Half-truths & White Lies (7 page)

It makes me so angry, the idea that we can reinvent ourselves
by having a haircut or changing our clothes. The
truth is that we reinvent ourselves with the stories that
we tell and retell, justifying our actions to ourselves and
to others. Actions are so often without thought, but
because we want to give them meaning we analyse and
analyse, arriving at a conclusion of what we
must
have
been thinking at the time. We are not animals, after all.
Anything less is unacceptable. I see it time and time
again in my game. A suggestion of, 'I put it to you that
you were acting in revenge,' draws only a blank look
from the accused. The jury may pick up on the
suggestion, but not the poor sod on trial. No prosecutor
ever says, 'I put it to you that you weren't thinking,'
because it is his job to prove that a crime has been
committed. To commit theft, there must be the intent to
deprive permanently. To commit murder there must be
malice aforethought, not just some idiot who is vaguely
wondering what would happen if he were to pull this
little trigger. Without thought, we would be left with a
civil wrong or manslaughter at best. Most criminal
lawyers would be out of a job and the general public
would be up in arms because they want to feel that
justice has been done so that they can sleep soundly at
night. That's how the system works. How society
functions.

And then we have the man with good intentions he
can never live up to. He fits his story around his
original intentions and in the end they become more
important than the facts. Sometimes we repeat a story
so often that we even manage to convince ourselves that
our revisions are real. Take the example of a feud
between brothers. Add twenty years of grudge-bearing
and you may find that the people involved can't even
remember what high-minded principle it was that
started their argument. They have no idea how to make
amends because they simply can't remember what it is
they would have to forgive to be the bigger person. Far
easier to carry on with the feuding than admit to any
human frailty.

The other thing that I have become increasingly aware
of is that there is not just a single version of events
called the truth. Life is not nearly as simple as that. Each
of us brings to the table our own beliefs, backgrounds
and experiences and we all have the potential to
interpret a single event differently. One person's experience
is a truth of sorts, but it is never the whole story.
There is a separate truth for each one of us. The brain is
such an incredible organ that if we repeat things often
enough, we come to believe them. It can be the use of
the phrase, 'I'm not a good sleeper,' that creates the
insomniac., the repetition of prayers that creates faith.
After almost thirty years of working in the legal profession,
I have lost confidence in a system that looks for
a single set of facts by relying on the evidence of others
based on something as elastic as memory, and labels it
as truth. The plain fact is that I wouldn't want to be
judged by twelve of my peers, let alone by a higher
being. Let's hope that if there is a God, he takes a greater
interest in what is in our hearts than our actions, otherwise
I fear we're all for the high jump.

The story that I told Andrea as she recovered in
hospital was a truth of sorts. One over-simplified
version of a potted history of what was a very complicated
relationship. It was certainly the truth that I
thought she needed to hear. There are things that are
better left unsaid. I honestly believe that it is unfair to
unburden yourself on another soul when you have no
idea how they will deal with that information – if they
are capable of processing it at all. I grew up in a decade
where free love was supposedly acceptable (although I
saw little of it) but talking about feelings was completely
foreign. Besides, it would have been quite
inappropriate for me, as her godfather, to tell her any
more.

I have spent years looking into her eyes and at times
it has felt as if I am looking into a mirror, seeing a
reflection of my own emotions. With her, I have experienced
a little of the love that I hoped I would feel one
day for a child of my own. I spoilt her because I never
ad the opportunity to spoil my own child.
Occasionally I have wondered: 'What if?' The great
question that haunts all of us. I suspect that I may have
a longer list of what ifs than most, but human beings
are so much more complex than the labels we like to
saddle them with. Even Andrea, whom I like to think of
as one of the most honest and decent people I could
hope to meet. I know that I only see the side of her she
chooses to show me. I expect that she too has moments
when she battles with her demons.

