Deceit: We Believe What We Want To Believe

By Sandy King

It is Spring in West London where Charley is in the throes of a mid-life divorce. Her daughter is at university and blames her mother for the divorce. Her widowed mother has just moved into a retirement home and is not happy. Her about-to-be ex-husband is still an unsettling influence. Her best friend is being supportive, but their relationship has changed. Then she meets Paul. As the Summer progresses Charley becomes aware that we believe what we want to believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781623092740

Sandy King

Sandy (Nicholls) King was born in Yakima, Washington, the middle child of five. Shortly after her marriage, she received a BA from Central Washington College. Her husband, Ron, took a job in Anchorage, Alaska, in 1976. They planned to stay for one year, but the Last Frontier became their permanent home. The photograph on the front cover was taken at the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau, where the family lived for twenty-five years. They now reside on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska. Sandy has taught a variety of subjects in private schools and given piano lessons for many years. She has played for churches most of her life, including accompanying a choir that was televised. She sang in and played piano for a group called “The Messengers” for twenty years. They gave concerts in many venues in Southeast Alaska, from tiny villages to the Governor’s Mansion. Poetry has been one of Sandy’s passions since childhood, but it wasn’t until after retirement that she had time to cultivate her gift. Her poems have been well received - appearing online, in newsletters and other publications. She has received many requests for copies, hence came the decision to compile them into a book. This volume contains lessons learned from a lifetime of walking with God.

Book preview

King

CHAPTER ONE

Charley decided to ignore the phone ringing. She thought it was probably for Prue anyway so she continued rummaging impatiently in the bottom of her bedroom cupboard looking for her green and pink sandals. It stopped ringing, but then Prue called out, ‘Mum! Phone for you.’ Charley cursed and ran down the stairs, clipping on long silver earrings and wriggling into her pink linen jacket. Prue was standing in the hall holding out the phone and peering at herself in the large gilt mirror. She was in her usual white T-shirt, jeans and trainers and Charley wondered if she dared ask her to change into something smarter.

Charley took the phone, whispering, ‘Who is it?’

‘Grandmère, in France.’

‘Who?’

‘Dad’s mum, your about-to-be-ex-mother-in-law.’

Charley winced. ‘Oh God, please tell her I’m out.’

‘Can’t. Said you’re in.’

Charley pulled a face and took the telephone. ‘Suzanne, bonjour,’ she said, trying to fall in with Susan’s way of speaking Franglais. She had been so relieved when Richard’s parents, Susan and Peter, moved to south-west France and so amused when they re-invented themselves as Suzanne and Pierre.

‘I thought you might be at that funny on and off office job you do,’ Suzanne said with no preamble.

‘No, not today.’ Charley took a deep breath. ‘I’m a legal secretary and I do three days a week, but we are just dashing off to visit my mother, in the care home.’

‘Well, I’ve met that solicitor you work for and I thought he was very odd. But anyway, I’m phoning about Pierre’s seventieth birthday. We’re having a soirée and you’re all expected for the weekend. It’s obligatoire.’

‘What, all of us?’ Charley’s voice rose in panic.

‘Of course all of you. It’s an important family occasion. Une grande anniversaire. So there’s Prue and that boy, whose name I never remember, she is still seeing him, I suppose, and, of course, my darling Dickie and that frightful Carol person. And is there anyone you want to bring?’

‘No… er… no one, of course not.’

‘Well, I don’t know why you say of course not. It’s time you did have someone, you know, you’re not getting any younger and it’s not good for women to be on their own. Older women need lots of love and attention or it all goes to pot. Pierre and I were just saying the other evening, it would be much better for you if you had a nice man to bring. Plus agréable, don’t you think? Anyway, I’ll be in touch nearer the time with a list of things I want you to bring, just a few bits and pieces from Fortnum’s, that sort of thing. We’ve got about eight weeks so there’s no need to panic. Not that I do, of course. C for calm and S for smile, I always say. At least the weather will be hot by then so we’ll be mainly in the garden and I’ll get the pool cleaned. Don’t forget to bring a glamorous bikini, you’ve still got quite a good figure. I’ll see if I can rustle up a man for you at this end, but they’re all a bit past it, I find. Sad really. Anyway, darling, must press on. A bientôt.’ The phone went dead and Charley realised her knuckles were white from gripping it so tightly.

