The Lie Tree (7 page)

‘Come through! Let me introduce you to everyone!’

He led them into what appeared to be a trophy room, its red-and-white check floor flecked with burrs and dog hairs. Antlers jutted from high plaques, throwing branched shadows across the walls.
There were also African masks, Chinese jade carvings, a walrus tusk, a boomerang and other souvenirs of strange and exotic lands.

A dozen guests stood around talking, most of them men. Faith recognized Dr Jacklers and Clay, but the rest were strangers.

When the Sunderlys entered, Faith cast a nervous glance around the room, scanning every face for traces of coldness or scorn. Instead, when her father was introduced, she saw only enthusiasm,
curiosity and respect. If the venom of scandal had touched her father’s name, nobody present appeared to be aware of it.

As usual, the adulation slid off the Reverend’s stony reticence and was soaked up by the lace handkerchief of Myrtle’s busy charm. She quickly made herself a favourite with the
gentlemen, by being witty without being
too
clever. Meanwhile Uncle Miles produced the fossilized shellfish he kept in his tobacco tin and tried to show them to people, in spite of
Myrtle’s attempts to make him stop.

Faith found herself standing next to Dr Jacklers, who clearly had no idea what to say to her.

‘Do tell me about skulls!’ Faith whispered. It was a bold suggestion, perhaps an unladylike one, and if Myrtle had been within earshot Faith would not have asked it. But
Crock’s willingness to answer her questions had given her a small surge of confidence. What if the rules were different in Vane? What if she could show interest in natural science without it
seeming odd?

‘Ah, you are just humouring an old man!’ The doctor laughed, showing his strong, white teeth. But of course he let himself be humoured. ‘I have a collection of skulls –
not because I want to affright nice young ladies like yourself, but because I am writing a paper on the human brain and the roots of intelligence. I measure my patients’ heads as well –
even if they drop by with a sniffle I come up with some reason to wrap a tape measure around their skulls.’

‘So you are a craniometrist?’ As soon as the words left Faith’s mouth she saw the doctor’s smile fade and knew that she had made a mistake. He had been enjoying his
explanation, and now she had spoilt things by knowing too much. ‘Is . . . is that the right word?’ She knew it was, but swallowed hard and made her voice hesitant. ‘I . . . think
I heard it somewhere.’

‘Yes.’ The doctor’s confidence slowly returned in the face of her timidity. ‘That is
exactly
the right word, my dear. Well done.’

As he went on to describe his skull collection, Faith listened with an acid twist in her stomach. She was furious at herself for using too clever a term. Right now, somebody was
talking to
her about science
, and if she sounded too knowledgeable he would stop. Yes, he was explaining things that she already knew as if she were half her age, but she should be grateful even for
that.

Once upon a time, when she was nine years old and starting to make sense of her father’s books, Faith had been so keen to show off her knowledge. Every time visitors came to the house she
would bubble over with the latest facts she had discovered and the newest words to capture her imagination. She had wanted to impress – to prove to her father and everyone else that she was
clever.
Each time, her efforts had been met first by surprised laughter, then uncomfortable silences. Nobody was unkind exactly, but after a while they had politely ignored her as if she
were a stain on the tablecloth. She had wept herself to sleep afterwards, knowing that she had
not
been clever, she had been stupid, stupid, stupid. She had embarrassed everyone and spoilt
everything.

Rejection had worn Faith down. She no longer fought to be praised or taken seriously. Now she was humbled, desperate to be permitted any part in interesting conversations. Even so, each time she
pretended ignorance, she hated herself and her own desperation.

‘The larger the skull, the larger the brain, and the greater the intelligence,’ the doctor continued, warming to his theme. ‘You need only look at the difference between the
skull sizes of men and women. The male skull is larger, showing it to be the throne of intellect.’ The doctor seemed to become aware that he was not being entirely tactful. ‘The female
mind is a different thing altogether,’ he added quickly, ‘and quite delightful in its own right! But too much intellect would spoil and flatten it, like a rock in a
soufflé.’

