The Liar

I have always tried to be a good person. Admittedly I haven’t always succeeded. Yet being ‘good’ has been a concern of mine for as long as I can remember. My parents, who were devout Catholics, filled me with a strong sense of moral responsibility. It’s easier as a child: there are rules for you to follow, and providing you stick to them, you are ‘moral’. I spent many childhood evenings on my mother’s knee, going over her simplified version of the Ten Commandments.

“Repeat after me, Bertie,” Mum would say. “It is wrong to steal.”

“It’s wrong to steal.”

“It is wrong to tell lies...”

Those rules were straightforward. Others were less so. I had difficulty envisioning in what situation I would covet my neighbour’s donkey, given that none of our neighbours owned donkeys. I didn’t understand the rule about adultery, either, which my mother refused to explain ‘until I was older.’ This worried me greatly, as it seemed entirely possible that I might accidentally commit adultery without knowing it.

On the whole, though, being good seemed easy enough. All I had to do was follow the principles set out by my parents and I would eventually receive a big pat on the back from Saint Peter. It helped that my best friend, Alan Bicks, was as conscientious as me. Our parents had met at church, and so when we started at Hilford Infants’ School we gravitated towards each other, each being the only face the other recognised. Alan and I got on immediately. We shared toys, we made each other laugh and we always stuck together. It was rare for either of us to get into trouble, though it was Alan who gained the reputation as a ‘goody-two-shoes’. He certainly had the appearance of a teacher’s pet; his huge square glasses barely fit on his round freckled face, and he always tucked his shirt in. More importantly, though, Alan really was righteous. He would never do anything to hurt anybody. Knowing him was enough to convince you that principles were all you needed to be moral. Growing up, however, I started to realise it isn’t always that easy.

~

The most important rule in our household was ‘no lying’. That was the one my parents took really seriously. They believed that if you were honest, all other forms of morality would naturally follow. As such, dishonesty simply didn’t occur under our roof. If ever I doubted the severity of lying, I was reminded that liars were on a par with murderers in God’s eyes. Furthermore, lying in our household warranted the unthinkable punishment: no dessert. I would sooner have put the hamster in the washing machine than tell a lie. In fact, I probably would have been forgiven for putting the hamster in the washing machine as long as I had been honest about it.

As I grew up I became confused by the notion that lying is the greatest sin. Some people, it appeared, told lies and got away with it. I questioned my mother about this matter as we watched television one morning.

“Mummy, the man on the screen says he has a tin of magic beans. Do we have any magic beans?”

“Bertie, the man doesn’t really have magic beans. There’s no such thing.”

“Then why did he say he does?”

“The man is playing a character, Bertie. The story is made up for a television programme.”

“Then he is a LIAR!”

Mum laughed and told me there are some people who are allowed to tell lies because it’s part of their job, such as actors, writers and the Prime Minister. Confused, I simply assumed that any exception to the rule didn’t apply to me. Lest God should appear in the clouds and smite me, I avoided falsehoods at all costs.

It therefore came as a shock when, in the middle of a morning History lesson at Hilford Infants’, I was accused of lying. Alan and I were sitting at a desk by the window whilst Miss Graham taught us about the Tudors. Our teacher was explaining that although Henry VIII is said to have had six wives, he really only had three if you discount the marriages which were annulled or declared void. Whilst she laboured over this point, Alan nudged me and pointed outside. Something small and white was darting across the playing field. I squinted. It was a rabbit! I smiled as I watched the little critter burrow into a bush - still listening to Miss Graham, of course, who was now harping on about Anne Boleyn. When she noticed I was looking outside, Miss Graham paused.

“Bertie, you are not listening. Pay attention, please.” I jumped.

“Sorry, Miss. I was listening.”

“You were not listening, Robert.” Her face turned stern.

“I was, Miss! I swear!”

“Do not lie, Robert. See me after class.”

I looked at Alan, who bit his lip apologetically. Forty minutes never passed so slowly as those that remained of the lesson. Would Miss Graham scream at me? Give me a detention? Or something worse? I sat in dread for the remainder of the hour, my eyes fixed upon my books. Eventually the bell rang.

“Good luck,” Alan whispered, gathering his books. I frowned. Once the room had emptied, Miss Graham sat down in the chair where Alan had been sitting. My eyes remained on the desk as she spoke.

“Robert, I don’t usually have to speak to you like this. I want you to understand that I am not cross with you for not listening. Everyone forgets to listen now and then. What I am cross about is that you lied to me. It is wrong to lie, especially to your teacher. Do you understand?”

