Rob Currie

The first lie

It’s ten past eight, on the morning of the first day of school, and my little sister has just told her first lie.

“I can’t find my school shoes, mummy!”

She knows full well where they are. She’s hidden them behind her wardrobe.

“Where’s the box?” my mum asks her. “Where’s the shoe box?”

“I don’t know!”

Second lie. She’s squashed it flat and hidden it under her bed.

“Look in the porch!”

“I looked!”

She’s getting really good at this now. It’s sweet in a way, and harmless. She just wants to wear her trainers instead, because her pal Molly’s getting to wear hers

Mum’s gone upstairs to look for the shoes now. She’ll find them – mum finds everything – and she’ll shout out about how cross she is. She won’t consider that my little sister learnt it from her.

Mum tells so many lies, I don’t think she even realises half the time. Last week was her birthday, and the look on her face when she unwrapped her present from granddad. “Oh you shouldn’t have! That’s really lovely, honestly, such a thoughtful gift. Best jumper ever!”

“Check your big sister’s room!”

“It’s not there, I looked already!”

“Look again!”

It’s quarter past eight now. When dad was here we’d do a family photo in the living room on the first day of school. All four of us. Now mum just takes our photo in the hall, and only if she remembers. She look last years ‘first day of term’ photo a week after term started. I’m thinking of going ahead to catch a bus or something, but mum shouts down to me, to come and help look.

When I get to the bedroom, my little sister looks pleadingly at me. She knows I know, and she knows I’ll probably tell mum. She’s so annoying, I usually can’t be bothered. Today though, I take pity on her.

“Mum, just let her wear trainers! We’re gonna be late!”

“No child of mine is wearing trainers to school!”

Mum’s friend Bunsie was round the other day. “Hi darling,” mum said, “how are you? Oh, you’re dieting? Well of course! I noticed as soon as I saw you! Yes, you look very … svelte.”

I had to go look up ‘svelte.’ Bunsie isn’t svelte.

Being ten, and going into primary seven, I’m starting to realise that grown-ups lie all the time. When dad was still around he used to tell me if I put my finger in my belly-button, my bum would fall off. He used to say I had to go to bed for nine PM, because mum turned into a pumpkin at quarter past.

“What time is it now? It’s almost half past! Find those shoes!”

Dad’s lies were always fun. More like stories, because I knew they were made-up. He’d get me good though, from time to time. “Ready for the dentist?” he’d ask, and put me in the car, my face like thunder. Ten minutes later we’d be at the cinema, him laughing, and I’d be happy again.

And then mum lied to me, properly, for the first time. I didn’t know straight away. I probably should have. Her face was all sad, and twisty. She didn’t look at me properly.

My little sister’s crying now, because mum’s starting to flip. “We’re really going to be late, this is ridiculous! Where have you put them?”

“I’ll just wear my trainers mummy, I don’t mind, honest!”

For a second I want to just reach behind the wardrobe, pull out the shiny, clumpy school shoes, and make my sister wear them. I look at my own, black and new. I keep thinking about that lie my mum told.

“He’ll be home soon,” she’d said. “Safe and sound. You’ll see.”

He came home, but he wasn’t safe. He was dead, and I wasn’t allowed to see. That upset me the most. My dad was in a coffin, so near to me, and I wasn’t allowed to see…

Granddad saluted. Mum cried for days. My sister was too little to understand.

The lying never stopped after that. There used to be a picture of him on the fridge, just him in the garden on a sunny day. I used to take it down just to look at it. One day, the picture was gone. I asked my mum if she knew where it’d gone and she said, “no idea.”

She moved it. I heard her telling Bunsie one day. “She kept taking it down Buns. I didn’t want it to get torn…”

“Here they are! Why on earth are they behind the wardrobe? Did you put them here?”

“No!”

“Put them on, quickly! I’ll go start the car…”

I kneel down in front of my sister to help her with the Velcro straps. Her bottom lip is wobbling, like it always does when she’s about to cry. I stroke her leg. “Don’t worry,” I say, “you’ll be fine. All the other kids will definitely be wearing proper shoes.”

I sigh. My first lie of the day.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story.

‘The first lie’ is published in my collection of short fiction, ‘Lies and Concerns: Ten short stories,’ which is available for Amazon Kindle, here, and has a page on Goodreads here.