Faith flushed. She felt utterly crushed and betrayed.
Science
had betrayed her. She had always believed deep down that science would not judge her, even if people did. Her
father’s books had opened to her touch easily enough. His journals had not flinched from her all too female gaze. But it seemed that science had weighed her, labelled her and found her
wanting. Science had decreed that she could not be clever . . . and that if by some miracle she
was
clever, it meant that there was something terribly wrong with her.

‘Ah, I recognize that refrain!’ declared a woman’s voice directly behind Faith. ‘Once again Dr Jacklers is decrying us for our little skulls!’

It was a lady who had been introduced as ‘Miss Hunter, our postmistress and telegraph operator’. She was short, neat and black-haired, with a quickness of motion and gesture that
reminded Faith of a moorhen. Her plump, gloved fingers were always busy straightening and preening at her own clothes, but her gaze was steady and appraising.

‘Forgive me, Doctor, do not let me cut you
short
.’ Miss Hunter smiled blandly. Faith was not sure whether she had imagined the slight emphasis on the last word.

There was no mistaking Dr Jacklers’s reaction though. His ruddy face became almost violet and he gave Miss Hunter a glance loaded with bitterness. He was by no means a tall man, and Faith
wondered if Miss Hunter’s remark was a veiled taunt about his height. Nonetheless Faith suspected that she was missing something.

‘I am simply saying,’ the doctor persisted with an edge to his voice, ‘that the Almighty has designed each of us for our appointed place in the world . . .’

But these were fateful words. The conversation promptly exploded into a debate about evolution.

Natural scientists liked to argue and debate. Back at the rectory Faith had grown used to her father’s guests smiling, bantering and my-dear-fellow-ing over their tea, while racing their
rival theories like prize ponies. The disagreements about evolution were always different, however. There was a crackle of fear behind them, a rawness like splintered wood.

The same rawness and tension filled the conversation now. To Faith’s surprise, the ever-mild, ever-courteous Clay was one of the loudest and most fervent voices.

‘Lamarck and Darwin are leading the world into a great error!’ he declared. ‘If we say that species change, then we say that they were created imperfect! We criticize God
himself!’

‘But, Clay, what about the relics of extinct beasts?’ protested Lambent. ‘The mastodon! The great cave bear! The aurochs! The dinosauria!’

‘All slain in the Flood,’ answered Clay without hesitation, ‘or through similar catastrophes. Our Lord has seen fit to clean the slate many times, on each occasion creating new
species to enjoy his world.’

‘But the fossils – most of them must be tens of thousands of years old at least, long before the Flood—’

‘That is impossible.’ Clay’s tone was adamant. ‘We
know
how old the world is, from scriptural records. It cannot possibly be more than six thousand years
old.’

The oldest gentlemen nodded approvingly at this speech. The other men looked pained and rather embarrassed. Clay seemed to notice the silence.

‘Dr Jacklers,’ he appealed, ‘you have said as much yourself! I remember you talking of such things with my father . . .’

‘Perhaps I did, ten years ago.’ Dr Jacklers looked uncomfortable. ‘Clay . . . everything has changed in the last ten years.’

Faith was a naturalist’s daughter and knew what the doctor meant. The world
had
changed. Its past had changed, and with it everything else. Once upon a time, everybody had
known
the story of the earth: it had been created in a week, and Man set in place to rule it. And the history of the world surely could not be more than a few thousand years . . .

But then gentlemen of science had worked out how long it took rock to fold itself like puff pastry. They had found fossils, and strange misshapen man-skulls with sloping brows. Then, when Faith
was five years old, a book about evolution called
On the Origin of Species
had entered the world, and the world had shuddered, like a boat running aground.

And the unknown past had started to stretch. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions of years . . . and the longer the dark age stretched, the more glorious mankind shrank and
shrank. He had not been there from the start, nor had the whole of creation been presented to him as a gift. No, he was a latecomer, whose ancestors had struggled up from the slime and crawled on
the earth.

The Bible did not lie. Every good, God-fearing scientist knew that. But rocks and fossils and bones did not lie either, and it was starting to look as though they were not telling the same
story.

‘Truth has not changed!’ exclaimed an elderly whippet of a man with white floppy hair. ‘Only the minds of those who doubt! May I point out that in our very midst we have the
Reverend Erasmus Sunderly, whose greatest find bears dumb witness to the truth of the Gospel!’