Still avoiding her eye, I summoned the courage to respond.

“But Miss, I was listening to you.”

“Robert.”

“Honestly, Miss.”

“Robert, if you carry on telling lies you are going to get into a lot of trouble. If you just admit that you were not listening and say sorry, we can both forget all about this.”

It was her word against mine. I could see it from her perspective; I was looking outside and it probably looked like I wasn’t listening. In retrospect, I ought to have recited my knowledge of Henry VIII’s wives and not-really-wives in order to prove that I had been paying attention. But I was too terrified to even consider this possibility, let alone get my facts straight regarding Catherine of Aragon and the rest. It was no use blaming Alan; grassing might have got me into more trouble, and Alan would have had a heart attack if he got told off. In that moment I had only two options. I could carry on protesting my innocence and face a punishment I knew not how severe, or I could falsely claim that I hadn’t been listening.

I cleared my throat.

“I was listening, Miss. I promise.”

Miss Graham looked away and sighed. After staring into space for a moment she stood up, tugging me by the sleeve. “Come with me.”

Miss Graham led me out of the classroom and through the school. Silence fell as we walked through the dining room. Boys and girls queuing up for lunch turned around to watch. Some suppressed laughter and others gasped. Alan turned red as I caught his eye. Several dinner ladies looked down at me disapprovingly, one of them tutting. My heart sank as we reached the staff corridor. “Wait here,” Miss Graham ordered as she knocked on Mrs Jones’ door.

The door creaked open and my headmistress appeared. Mrs Jones was the sort of person who looked miserable even on her birthday, but right now it was clear she was particularly unhappy. Miss Graham left without speaking.

“Sit down,” Mrs Jones ordered in her deep growl, pointing to the chair by her desk. After slamming the door she approached me. “Your teacher tells me you’ve not been listening in class. Messing around and staring out of the window. Is this true, Robert?” I hesitated.

“N-no, Ma’am-”

“IS THIS TRUE, ROBERT?”

Mrs Jones’ spit hit my cheeks as she shouted. Her large wrinkled face, towering over mine, had turned beetroot-coloured. “I-I-”

“See that little blue book on my desk?” She pointed. “It has your parents’ phone numbers in it. Am I going to have to call your mother and tell her why her little boy won’t be going home at three o’clock today?”

I didn’t know the ‘correct’ answer so I didn’t respond. A few moments of unbearable silence passed before she spoke again, this time more quietly.

“This is how it’s going to be, Robert. Either you can tell me the truth, or you can come and see me again after school. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“So, Robert, I will ask you one more time. Were you, or were you not, listening to Miss Graham in History earlier?” I glanced at the address book on her desk, and then looked back into her furious eyes. I shivered. My uniform was moist with sweat. I closed my eyes, gulped, and then forced myself to answer.

“No, Ma’am. I wasn’t listening. I’m sorry.”

It was the first lie I ever told.

Snow Day

Waking up one February morning, Peter’s heart raced as he heard the wind howling outside. The young boy jumped out of bed, praying that today could be the day. Climbing onto a box by the window, Peter pulled back a curtain slowly and cautiously. For weeks he had looked outside and merely seen his back yard, dull and colourless with its leafless trees and bare flowerbeds. But today Peter’s wishes were answered. The sight still made him gasp. The garden, so lifeless a day before, was now blanketed with sheets of thick white snow, perfectly smooth and unspoiled by human feet. Every branch on every tree was sprinkled with fresh snowflakes. The scene resembled a Christmas card - but in reality, Christmas was inevitably grey and drizzly. February was when the true magic of winter took place; February was when Peter got to play in the snow with Tommy.

Peter ran downstairs. As the boy burst into the kitchen his father rolled his eyes, having no doubt what was coming. 

“Dad! Dad! Have you seen outside?!”

“Mmhm.”

Mr Cooper carried on eating his breakfast, looking at a pink greeting card which had appeared on the kitchen table. 

“You’ve got to ring the school! Please!”

Eager to return to his corn flakes, Mr Cooper obliged. Peter followed him to the telephone and listened anxiously to one side of the conversation.

“Hello there. This is Mr Cooper speaking. Will Dordale Grammar be open this morning?” He paused. “Really? Oh, right. Well, that is a shame.” Peter’s heart sank as his father looked down at him. “Okay, thank you. I’ll let him know.”

Mr Cooper put the phone down calmly before returning to his cereal. Peter stared at him impatiently.