I hope with all my heart that if she discovers our story,
she will realize that there was love at its centre and
that it was strong enough to survive whatever the
individuals put each other through, whether in the heat
of the moment, intentionally, or in jealousy. Love has
many faces. It is not always as pure as St Paul would
have us believe and I have found it to be both a blessing
and a curse, but I wouldn't have missed out on it for all
the world. You cannot appreciate the moments of joy
unless you accept the pain that comes hand in hand
with them.

In telling you my story, I will try to do away with any
embellishments I have added with time. I will try to
strip it back to the bare facts – if I can remember what
they were. It's such a long time ago that I can barely
recognize the person that I was.

Looking back, it seems that missing persons have always
had a huge influence on my life.

An only child, I was born in 1952 and christened
Jonathan Augustus Churcher after my father's identical
twin brother. I grew up with the vague explanation that
Uncle Jonathan had been 'lost' in the war. I remembered
the terror of getting lost in a department store
after breaking free from my mother's tight grasp on my
wrist. The humiliation of wearing reins meant nothing
to me after that.

'Who's looking for Uncle Jonathan?' I asked my
mother once.

'Shhhhh!' She glared at me, a finger raised to her lips.

On another occasion when he had been mentioned,
I suggested as sympathetically as I could, 'I expect they'll
find him soon.'

'Jonnie.' My mother shepherded me out of the sitting
room door with both hands. 'Go and play in your
room.'

As soon as I had a clearer understanding, the idea of
being named after a much-loved brother who had died a
hero's death struck me as quite a responsibility. My father
had returned from the war physically unscathed but
haunted by what he had seen – and probably by what he
found himself capable of. In those days his condition was
referred to in hushed tones as shell-shock. Sufferers either
put on a brave face and got on with life as best they could
or hid themselves away. Now we have given it a far
grander title: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and, having
such a grand title to describe it, people can be far more
open about it without fear of showing weakness.

My father changed from a good-humoured, even-tempered
young man to one who looked considerably
older than his years and was alternately withdrawn and
uncommunicative or demanding and volatile.

'Quiet! Quiet!' he would yell, covering his ears, even
though there was nothing louder than the ticking of the
clock on the mantelpiece that could have caused his
distress. 'Can't you stop that confounded noise?'

My mother would come running, assuming that I had
done something to disturb his peace.

'Jonnie, why don't you come and help me in the
kitchen and leave your father to his paper?' she would
suggest, steering me by the shoulder.

I almost preferred his explosions to the silences that
took him as he shut himself away from the world in the
parlour for days on end without so much as a book for
company. Then, nothing and no one could reach him.

'Take your father this nice cup of tea,' my mother
would encourage me, standing behind me at the door.
'And while you're at it, why don't you tell him what we
did at the park?'

'We fed the ducks,' I explained slowly, so that he
would understand.

'Yes, we did, didn't we?' My mother patted my head.

'Take him away, darling.' He stared into the empty
fireplace. 'I don't want him to see me like this.'

His sadness permeated the very fabric of our house. I
imagined it circulating perpetually, like the cigarette
smog that stained the ceilings and my father's hands
indiscriminately. His moods dictated our family life. I
learned to monitor them and modify my behaviour, in
the same way that you would check the weather forecast
before deciding what to wear in the morning. Make hay
while the sun shines. Tornado warning: batten down
the hatches. Showers expected: remember your
umbrella.

It was obvious that he came to regret breaking with
the family tradition of calling the first-born son
Frederick. I think that it was one of the ways that he
chose to punish himself. There were times when my
father could barely bring himself to use my name. He
developed a stutter as he tried to say 'J-Jonnie.' It must
have been quite pronounced because when I learned to
say my own name it was with a definite double 'j'. None
of this escaped my mother, who feared that he was
distancing himself from me. Even she was wary of using
my full name, as parents tend to when they want to put
the fear of God into you, concerned about the effect this
would have on my father. I learned to fear her whispers
far more than the times when she raised her voice. It
was only in a sharp whisper that she ever called me
Jonathan Augustus Churcher: such a big name for a
small child, and a sure sign of what was coming my way.