Prue was still examining her complexion in the mirror. ‘So what was that all about?’

‘A party. It’s your grandfather’s seventieth birthday in August so they’re having a party and she want us all to go. In fact, she insists that we all go.’

‘What? You and Dad and Carol and me and Luke?’

‘Apparently.’ Charley took the car keys out of the drawer in the hall table and opened the front door. ‘She’s got a bloody nerve. I can’t believe she expects me to go to France for a weekend when your father’s going to be there with Carol. It’s completely out of order. How dare she!’ Charley hustled Prue out of the front door and slammed it hard.

‘I think it’s cool,’ Prue said smiling. ‘Luke’s never been to France.’

‘Oh well, that’s alright then.’

Prue ignored her mother’s sarcasm and, still smiling, got into the car, a yellow convertible VW Beetle, which she coveted.

The traffic across West London was heavy for the time of day and Charley was not feeling any better when she turned into the drive of The Limes Residential Care Home in Richmond and braked hard to avoid an abandoned wheelchair. ‘Why are these places always called The Firs or The Cedars or The Beeches? What have trees got to do with it?’

Prue slid further down the passenger seat beside her and continued texting.  ‘Dunno.’

Charley switched off the engine and turned to her. ‘Prue, we’re here. Please make an effort with Gran. You know how much she enjoys seeing you.’

‘Well, if she lived with us she’d see a lot more of me, wouldn’t she?’ Prue looked at the large white double-gabled house with its annexe and extensions and wondered how many old dears lived there. Beyond the ambulance bay, half hidden by a thick yew hedge, the drive dwindled to a gravel path which led round the side of the house to a well-kept garden with a croquet lawn and a deep terrace where the wheelchairs were lined up on a warmer day. Prue imagined groups of old folk having afternoon tea in the shade of the huge cedar tree. ‘And this place must cost a bomb.’

‘Well that’s not your problem, is it?’ said Charley, striding around the house ahead of her. Prue followed her mother, still looking at her phone.

It was the lull in the daily rhythm of meals between lunch and tea and still too early in the summer to sit outside. They found Gran in the conservatory, sitting very upright in a wing chair, a book and her blue plastic-rimmed glasses in her lap. She was asleep. A black and white cat lay stretched out in the sun under the window, overseen by a china cat of indeterminate breed on the window sill. The real cat sat up, yawned and, lifting a back leg over its head, started to lick its bottom.

‘Cats are so disgusting,’ Prue said, and Gran woke up.

Charley leaned over and kissed her mother on the forehead. ‘Hello, Mum, look who I’ve brought to see you. It’s Prue.’

‘I can see that,’ said Gran, smiling at Prue. ‘Where’s that nice young man of yours? Is he coming?’

Charley stiffened and looked at Prue. ‘I didn’t know you’d brought Luke here.’

‘There’s lots of things you don’t know, Mum,’ Prue said, and winked at her grandmother.

Gran chuckled. ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ she said. ‘You look like you don’t know if you’re coming or going.’

Charley sat down and sent Prue to find another chair. ‘You’re looking well, Mum,’ she said. ‘Everything alright?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ she said rather stiffly.

‘That’s good.’

Prue came back with a footstool and perched on it close to Gran. ‘Luke said to say Hi.’

‘That’s nice of him. Has he painted your portrait yet? I asked him to do one for me, with him being an art student. Or does he only do that modern art, all lines and blobs, what’s it called again?’

‘Abstract?’

‘That’s right, abstract. Can’t make head nor tail of it myself, but I expect you can, dear.’ She stretched out a wrinkly hand and patted Prue’s knee. ‘I shouldn’t do that now, should I? You’re not a little girl any more.’

‘I don’t mind.’