“Well Dad, what did they say?!”

“About what, Peter?” Mr Cooper smiled.

“Is school on today or not?!”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Son - but no, you won’t be going in today.”

Peter squealed with joy. Throwing on a woolly jumper, he ran to the front door. His wellington boots irritated him for not coming on quickly enough, and his mother’s call of “Don’t forget your scarf!” seemed a deliberate attempt to delay him further.

“Yes Mum, I’ve got it. Bye!”

“Oh, and have you had your breakfast?”

“Yes! See you later!”

A blast of cold air hit Peter’s face as he opened the front door and waded onto the white paradise which yesterday had simply been Orchard Close. No cars had dared attempt the road, but Peter’s feet had not been the first to imprint upon the virgin snow. Approaching Tommy’s house at the foot of the cul-de-sac, Peter observed a trail of footprints which he recognised as those of his best friend. But where was Tommy?

Tommy Shaw was a year older than Peter, and the pair had been inseparable since the Coopers moved to Orchard Close six years ago. The boys bonded over a mutual love of dinosaurs when their parents met for dinner, and they soon started playing out in the street together. Peter, short and plump, would struggle to compete against the tall, athletic Tommy when they played tag or football - but this didn’t discourage the younger boy, who was happy to have somebody to play with at last. Peter had seen less of Tommy recently, since the older boy had started at Dordale Grammar. Peter had joined Tommy there the following autumn, but the boys no longer shared classes, being in different year groups. Yet Tommy remained, as always, Peter’s closest friend. 

It was an unspoken tradition that whenever school was cancelled due to snow, the boys would meet at the bottom of Orchard Close to play. It was therefore unusual that Tommy wasn’t there this morning, but Peter knew his friend too well to let this fool him. Pacing up the road, he began peering over walls and into bushes to find Tommy’s secret base, knowing he would be preparing a pre-emptive snowball attack. It was a cunning strategy - but not if Peter got there first.

The very first time it snowed the day had started in a similar fashion. Walking into the street to meet his friend, Peter initially saw no sign of Tommy. Then, out of nowhere, there was a shout from above.

“Open fire!”

Looking up, Peter was pelted in the face by a snowball, the cold ice melting on impact and trickling down his neck. After a moment of confusion, Peter located his attacker. Tommy was sitting grinning on the topmost branch of an oak tree, cradling an arsenal of snowy ammunition. This meant war. Running to a nearby car, Peter scraped the snow from its windshield and moulded it to form a giant snowball in his hands. With both arms, he lifted the huge weapon into the air and threw it with full force towards Tommy. The older boy screamed as he met his retaliation, flailing nervously before regaining his balance and mounting a new attack. Peter, now wise to his assailant, dodged a succession of snowballs as they smashed onto the ground. 

“You’ll never get me from up there!” Peter teased.

“Oh yeah? Well, I’d better come and get you then!”

Tommy climbed down and chased his friend down the street, both boys giggling uncontrollably. Catching up with Peter, Tommy attempted to slow down, but his feet were beyond his control. He skidded forwards and collapsed onto the floor, hitting the icy ground with a thud. Peter walked over to him anxiously. There was a moment of silence.

“Tommy - are you okay?” Tommy remained perfectly still. “Tommy! Tom!” Peter’s heart began to race. “Can you hear me?!” 

Tommy kept a straight face for a good thirty seconds. Then he burst into laughter. Embarrassed, Peter took the opportunity to pelt his friend with another snowball.

Peter looked down at the spot where Tommy had fallen over years ago. He had searched every hiding place he could think of on Orchard Close, but he still couldn’t find his friend. This wasn’t like Tommy. Confused, Peter walked up to the Shaw household and rang the doorbell. Peter was surprised to see the door opened by Tommy’s mother. Mrs Shaw looked different now; her hair, which had always been a vibrant brown, was now showing the first signs of grey.

“Hi there, Peter. What can I do for you?” Mrs Shaw asked, looking surprised.

“Is Tommy ready to come out and play?”

“Tommy? He’s in town right now. He’ll be back later, I think.”

Of course. Peter remembered now. The previous year, the boys had discussed buying a sledge to ride in the snow. Tommy had probably gotten up especially early to go out and get it. Peter was annoyed he hadn’t done the same - he could have helped Tommy to choose a good one! He hoped he picked a red sledge; red was clearly the best colour. Still, he was sure Tommy could be trusted make an informed choice.

“Oh right - thanks!” Peter chirped.

