Come and Tell Me Some Lies by Raffaella Barker Read Free Book Online Page B

Their huge feet tripped people over in the kitchen where they sat at the table whistling and fidgeting, waiting like cuckoos for Mum to give them breakfast. I watched them from my distant pinnacle of London glamour, home for a weekend and frothing my conversation with stories of champagne and film stars I had encountered at parties. I was twenty-one and liberated; a friend of a friend had got me a job with a small television production company and suddenly, by accident, I was a real person. The boys, jeans ripped, housed in West London squats, regarded me curiously, their smiles indulgent and conspiratorial as I rattled on. ‘Get her,’ Brodie grinned when I advanced into the kitchen, prancing in a swish of lemon-sorbet silk. ‘This dress is borrowed from a fashion designer,’ I boasted. ‘We used it for a programme on couture last week. Do you like it?’
    â€˜It’s all right.’ Brodie lit a cigarette and rolled back on his chair. ‘You do look a bit of a prat, though.’
    I scowled and spun out of the kitchen. Dad was in theplayroom, small in the arms of a big chair. A book lay open, rising and falling gently on his stomach, resting with him while he slept. He looked up as I opened the door. ‘Enchanting, dear heart, and utterly frivolous.’
    As the boys grew, Dad seemed to shrink. Brown pill-bottles and little inhalers like periscopes appeared in the house and followed him wherever he went. He coughed a lot, and when I asked him what he wanted me to bring from London he looked solemn and said, ‘A pair of wings for when I go to join the angels.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ My voice, intended to be bantering and no-nonsense, quavered on a sob.
    Dad leaned forward and winked in conspiracy. ‘Get me a cigarette, kid, and don’t tell your mother. The doctor thinks I’ve given up, and Ellie’s been policing me.’
    A sheet of ice slid between my skin and the swathed warmth of silk. He was really ill. He was about to die, I was never going to see him again. I knew that, in years, he was old enough to be our grandfather, but in spirit he was younger than all my friends’ parents. His mortality hit me coldly in the face. My nose prickled and began to run as tears swelled in my eyes. Miserable, guilty, I gave Dad a cigarette from my packet. How could I refuse his final request? Mum came in, bringing a cup of tea and a piece of dark, wet cake for Dad.
    â€˜Where did you get that cigarette?’ she demanded, and my face crumpled in a weeping slide.
    â€˜Dad said he wanted one last one,’ I gulped, wiping streaming eyes on the hem of my dress, and followed her out of the room. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
    Mum looked blank. ‘Tell you what?’
    â€˜How ill Dad is.’ I was off. Trembling, exploding with sobs, smearing black drips of mascara down my peerless, priceless, borrowed yellow dress.
    I heard Mum laughing, soothing, close to my ear as she stroked my hair. ‘Pay no attention to him at all,’ she insisted. ‘He’s been ill, and Dr Jones wants him to stop smoking, but he’s as strong as an ox, and as stubborn. He particularly enjoys getting cigarettes by blackmail, and even had a bet with Flook about how many he would achieve today.’
    Relief turned to outrage. I marched back into the playroom. ‘How could you, Dad. Look what’s happened to my dress, all because you had some stupid bet with Flook.’ I flashed the damp skirt towards him and he bowed his head and looked sheepish. ‘Why can’t that goddam woman mind her own business,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.
    But later, he stood up very slowly and paused to catch his breath before leaving the room. I glanced at Brodie stretched full length on the sofa, black boots lolling on the rocking-horse beyond. He was watching Dad, and his expression was lopsided and dismayed.

Chapter 17
    Neither of the cars was