time. I haven't got time for your games. This had
better be good. '

'Uncle Pete, it's me. Andrea. I don't know how to tell
you this, but there's been an accident. It's Mum and
Dad. They're both . . .'

I was prepared for many things, but not for him to
hang up on me. I didn't recognize the noise that
escaped me as my own.

'Andrea!' Nana was calling loudly. 'Is that you? Run
down the road and get us a paper. There's a love.
Money's in the tin on the fridge. Have you seen my
glasses?'

Escape seemed as good a plan as any. Anywhere other
than the cheerful kitchen and its yellow walls and
framed prints of rare breeds of pigs, bought as a set from
Woolies.

On automatic pilot, I turned in the direction of the
paper shop, hands in pockets, head down. As long as no
one speaks to me. As long as I don't see anyone I know.
I walked fast. Faster than usual. I felt myself breaking
into a run. I hadn't run in years. Run for the sheer hell
of it. My legs carried me further than I imagined
possible before my breathing shortened to panting and
I struggled to catch my breath. I ran through the pain,
not looking or caring where I was going. I didn't see
what made me fall, but I fell quite spectacularly, or so I
hear, without putting out my hands to stop me. My chin
hit the pavement and I tasted blood. That's when I
stopped. Climbing frames, ski slopes and bungee jumps
had not defeated me. An ordinary pavement less than a
mile from home broke my jaw but saved me from the
horrors of breaking the news to Nana and of formally
identifying my parents' bodies. And my mother's head.

I couldn't be angry with Uncle Pete when he came to
visit me in hospital. Even if I'd been fuming, it would
have been difficult to tell him so with very limited jaw
movement, so he was completely safe.

Whenever my mother referred to Uncle Pete, she had
always commented that what he needed was the love of
a good woman. When I was very young, I loved him so
much that I imagined that woman might one day be
me. I had long since been of the opinion that what he
actually needed was to lose a couple of stone, learn to
iron and for a good friend to tell him to shave what
little was left of his black, wiry hair into a number one
(or to cut it for him when he was asleep on the sofa after
one of his legendary 'working lunches'). My mother
described him as an attractive young man who would
have been a very good catch. I doubted that anyone
who was unable to take care of himself would make a
great partner, regardless of how much money he
earned. Unless, of course, you were capable of
winning an Oscar, partially sighted, aspiring towards
sainthood or prepared for a life of domestic slavery.

That day, instead of his normal, confident amble, he
shuffled into the ward, timidly asking the starched
nurse for directions. His eyes seemed to have shrunk
beneath puffy lids and dark circles, and at first they
couldn't meet my own. His unshaven double chins were
exaggerated three-fold under a bowed head.

'I didn't realize you'd been in the accident as well!' He
looked shocked at my bandaged head. I found myself
looking back at him, aware that I was mirroring his
expression. He didn't need to explain what my parents'
deaths meant to him. His face said it all.

'Fell,' I tried to explain with difficulty through my
wired jaw. 'Tipped over.' I shook my head, unable to
form the words I wanted to say. Two at a time was as
much as I could manage. No 'r's. On an ordinary day, we
would have made a joke out of that.

'Andrea's not herself today. She's got no "r"s.'

'What on earth is she going to sit on?'

As it was, I would have to build up to a sentence, let
alone a conversation.

He looked confused by the sequence of events, but I
could only point to my jaw, motion downwards with a
hand to suggest a fall, and shrug.

'Don't try to talk. Look, I'm so sorry I let you down, '
he stumbled. 'I thought you were going to tell me you
had been arrested or that you are on drugs or pregnant
or something. I could have coped with any of those . . .'

There was silence between us for a while, then he
sighed, closed his eyes and shuddered. 'I'm going to
make it up to you. The red sling-backs. I don't suppose
your mother ever told you the story of her lucky shoes?'

I raised my eyebrows and shook my sorry head. The
sling-backs did not conjure up any happy memories for
me. They only represented one thing; they had been
instrumental in the crash that killed both of my parents.
Uncle Pete must have known this. He wanted to tell me
what they had meant to my mother.

'Then she didn't tell you the story of how she and
your father met.'

I racked my brains and then thought this very strange.

'No? I expect they were being kind.' He reached out
and covered one of my small, pale hands completely
with one of his own bear-sized paws. 'You probably
don't realize that I went to school with Laura,' he began.
'She was the prettiest girl in the school by far. No one
came near her. And she was nice to go with it. Never
underestimate the importance of being nice. Most of the
girls would just ignore the boys who weren't popular or
in the sports teams, but your mother would always say
"hello" in the lunch queue or shout after me to wait for
her if she was walking home alone. I was always secretly
in love with her, but she was so far out of my league that
it wasn't even worth worrying about. Your mother was a
goddess.

'We lost touch for a while when she left school at
sixteen. I took my A levels and went to university, while
your mother went out to work. On the odd occasion I
saw her, she looked so sophisticated. Those of us
who stayed on at school had the chance to grow up
much more slowly. I felt like a child compared with her.

'After I qualified, my first job was at Atkins and
Company on the local High Street, where your mother
was already working as a secretary. How do you like that
for a coincidence?'

Pennies were falling into place, although I had had
no idea that Uncle Pete had known my mother first; he
had always been my father's friend.