Mrs Shaw closed the door, her raised eyebrow unobserved by Peter. Walking back onto the street, Peter wondered how they were going to fit all of their activities in. As fun as the snowball fight and sledding would be, it was of course vital that they found time to build snowmen.

Snowman building was another tradition which had begun the first time it snowed. After the snowball fight had reached a ceasefire, Tommy began scraping the snow together with his wellington, forming a big pile at the foot of his driveway. Peter watched as he developed it into a short, stocky snowman. After carving a smile into its face and adding pebbles for eyes, Tommy stood back and laughed at his creation’s uncanny resemblance.

“Look, Pete! It’s you!”

“Aha. Thanks.”

Peter forced a smile as he glanced at the portly figure. Was that really was how he appeared to Tommy? Well, if that was how it was going to be… Gathering the remaining snow with his hands, Peter moulded a tall, narrow snowman to stand alongside his own likeness.

“I call him Mr Lanky,” Peter smirked.

“That is nothing like me.”

“It is too!”

Every year after that, the boys had ended their day off by building snowmen to resemble each other. With time to kill, Peter took it upon himself to make a start on his portrayal of Tommy. Having developed his craft over the years, Peter made his creation as similar to Tommy as possible: 5ft in height, and with a smile which was half-friendly, half-smirking. Peter stood back and looked proudly on the finished product. Glancing behind him, he almost expected to see Tommy admiring his work of art - but the street was  empty, the snow still lightly falling from the white sky. After pacing around for a while longer, Peter decided to do his friend a favour. Gathering more snow, he began work on Tommy’s usual task: making Snowman-Peter. Though Peter thought himself not quite as portly Tommy’s depictions suggested, he nonetheless moulded the snowman so as to resemble one of Tommy’s - short, wide and with a slightly gormless expression. Tommy would love it.

Yet the afternoon passed by, and still Tommy was nowhere to be seen. Feeling tired, Peter sat on the curb. He crafted some snowballs and began throwing them halfheartedly against the opposite wall, one by one. He was beginning to feel the cold, and was tempted to head home and call on Tommy again later. But he couldn’t risk missing him, so he waited. Surely there was an explanation? Tommy had never let Peter down before. Perhaps he was halfway home with the sledge and he realised it was broken, so he had to take it back. That would explain it. But would that really take up the entire afternoon? Peter shivered as he felt the snow soaking into his jeans.

In time the skies began to darken and the cold became unbearable. With a sigh, Peter prized himself up and trudged back towards his house. As he turned towards his driveway, he took one final glance up the road. Two figures were walking slowly down the street. Peter’s heart skipped. He squinted. Yes, it was Tommy! He was disguised in an unusually smart jacket and trousers, but it was definitely Tommy. At last they could let the fun begin. But where was the sledge?

Peter leapt through the snow towards his friend, forgetting that he was almost frostbitten. Getting closer, he looked at the other person. It was a girl, wearing a fancy white scarf and a lot of makeup. Her short brown hair and small features were familiar; Peter vaguely her recognised as somebody from the year above at school. Confused, but indifferent to her presence, Peter called out to his friend.

“Tommy! Where have you been?!”

Avoiding Peter’s eye, Tommy muttered a quiet “Hey.”

“I’ve been waiting all day! It’s nearly evening and we haven’t had our snowball fight!”

The girl smirked, and Peter took an instant disliking to her. Tommy remained silent.

“Well, once you’ve said goodbye to - your friend, we can get started. Can’t we, Tommy?”

Tommy looked at his companion apologetically before turning to Peter.

“Pete - don’t you know what day it is?”

“Of course I do. It’s snow day!” Peter grinned expectantly. Tommy sighed.

“I’m busy today, Peter. Sorry, pal.”

Peter watched in astonishment as his friend took the girl’s hand. The two walked, mitten in mitten, towards the Shaw household. As they shut the front door behind them, Peter thought about what Tommy said. What was so significant about today, other than that it was snowing? He recalled that tomorrow was the fifteenth, which was Tommy’s mother’s birthday. But this had never stopped Tommy coming out to play before. And besides, Mrs Shaw was at home.

Peter went back home and lay on his bed till the room went dark. When he fell asleep, he dreamed about snowball-fighting with Tommy - just himself and Tommy, playing together like they always did. By the following morning, the snow had started to melt and the clouds had given way to blue skies. The adults went back to work, and the snow on the street gradually disappeared. By the end of the day, all that remained of yesterday’s snow were two snowmen, stood side by side in the afternoon sun.