LIES LIES
LIES (MIRA
Trade Paperback; August 4, 2020; $17.99) centers on the story of Simon and
Daisy Barnes. To the outside world, Simon and Daisy look like they have a
perfect life. They have jobs they love, an angelic, talented daughter, a tight
group of friends... and they have secrets too. Secrets that will find their way
to the light, one way or the other.
Daisy and Simon spent almost a decade hoping for the
child that fate cruelly seemed to keep from them. It wasn’t until, with their
marriage nearly in shambles and Daisy driven to desperation, little Millie was
born. Perfect in every way, healing the Barnes family into a happy unit of
three. Ever indulgent Simon hopes for one more miracle, one more baby. But his
doctor’s visit shatters the illusion of the family he holds so dear.
Now, Simon has turned to the bottle to deal with his
revelation and Daisy is trying to keep both of their secrets from spilling
outside of their home. But Daisy’s silence and Simon’s habit begin to build
until they set off a catastrophic chain of events that will destroy life as
they know it.
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May 1976
Simon was six years old when he first
tasted beer.
He was bathed and ready for bed wearing
soft pyjamas, even though it was light outside; still early. Other kids were in
the street, playing on their bikes, kicking a football. He could hear them
through the open window, although he couldn’t see them because the blinds were
closed. His daddy didn’t like the evening light glaring on the TV screen, his
mummy didn’t like the neighbours looking in; keeping the room dark was
something they agreed on.
His mummy didn’t like a lot of things:
wasted food, messy bedrooms, Daddy driving too fast, his sister throwing a
tantrum in public. Mummy liked ‘having standards’. He didn’t know what that
meant, exactly. There was a standard-bearer at Cubs; he was a big boy and got
to wave the flag at the front of the parade, but his mummy didn’t have a flag,
so it was unclear. What was clear was that she didn’t like him to be in the
street after six o’clock. She thought it was common. He wasn’t sure what common
was either, something to do with having fun. She bathed him straight after tea
and made him put on pyjamas, so that he couldn’t sneak outside.
He didn’t know what his daddy didn’t like,
just what he did like. His daddy was always thirsty and liked a drink. When he
was thirsty he was grumpy and when he had a drink, he laughed a lot. His daddy
was an accountant and like to count in lots of different ways: “a swift one’,
“a cold one’, and ‘one more for the road’. Sometimes Simon though his daddy was
lying when he said he was an accountant; most likely, he was a pirate or a
wizard. He said to people, “Pick your poison’, which sounded like something
pirates might say, and he liked to drink, “the hair of a dog’ in the morning at
the weekends, which was definitely a spell. Simon asked his mummy about it once
and she told him to stop being silly and never to say those silly things
outside the house.
He had been playing with his Etch A Sketch,
which was only two months old and was a birthday present. Having seen it
advertised on TV, Simon had begged for it, but it was disappointing. Just two
silly knobs making lines that went up and down, side to side. Limited. Boring.
He was bored. The furniture in the room was organised so all of it was pointing
at the TV which was blaring but not interesting. The news. His parents liked
watching the news, but he didn’t. His father was nursing a can of the grown
ups’ pop that Simon was never allowed. The pop that smelt like nothing else,
fruity and dark and tempting.
“Can I have a sip?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly, Simon,” his mother
interjected. “You’re far too young. Beer is for daddies.” He thought she said
‘daddies’, but she might have said ‘baddies’.
His father put the can to his lips, glared
at his mother, cold. A look that said, “Shut up woman, this is man’s business.”
His mother had blushed, looked away as though she couldn’t stand to watch, but
she held her tongue. Perhaps she thought the bitterness wouldn’t be to his
taste, that one sip would put him off. He didn’t like the taste. But he enjoyed
the collusion. He didn’t know that word then, but he instinctively understood
the thrill. He and his daddy drinking grown ups’ pop! His father had looked
satisfied when he swallowed back the first mouthful, then pushed for a second.
He looked almost proud. Simon tasted the aluminium can, the snappy biting bitter
bubbles and it lit a fuse.
After that, in the mornings, Simon would
sometimes get up early, before Mummy or Daddy or his little sister, and he’d
dash around the house before school, tidying up. He’d open the curtains, empty
the ashtrays, clear away the discarded cans. Invariably his mother went to bed
before his father. Perhaps she didn’t want to have to watch him drink himself
into a stupor every night, perhaps she hoped denying him an audience might take
away some of the fun for him, some of the need. She never saw just how bad the
place looked by the time his father staggered upstairs to bed. Simon knew it
was important that she didn’t see that particular brand of chaos.
Occasionally there would be a small amount
of beer left in one of the cans. Simon would slurp it back. He found he liked
the flat, forbidden, taste just as much as the fizzy hit of fresh beer. He’d
throw open a window, so the cigarette smoke and the secrets could drift away.
When his mother came downstairs, she would smile at him and thank him for
tidying up.
“You’re a good boy, Simon,” she’d say with
some relief. And no idea.
When there weren’t dregs to be slugged, he
sometimes opened a new can. Threw half of it down his throat before eating his
breakfast. His father never kept count.
Some people say their favourite smell is
freshly baked bread, others say coffee or a campfire. From a very young age,
few scents could pop Simon’s nerve endings like the scent of beer.
The promise of it.
Excerpted from
Lies Lies Lies by Adele Parks, Copyright © 2020 by Adele Parks.
Published by MIRA
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Photo Credit: Sekkides
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