Charley felt her phone vibrating in her pocket and glanced at it. ‘Damn. It’s the solicitor. ‘Hello, just a minute. I’m really sorry I’ve got to take this. Hold on, hello…’ She grabbed her bag and headed to the garden door. She walked to the end of the terrace and found a bench to sit on away from everyone. ‘Sorry, about that, I’m visiting my mother, in the care home. Is there a problem?’

As the solicitor rambled on about the divorce proceedings, household maintenance costs, council tax, maintenance for Prue, university grants and interim payments and the pros and cons of various arrangements, Charley’s mind wandered. She watched an elderly man in blazer and panama hat making very slow progress along the path from the vegetable garden. He leant on his walking frame and studied her. She looked away. It was all very well for Prue wanting Gran to live with them, old age was too far away for her to worry about, but for Charley suddenly finding herself living alone had seemed to bring the next stage in life so much closer. She started pacing up and down the terrace and Prue watched her.

Gran beckoned Prue to move closer. ‘Now she’s gone I want to ask you something. Do you think I should get my hair dyed?’ Her hand fluttered nervously around her straight white hair. ‘The hairdresser’s coming on Friday and I thought I might do something different. What do you think?’

‘Yeah, if that’s what you want, why not? Go for it.’

Her grandmother grinned at her. ‘I thought you’d say that.’

‘What does Mum think?’

‘No point asking her, she’d say I’m being silly at my age.’

Prue laughed. ‘So what if you are? It’s your hair.’

‘And I thought I might buy some new clothes. Will you take me shopping, dear, somewhere young? I’m sick of these old-lady clothes.’ She plucked at her tartan pleated skirt and pale blue cardigan with distaste. ‘I thought I might try some of these things.’ She put on her glasses, stretched for a magazine on the table beside her and scrabbled through the pages with arthritic fingers. ‘Here we are, dear, some of these leggings things and a nice pink jumper to go on top. What do you think?’

To Prue’s enormous relief Mrs Maloney suddenly appeared with the tea trolley. ‘Hello, Prue, nice to see you, love. Getting on alright, are you? Is that nice young man with you today? Bit of alright I’d say he is. At Oxford too, is he? Your mum’s so proud of you. Will she be in later, Charlotte?’

Prue was always surprised when people called her mother Charlotte. Everyone knew her as Charley. She had always been Charley because her father had wanted a son to call Charles. ‘She’s here, on the phone, in the garden. Luke may come in with me at the weekend. It depends.’

‘Is it Tuesday today?’ Gran asked.

Mrs Maloney laughed. ‘No, dear, it’s only Monday. Don’t go getting ahead of yourself.’ She moved off with the trolley.

Gran clicked her tongue. ‘Stupid woman. I know it’s Tuesday because we had lamb stew for dinner. And I’ve told her not to call me dear. I said to her, I said, I prefer to be called Mrs Williams, if you don’t mind and she said, now don’t go getting uppity with me, dear. The cheek of it. She doesn’t call that la-di-da one over there dear, she calls her Mrs Simpson. He had a butcher’s shop.’

Prue’s mind had wandered. ‘Who did?’

‘Eric Simpson. It’s one of those coffee places now where you young people drink coffee in paper cups and work on those computer things. You can see them all sitting in there going tap, tap, tap. No one talks to other people nowadays, not what you’d call a proper conversation, and no one listens anyway.’

Prue spotted her mother walking back looking agitated. ‘I’ll have to be going soon, Gran, looks like Mum’s getting in a state. I wish she and Dad would just sit down and talk about it instead of all this solicitor’s stuff.’

Charley came in waving her phone. ‘I can’t concentrate on all this here. I’ll have to go home and call him back. And anyway he wants all sorts of information I haven’t got here. I’ll have to go home and get the file out. Sorry, Mum.’ She kissed her mother rather absently. ‘I’ll pop in again later in the week.’

Prue gave her grandmother a hug and followed her mother out to the car. They drove home with Prue smiling as her mother cut in and out of the traffic. After a while she asked, ‘Was it Dad who wanted Gran to go into a home?’

Charley swerved to avoid a lorry and put her hand on the horn. ‘We both thought it was for the best. But yes, I mean, your father and my mother didn’t get on, as you know.’

