LIAR

by Norman Geddes

The little lawnmower's racket engulfed Brenda in an aural cocoon. She was glad of it because it cut her off from the sunbathers in the adjacent back gardens and removed the possibility of conversation. When she switched off the mower to empty the grass box she heard her telephone ringing and walked lethargically through the spotless kitchen and onto the new carpet of the freshly decorated hall. Picking up the receiver she gave her number.

"Brenda? It's Philip. Look, I've got a bit involved..."

"How do you mean involved?" At once her voice was transmitting suspicion and anger.

"It's Craig Watson," her husband was saying, "he's got a puncture and he needs help."

"Where is he?"

Philip's sigh came gently to her ear then he was saying patiently, "He's about ten miles this side of Flaxton and I'm with him."

"A puncture?" said Brenda. "Is that all?"

"Yes but the wheel nut wrench doesn't fit and that's the problem."

Brenda was beginning to believe him. "I see. But your van is the same as Craig's so you'll be able to use your wheel nut thing?"
Another sigh came from through the phone. "Nope, my wrench doesn't fit either."

Brenda uttered a short, tense laugh of suspicion. "Now wait a minute, Philip. Your vans are identical; does your wheel nut wrench fit your van?"

"No. They've supplied the wrong wrenches with the vans. Brenda, I'm telling you the truth. I'm driving Craig back into Flaxton to a garage where we can borrow a wrench then I'll give him a hand to change the wheel and then I'll be straight home."

"This is going to take all night. Or whatever you're up to is going to take all night."

"I'm not up to anything."

"I don't believe you!"

She dropped the receiver heavily onto it's cradle and looked at herself in the hall mirror. Her face was red and streaked with sweat from her work in the garden and her short fair hair was matted. Turning away from the mirror she realised that she was still wearing her old gardening shoes and, with a groan of annoyance, scrutinised the carpet. There were a few traces of grass cuttings. She removed her shoes, placed them neatly on a piece of newspaper by the back door then vacuumed the whole of the hall carpet.

She was still thinking of Philip's telephone call and its dark implications as she put the vacuum cleaner away and surveyed the living room for signs of untidiness. There were none. Standing by the window, arms folded, lips compacted into a thin line of anger, Brenda allowed her mind to conjure up the other woman. After ten months and having only met Tina once, the image was vague, dominated by dyed blonde hair, garish clothes and too much cheap make up. With a little more effort she was able to visualise a biggish chest, broad thighs and dumpy legs whose calves were forced into a caricature of shapeliness by thin high heels. Brenda's memory gradually became more agile and was beginning to supply details like attractive hazel eyes and a quick friendly smile but, unwanted, these details were swept impatiently aside. Tina Roberts...Tina the tinker...Tina the tart! Tina who had almost succeeded in stealing her husband.

She was watching television when she heard Philip come in by the back door. He was not allowed to use the front door in his working overalls. These had to be removed with his shoes at the back door. When he finally appeared in the lounge he had changed into casual shirt, cord trousers and carpet slippers. Brenda studied him carefully from where she sat, searching for clues to what he had been up to.

"What a bloody carry on that was," he grumbled. But his voice seemed to lack conviction. He had thrown himself into a chair by the fireplace and was pouring himself a glass of beer. This glass of beer before dinner was a recently formed habit designed, Brenda was certain, to conceal the fact that he had been drinking earlier. Tina had been very fond of the vodka.

"Where have you been?" Brenda asked him. The question was softly uttered; it's menace lay in the steel grey of her unflinching eyes. Philip lit a cigarette and dropped the spent match into his empty beer can. He blew out a puff of smoke in a long, tired sigh.

"I told you on the phone."

Brenda rose out of her chair, placed an ash tray beside her husband and plopped the beer can into a small waste basket. "On the phone," she said, "you threw me a line." She resumed her chair and clasped her hands on her lap. "Now I want the truth."

"You've had the truth. I haven't been seeing Tina Roberts if that's what you're thinking."

"I don't know what to think. It doesn't have to be her, it could be anyone."

"Oh for god's sake, Brenda! I'm getting sick of all this mistrust."

She gave a hard, mirthless laugh. "Well you've yourself to blame for that! You and your tart!"

"I haven't seen her for ten months."

"So. Where were you tonight?"

"I've told you..."

This kind of talk extended all through their meal and then they lapsed into hostile silence. In bed the silence was maintained until, at two in the morning, Brenda switched on her bedside lamp and sat up. Philip pretended to be asleep but the exaggerated sighs and, eventually, sobbing of his wife forced him to respond. He sat up in bed, and said wearily; "I have honestly told you the truth."

Brenda blew her nose into a handkerchief and shook her head vigorously. "You haven't. I know perfectly well that you haven't."

Philip threw back the bedclothes. "I'm going downstairs to make some tea. D'you want a cup?"

"I might as well, I certainly can't sleep."

When he came back into the bedroom with the tea he said; "There was no puncture. I went for a couple of pints with Craig."

Brenda was crying again. "Why couldn't you have told me that at the time?

"I lied because I was scared to tell you I was going for a pint. And you know, Brenda, it's a hell of a state of affairs when a man can't tell his wife he's going for a pint."

"Why do you have to go drinking? What's wrong with your home, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. But what's so wrong with going for a pint with a mate? Here, drink your tea and lets get some sleep."

A few days later, and quite co-incidentally, they were invited by Craig and his wife for drinks and supper. Philip spoke to Craig one morning just as they were leaving the depot to start their calls.

"There's just one thing I ought to mention, Craig. You remember that business the other day when you had a puncture?"

"Yes?"

"Well this is going to sound daft but...in case Brenda brings it up...it didn't happen. We went for a pint, you and me."

Craig regarded him blankly. "Eh?"

"Don't ask me to explain, just remember if Brenda brings it up. There was no puncture, we went for a pint."

When he arrived home that evening Brenda was taking up the hem of the dress she intended wearing to the Watson's the following evening. She was cool towards him but there seemed, nevertheless, to be an improvement in her mood of the past few days. By the time they went to bed there had been some small talk. In bed he risked slipping his arm around her waist and was surprised when he felt her hand seek his own.

"You know, Philip," she said, "there are times when I think we really could make it together again. It isn't easy for me because I've been so terribly hurt . But if you'll try, so will I."

Philip was delighted. "Well, God knows, I can't ask fairer than that."

"Just stop telling me lies, Philip."

"I will, I will, I promise."
"That's good. You can start by telling me the truth about the other night then. You've admitted that there was no puncture and I don't believe for a minute that you went for a pint with Craig Watson. So where were you?"

 

 

 

 

 

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