Half-truths & White Lies by Jane Davis Read Free Book Online

and
what was the point for the sake of a few short
hours before she forgot again? 'You were almost right
about the mice.' I avoided her gaze. 'It's rats this time.'
    'I knew it!' Nana seemed triumphant. 'Finally! I knew
I could get the truth out of you. You've never been very
good at lying.'
    Returning to the living room to report back to my
aunt, I sat down heavily and sighed, probably louder
than I had intended.
    'Well,' she asked without taking her eye off the paper
she was reading, 'what's your verdict?'
    'She sounds like Nana,' I ventured cautiously and then
paused.
    'But . . .' She motioned diagonally with her left hand,
sweeping it away from her face.
    I shrugged hopelessly and mimicked her hand
movement.
    'So you'll support me in finding a place for her?'
    One innocent question. I knew everything that it
would mean for both Nana and me. All of her hopes of
living in her own home in her old age dashed. The sale of
the only home that I could remember. But more than
that, it felt as if I was betraying my memories of my
parents. And yet I knew that it was unreasonable to expect
Aunty Faye to look after Nana in the long term. Given the
choice, I had to admit that I didn't want to care for Nana
at home on my own, even if it meant keeping my treasured
memories. I betrayed them all with a nod,
swallowing the words that I could not bring myself to say.
    'Good girl.' Aunty Faye's voice had no trace of
emotion in it. 'It's going to work out for the best. For
everyone.'

Chapter Nine
    Nervously, I pushed open my parents' bedroom door
against the heavy pile of the carpet. The room, usually
ordered with almost military precision, was as my
mother had left it after hunting for the red sling-backs.
The doors of the fitted wardrobes that lined the far wall
were open, shoes and handbags spilling out. I sat on the
edge of the bed waiting for a little courage. As I sighed,
I breathed in my mother's favourite perfume, Jasmine,
still lingering. It was as if I suffered a further loss later
when the trace of perfume faded and the room started
to smell differently.
    I was starting the slow process of packing away my
memories so that I could put them somewhere safe
until I was in a fit state to deal with them. There had
been no shortage of offers to help me box up my
parents' belongings, but I had said a firm 'No, thank
you' to a nervous Uncle Pete and a relieved Aunty Faye.
It felt wrong to be disturbing anything at all, but I didn't
want to be rushed or be carried along with someone
else's agenda.
    I stood on the edge of the bed to reach the top
cupboards where the suitcases were kept. I resisted the
temptation to trampoline, but had a vivid memory of
jumping on my parents' bed and laughing my socks off
as my father pretended that my feeble jumps were
propelling him into the air. A good pull brought the
cases crashing down to the floor followed closely by me,
thrown off balance by their weightlessness. It's not the fall that'll kill you . The luggage labels from last year's
holiday were still attached. I hadn't gone – too old for
family holidays – but Nana had joined them.
    'Our little threesome,' she had joked, tucking her
hand into the crook of my mother's elbow, while my
dad pulled faces behind her back.
    'Isn't it enough that we share our house with her?' I
had heard his hushed voice through the door as I crept
across the landing after a night out.
    'She might not be here next year,' my mother replied.
    'What are you talking about? The woman's indestructible.
She'll outlive the lot of us.'
    It was clearly a bone of contention between them.
There was no question of who had won that particular
quarrel. And yet Dad had come home referring to Nana
as his gambling buddy. It seems that they found
common ground when they discovered a local casino
and tried their hands at the tables. It was my mother
who was the lemon in the end.
    My only plan was to pack away things that I wanted
to keep and to put the rest in bin liners to take to
Oxfam.