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.
“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.