'It was so good to see a friendly face. And what a face!
We chatted about the people we had kept in contact
with from school, what they were doing, who they were
going out with. She always was easy to talk to. Good
company should make you feel relaxed, and she had the
knack. She was dating an older fellow – can't remember
his name for the life of me – but he was an electrician
or something like that. He was paid cash in hand at the
end of the week and I can tell you that it was better
money than a trainee solicitor earned in those days. He
could afford to look the part, had a car, could take her
out to dinner and buy her all the things she wanted. I
met him once or twice when he picked her up from
work. He was a bit too flashy for my liking, but you
couldn't ignore the attraction.

'When they split up, it was my shoulder she cried on.
He'd been cheating on her with some other girl, the
fool. It was after that that we got very close. If we were a
couple of girls you'd have called us best friends, I
suppose. She always told me how much she valued our
friendship, which wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear.
I have to admit that I hoped it would turn into
something more. And it might have done if she hadn't
met your father.

'One day, we were sitting in her favourite café. It had
a bar by the window that faced out on to the High
Street, where your mother liked to sit on a high stool
and watch the world go by. She was dressed in a fitted
red dress and her red sling-backs, which were new. It
wasn't an outfit that just anyone could have got away
with. They were her going-out clothes – not like today
when young people have the money for a whole
wardrobe full. You had your work clothes and, if you
were lucky, you had another outfit for best. The shoes
must have had a good three-inch stiletto heel on them,
which she had hooked over the metal bar on the stool.
She couldn't resist a glance at them every now and then.
And I was aware of other people looking at her as well.

'Suddenly, your mother grabbed my arm, and
pointed to a young man with shoulder-length hair,
wearing a leather jacket with a picture of an eagle on the
back. He was sauntering past, cool as anything. "Isn't
that Tommy Fellows from the Spearheads?" she said.
They were a local rock band who were just getting some
recognition, and he was their lead singer. I was so
desperate to impress her that I stupidly told her I knew
him. "I'd love to meet him," she said, and there was
nothing else for it.

'Without any idea of what I was going to say, I ran
after him, caught him up – panting away – and told him
that my girlfriend (yes, I actually called her my girlfriend)
was dying to meet him and could he please
pretend that he knew me. He looked at me like I was a
madman, then he glanced over his shoulder towards the
window of the café where your mother was sitting,
waving at us. And that was all it took. When he saw her,
his expression changed completely, "Your girlfriend,
you said?" He frowned. I don't think he could move for
a good minute.

'I nodded enthusiastically. "Laura Albury."

'As we reached the door of the café, he turned to me
and said, "You'd better tell me your name."

'"It's Pete. Peter Churcher."

'So he ushered me through the door, patting me on
the back and saying, "It's good to see you, mate. It must
be . . . what?"

'"Two years."

'"Two years! And don't tell me," – he held out a hand
to your mother – "you must be Laura. Pete, for once,
you didn't exaggerate."

'And it was at the moment I saw them exchange looks
that I realized what a stupid mistake I had made. What
chance did I stand against the Tom Fellowses of this
world? But it was more than that. It was obvious from
the start that Tom and your mother were made for each
other. And he wasn't just an idiot in a band who was
happy to steal some other bloke's girlfriend. When I
tried to make my excuses and leave, he followed me outside,
we exchanged telephone numbers and he invited
me for a beer.

' "Look," he said, "I feel weird about this," meaning
the fact that I had left him alone with your mother.

'"Make sure you see her home," I said. "Her mother
always makes me promise I'll see her home." I knew
that the only thing that I could do was walk away.

'"I'll do that, Pete," and he gave me as warm a handshake
as I've ever been given from someone I've just
met, with Laura nodding and smiling from her bar
stool. After that, she always called the red sling-backs
her lucky shoes. Turns out they weren't quite as lucky as
she thought.'

His eyes filled and he blew his nose noisily on a
cotton handkerchief. 'Love at first sight.' He tried to
smile. 'People talk about it, but I've experienced it and
I've seen it. That was the effect your mother had on
people. She could light up a room. And you know, as far
as I know Tom never did give the game away that we
didn't know each other before that day at the café.
When we met up, we padded out our history a little
more each time. That was how we became such great
friends. We were co-conspirators even when there was
no longer a cause. It was some time before I realized
that Tom Fellows, even with his hair and his leathers
and his front-man image, felt the need to impress Laura
Albury as much as I did. It was an unspoken thing
between us that he realized how much I cared for her.
If he caught me looking at her for too long occasionally,
he would just smile. He remembered how it felt when
he couldn't take his eyes off her the first day he saw her
sitting in the café window.'

Uncle Pete didn't bring chocolates or grapes as
a gift. He brought me an old photograph album,
leather-bound with black card pages and photo corners.

'This is for you now.' He choked, patting the cover, as
if he didn't really want to let it go. 'You think your
parents were middle-aged and boring. Don't try to tell
me you don't. But I can assure you that they were, quite
simply, magnificent. There,' he said as if talking to someone
other than himself, 'I've told her now.'

Then he broke down. The hand that had trailed on
the photograph album half waved, half gestured that I
was not to say anything, and he left without another
word. His shoulders were so hunched that I was left
with the image of a headless man walking away from
me.