She played around with various shortened versions
when I was small, but each prompted a different but
distinct memory and a similar reaction: the slight
but noticeable pained expression, and a distinct change
in the atmospheric pressure.

Brought up in a house where nobody explained anything,
especially to a child, I spent my early years
studying my uncle's grinning photograph, trying to
imagine how he would have aged so that I could form a
search party of my own. I could detect the distress on
my father's face when his brother was mentioned in
conversation and he was unprepared for the intrusion. I
had long since given up hope that anyone else would
make an effort to find poor, lost Uncle Jonathan and I
felt that, as his namesake, it was my duty.

Once, as a seven-year-old on a rare trip to a crowded
beach, I was convinced that I saw him up ahead and
started running to follow a man who changed direction
frequently and easily outstrode me. I ended up completely
disorientated, trying in vain to find the way back
to my starting point. The problem with beaches is that
everything constantly shifts. I didn't appreciate that the
tide was going out. By the time I wanted to return to my
parents, the beach had grown and its population had
expanded. Following the waterline, I was actually
moving further and further away from them.

Just as despair was about to set in, I saw a small hut
with the words 'Lost and Found' on it. I picked my way
over the tangle of limbs to a kindly soul sitting at the
door in a deckchair and announced, 'I'm looking for my
Uncle Jonathan.'

'Is that who you came with today, lovey?' she asked.

'No, I'm with my parents, but it's my Uncle Jonathan
who's lost. Isn't this where all the lost people come?' I
danced from side to side to try to look past her into the
hut, where a number of children were sitting on
wooden slatted benches anchored firmly in the sand.
There wasn't another adult in sight.

'That's right, darling. And where are your mummy
and daddy?'

'Over there.' I pointed vaguely with a circular motion.

'I think you'd better stay here with us. This is where
they'll come if they can't find you.'

I joined the other children, certain that the reason
that we had come to the seaside was to look for Uncle
Jonathan, and proud to have been clever enough to
locate the Lost and Found first. Surely it would only be
a matter of time before he turned up? But my initial
optimism subsided as the day wore on and my thoughts
turned to how disappointed my father would be and the
effect that this would have on him. It later turned out
that this misery was nothing compared with the thrashing
I'd receive after explaining the reason for my
disappearance.

It was not just the punishment that upset me,
although it was about the worst I had received in all of
my seven years. I simply didn't understand what I had
done to deserve it. I truly hated my father for failing to
appreciate that I had been trying to do something nice
for him. And I hated my mother too for not standing
up for me and making him understand.

As I lay face-down on my pillow in bed that night, I
heard the door opening and feared that I was in for it
again. I clenched my eyes shut and pretended to be
asleep, but instead of a harsh hand, I felt my hair being
stroked.

'Jonnie,' my mother whispered softly (a good
sign), 'you must understand how worried we were
about you. You must never wander off and get lost like
that again. Anything could have happened to you.'

'Is that what happened to Uncle Jonathan?' I asked in
all innocence, imagining him lost among armies of
men, trying to find his way through to the person in
charge.

'Jonathan Augustus!' Her tone changed to one of
anger. 'You got lost today. Uncle Jonathan was left
behind in the war.' And then I think the penny must
have dropped, because her voice lost its harshness. In
avoiding the words that might have caused further
anguish for my father, she hadn't thought to make
things clear enough for me to understand. 'You do
know that Uncle Jonathan was killed in the war, don't
you? He's dead, Jonnie. And I don't think your father
will ever get over it.'

Dead? But he was a war hero who had saved the lives
of countless others. How could he be dead? Heroes
didn't die, did they? Certainly not in the comic books I
read.

Then something strange happened. I became aware
that my mother was openly sobbing and she lay down
on the bed beside me. I had never seen her with her
guard down before and I watched with fascination as
the hate melted away into something closer to pity.
Displays of feelings like this were rare in our house. The
only person who was allowed to be upset or annoyed
was my father.

After a while had passed, I announced, 'I think I will
be called Peter from now on,' picking the first name that
came to mind. I had no idea where the thought came
from until the words came out of my mouth. Once out,
I wasn't sure I should have said them.

