In Good Company: The Gentle Art Of Prevarication
...But my best ‘romances’ were woven at junior school, when imagination was dangerously fertile. My mother’s maxim – ‘I’d rather have a thief than a liar, you can always get to the bottom of a thief,’ had little effect. I was fast becoming equally proficient at both...
Enid Blackburn confesses that she has often made use of the gentle art of prevarication.
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'I am not in the habit of lying,’ I often snap at my family – which is not strictly true. I slip into the gentle art of prevarication more often than I care to admit. ‘Too small,’ I lied to a shop assistant when a dress made me look ugly. ‘Mm, lovely,’ I sighed when confronted with my back view in the hairdressers’ hand mirror and all I’m wishing for is the sanctity of home and a hairbrush.
But my best ‘romances’ were woven at junior school, when imagination was dangerously fertile. My mother’s maxim – ‘I’d rather have a thief than a liar, you can always get to the bottom of a thief,’ had little effect. I was fast becoming equally proficient at both.
At one stage, I was leading a doubly deceitful existence. Each morning I went to school with a bundle of ‘presents’ tucked under my arm. My mum’s glass animals, jewellery, scarves, anything I hoped would not be missed. These were doled out in order of imminent birthdays. I had this terrible fear of not being invited to parties.
Our party host was busy ‘bulling’ his buttons in the RAF, ready to fight the Germans somewhere, so our party giving had sadly declined. I was beginning to realise that people who throw parties never invite those who don’t. To make sure of being a regular guest I hit on the present giving idea and spun this yarn about ‘Fairies’ leaving these gifts behind in our wood. But one sceptic was unmoved by this charity. She didn’t believe in fairies, even if they did come up with glass Bambies, etc.
Seeing as her birthday was next I had no choice but to sit with her on top of the wall which enclosed the wood and wait. While I was promising God the impossible if he made something magical appear, an old man who kept hens in one shady corner approached a tree just below us and, with a shifty look from left to right, proceeded to irrigate it personally. My friend’s enthusiasm was sadly dampened.
As I walked her home past the largest, most impressive mansion in the district, my first social-climbing instincts stirred within. ‘My gran lives here.’ I was pretty desperate now, determined to be on her list before bus time. She paused to admire the outsize orchard (my gran’s Corporation house would have been lost in the garden hut). The smirk on my friend’s face spurred me on. With the confidence of a born liar, I marched up the endless drive for a ‘visit.’ In full view of the impressive French windows, my well-being evaporated – I fled. Outside the big gates, when breathing allowed, I explained; ‘I’d forgotten she goes to whist drives on Wednesdays.’
The invitation came on Friday. My come-uppance followed on party day. Watched by sardonic birthday girl and grinning friends, I had to answer her mother’s question: ‘Does your granny still live up at t’Nook?’ truthfully.
When other children were boasting about their father’s strength, my son was making up stories about my health. He told some beauties, especially if he was left pram-guarding outside a shop. ‘She’s been rushed off in an ambulance’ was his answer to enquiries of ‘Where’s your mum?’ The symptoms varied according to season. ‘She’s been stung by a wasp,’ he told one ‘In both eyes,’ he added, when she didn’t look impressed enough.
I became accustomed to greetings like, ‘What was the operation like then?’ and ‘You seem to be walking better now.’ I could have understood lies about my age, but lying about my health? Was it wishful thinking?