‘So now Dad’s gone off with Carol, can Gran come back to live with us?’

‘I don’t think so, Prue. It’s really not as simple as that. And when the divorce goes through we may have to move to a smaller house anyway, so there probably wouldn’t be room for her. Why is this an issue now?’

‘Dunno. We just think it’s really sad, her being there.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Luke, of course.’

When they got home they found Luke sitting on the doorstep. Charley groaned inwardly. He and Prue seemed to be joined at the hip these days. He was nice enough, she supposed, and very good looking, but he seemed to spend more time at Prue’s than at his home. But then, she thought, as he lived in a basement flat in Shepherds Bush with an alcoholic mother, it wasn’t very surprising. They went up to Prue’s room and Charley made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table. She would have liked to curl up in the old armchair but Brillo, her wire-haired terrier, was already there. He peered at her through his fringe with a look of don’t you dare move me and she thought maybe the chair looked rather hairy and smelly. It was about time she washed the loose cover. The kitchen faced south and had a door to the garden so it seemed a much more comfortable and welcoming room than the sitting room, which Charley rarely used now. She sipped her tea and noticed that the mug was chipped. How dare Susan treat her like this. Just because she had been married to Susan’s darling Dickie for twenty years didn’t mean she was still at her beck and call. The whole idea of her going to Peter’s seventieth was preposterous. She didn’t want to see Richard at a party in France in eight weeks’ time and she didn’t want to see him with Carol, ever.

She fed Brillo and he pushed his tin bowl around the room, knocking it against the skirting boards and chipping the paint. The noise used to infuriate Richard, a memory that made her smile. Now that Prue was in Oxford for most of the year the house seemed too quiet and she wondered if she ought to find a full-time job instead of her three days. There must be firms that would welcome a mature legal secretary, but probably in the West End, she thought, and that would mean using the tube in the rush hour. And what would she do about Brillo? The dog walker cost a fortune already. Anyway, she liked working for John. It was so easy to get there on the bus, and after six years there she was used to his ways and some of his older clients had become friends. No, she told herself firmly, this was definitely not the time to change jobs. Perhaps once the divorce was finalised a new challenge might be good for her. But not yet. She wondered if Prue and Luke were going to be in for supper. She picked up the Daily Telegraph and thought she might do the crossword. The first two clues were easy but then her mind wandered. Sod it. She picked up the phone and dialled Lizzie. ‘It’s me. Are you busy?’

‘When am I not busy?’ her friend replied. ‘But come over anyway.’

Lizzie’s house in the parallel street was almost identical to Charley’s but Lizzie and David had two boys much younger than Prue. Charley was let in by Tom, who was sucking a pen and trailing a book which looked like homework. She negotiated her way around the scooters, footballs, boots and discarded anoraks in the hall and found Lizzie in the kitchen. She was ironing and looked tired. Her long dark hair was tied up in a ponytail and her narrow bare feet sticking out from under a long cotton skirt looked in need of a scrub. She waved the iron in Charley’s direction. ‘David’s taken Hugo to judo club so I’m trying to catch up with this mess. Some hope.’ She laughed and smiled at Charley. ‘Help yourself to a drink and pour one for me.’

Charley found an open bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge door and tried not to look at all the little pots of leftover food sealed with cling film, which she suspected had been there for days, if not weeks. In the glasses cupboard she found two wine glasses which looked almost clean and removed a chewed plastic beaker of fruit juice. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, handing Lizzie a glass of wine, ‘I’ll finish the ironing while you start supper.’

‘Deal. Are you staying for supper?’

‘No, but thank you. I’ve got to feed Prue and maybe Luke, I think.’

Lizzie looked at Charley’s pinched face. ‘Is it Prue again?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s not Prue, for a change. Suzanne phoned.’

‘Richard’s mother? What on earth did she want?’

‘She’s having a party for her husband’s seventieth birthday and seems to think Prue and Luke and I and her darling Dickie and the frightful Carol person, as she calls her, are all going to be there. I