My mother sat up on the bed, wiped her eyes with her
hands and straightened her clothes, before saying, 'Do
you know, I think that's a very good idea. Peter. Yes, I
think we can live with that.' She clung to the name, as
pleased as if she had thought of the idea herself. 'Peter
Churcher. That's not too bad at all.'

I have no idea what discussions took place behind
closed doors that night, but I was never called Jonathan
or Jonnie or John at home again. Not by my parents or
any family members, or by my teachers in school.
Overnight, I became plain Peter Churcher, and it was
about as liberating an experience as a seven-year-old is
capable of.

I don't want you to think of my father as an unkind
man or a bad father. I appreciated his moments of
kindness all the more, because I knew that they didn't
come naturally to him. It used to frustrate him that I
spent so much time admiring his brother's photograph.
The grin on Uncle Jonathan's face almost seemed out of
place in our gloomy sitting room. Occasionally, my
father would rise from his olive armchair, walk slowly to
the fireplace and turn the photograph to face the wall,
saying nothing. It was my mother who would pipe up,
'That's enough for today, Peter.'

One day I went into the sitting room to find that the
photograph was gone. Before I could help myself, I
blurted out, 'Where's Uncle Jonathan?' I recoiled
instantly with the shock of the sound of my own voice,
waiting for my father's reaction. The clickity-click of my
mother's knitting needles stopped, suspended in the air,
and I could see that she was holding her breath.

My father took the cigarette from his mouth and
exhaled slowly, then said, 'He's exactly where he
belongs, son. I've found him a new home.'

I had surprised myself so much by my outburst that I
didn't feel able to ask where that home might be,
although I strongly suspected that it was somewhere I
would no longer be able to look at him. It was with
sadness and heavy feet that I trudged up the stairs to my
room, to find it lit with the yellow glow of my bedside
lamp. There, under the lamp's halo, was the photograph,
tilted at an angle so that I would be able to see it when
lying down in bed. My father, who very rarely entered my
bedroom, was standing in the doorway behind me. I
hadn't heard him follow me in his carpet slippers.

'You approve, I hope,' he said seriously. 'I know you'll
take good care of him.'

'Oh, yes!' I nodded, picking up the picture by the
frame. I wanted to thank him, but he disappeared just
as silently and the moment passed. I was careful to put
the photograph back in the exact same position he had
placed it. It struck me later that he must have lain down
on my bed to work out where it needed to go and I
imagined that I could still see his imprint on the covers.
Lying down inside my father's outline and staring at his
brother's photograph was the closest that we came to a
physical embrace before the days of manly handshakes
and backslaps.

As Jonathan Augustus Churcher, I could only have
disappointed my father. As Peter Churcher, I was
capable of a far closer relationship with him than we
would have otherwise enjoyed. Despite this, the uncle
that I never met remained the most interesting character
in our family history for me. I find it sad that I know so
little about him, as my father volunteered only snippets
of information. Once I no longer had need of it, the
name Jonathan became almost taboo in our house. For
the most part, the image that I have of my uncle is the
product of my imagination. But how clear that image is,
even now! I do know that he hoped to follow a career
in the legal profession. And that there was only ever one
woman for Jonathan: his childhood sweetheart, Betty,
whom he'd met at school and loved from the moment
he clapped eyes on her.

I met Betty once when she was well into her
sixties. She turned up at a family gathering.

'On a whim,' she said, after introducing herself, and
directed her gaze at the back of my father's head. 'I wondered
if enough time had passed. I don't think he
knows me. Look at me! I hardly know myself.'

Oh, he knows you all right, I thought to myself. Just
look how skilfully he's avoiding you.

She had never married, never had children and didn't
seem to have aged at the same rate as those who had.

'Tell me about my uncle,' I asked her. 'What was he
like?'

She replied simply, 'He was my Jonnie,' as if I had
asked the most extraordinary question. Now, of course,
I know exactly how she felt. She was not interested in
Jonnie the man of action, Jonnie the war hero.