All eyes were on Faith’s father, who did not deign to raise his eyes.

‘I was one of the first called in to examine his New Falton find,’ continued the old man. ‘When I looked upon it, and saw a fossilized human shoulder with faint traces of wings
spreading from it, I felt . . . awe. At once I knew what it was. “This,” I said, “is one of the ancient Nephilim, and it is as authentic as I am. I would stake my reputation on
it!”’

The Reverend’s cheek twitched slightly at the word ‘reputation’. Faith was filled with a terrible surge of sympathy. She wanted to feel happy that her father had such an ardent
supporter, but the old man’s declaration was a little too desperate. It made her nervous.

‘My dear friends,’ said Lambent, ‘I do not think this is a conversation for mixed company.’

The company unmixed itself. For a little while there had been a faint tension in the air, a feeling of politeness under strain. The ladies had been charming company, but now
the gentlemen wanted them to depart and enjoy their afternoon tea, so that the men could have their scientific meeting and talk freely.

Faith’s heart sank as she found herself trailing after the other ladies.
This is your future
, said a cruel voice in her head
. Walking away from scientific meetings you are not
allowed to attend.

Halfway down the corridor, her attention was caught by an open door. Beyond lay a tiny room that smelt of dust and formaldehyde. Daylight from high windows glinted on glass-fronted cabinets and
the eyes of stuffed animals. A cabinet of curiosities, a naturalist’s den.

Faith glanced after Myrtle and the other ladies, none of whom was paying her any attention. She felt a flare of rebellion, and a familiar singing in her ears.
If I cannot eat at the table, I
can snatch at scraps.

She slipped into the little room, closing the door behind her deftly and without a click.

Faith moved around the room, rapt, mesmerized, staring into case after case. Birds’ eggs. Butterflies. Dry pinned-out hides of lizards and baby crocodiles. Papery remains of carnivorous
plants, with thorn-like teeth or tongue-like stamens. Every item had its own tiny, meticulously written label.

A stuffed mongoose was frozen forever in the black and yellow coils of a snake. The colour and pattern of the scales reminded Faith of her father’s snake, which made her feel a little
uncomfortable.

As Faith peered at the exhibits in the biggest cabinet, she felt a queer, unpeeling sensation in her stomach. A stuffed albino badger lurked between a fly preserved in a glossy blob of amber and
a tough-looking root shaped crudely like a person. In a great pickle jar, a pair of conjoined piglets floated in pallid eternal sleep.

Freaks of Nature
, read the central label.

And that is what I am
, thought Faith, feeling sick.
A little female brain with too much crammed into it. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. Maybe that is why I cannot stop myself
creeping and spying.

Faith had just crept out of the room into the corridor again when Myrtle reappeared, tight-lipped and impatient.

‘What in the world delayed you?’

‘Sorry, Mother – I was lost . . .’ Faith trailed off, and with satisfaction saw her mother’s annoyance ebb into weary resignation.

‘This is no time for wandering or wool-gathering.’ Myrtle tugged Faith’s straight collar a little straighter. ‘These “ladies” will be taking their measure of
our family, and it is very important that we make the right impression. We cannot look too eager – if we let them talk down to us, then by tomorrow the whole island will be doing
so.’

Faith followed Myrtle to a green-papered drawing room where half a dozen ladies were seated and a silver tea service had been laid out. A fierce fire blazed in the hearth. Even
compared to the pleasant warmth of the trophy room, this room was muggy and stifling.

In a wicker throne by the fire sat a woman that Faith had not seen before. She had a high, queenly forehead and a fine haze of pale blonde hair gathered back into a bun. The blankets that
swaddled her marked her out as an invalid.

‘Please, do come in – so that my man can shut the door. The seats are warmest by the fire. I am Agatha Lambent.’ She had a deep, pleasant voice, but every sentence lilted
mournfully downward, as though drooping under its own weight.

Back in the trophy room the gentlemen would be taking the leash off their conversation. Likewise, here in the drawing room, each lady quietly relaxed and became more real, expanding into the
space left by the men. Without visibly changing, they unfolded, like flowers, or knives.