I posted a photograph from our family holiday online, and within the hour my sisterinlaw rang, tears in her voice.
Look at this, isnt it lovely! said Ethel, curling her legs under her on the settee while she flicked through the pictures on her tablet. Arthur, have a look at how funny Mick turned out!
Arthur, her husband, put aside the ledger of the household budget that he tended to each month with military precision, and leaned over her shoulder.
Not bad, he murmured, though his eyes were more worried than merry. The expenses this month the sea was wonderful, but weve left a gaping hole in the accounts.
Arthur, we havent been away all year! Ethel puffed. We saved for this. You kept telling me we should give the boy a break by the sea.
He sighed. I did say that, but saying and seeing the figures are two different things. Well tighten the belt next month. Micks summer camp will have to be cancelled; we cant afford it.
How can you cancel it? Ethels voice quivered. Hes been looking forward to ithiking, kayaking
Itll be fine. He can stay at Grans cottage for fresh air. Thatll do him good. Lets not argue. Ive decided.
Ethel fell silent. Arguing with Arthur over money was pointless. He was a devoted husband and father, dependable in every way but merciless with the purse. Every penny mattered to him. He prided himself on the safety cushion they kept in the bank for unexpected costs. Though Ethel sometimes muttered that the cushion was too hard, deep down she respected his prudence and his planning.
She chose what she thought was the best picture: the three of themher, Arthur and twelveyearold Mickstanding on the Brighton promenade, sunkissed and smiling, the azure sea glittering behind them and a white paddle steamer gliding in the distance. A picture of a perfect family. She hit publish on her social profile and wrote simply, Our little southern bliss.
Within minutes the likes and comments poured in: Stunning!, You look brilliant!, Where did you go? Ethel replied with a smile, warmed by the virtual applause.
An hour later she had almost forgotten the post, turning her mind to dinner. The kitchen phone rang. The screen displayed Elsie. Her sisterinlaw, with whom she had always been on good terms.
Elsie, love, how are you?
Instead of the usual bright tone, Ethel heard a sobbing whimper.
Ethel is it really true? Elsie sobbed.
Whats true? Elsie, whats happened? Why are you crying?
The photograph on the internet Is it a montage?
What montage? Its just a holiday snap. Explain, youre scaring me!
There behind the steamer a man in a white shirt is that him? Is that David?
Ethels heart stopped. David Arthurs best mate, the husband of their close friend Irene. He had been killed three years earlier in a terrible crash on the A1, the car consumed by fire, his body laid in a closed coffin. The loss had crushed everyone. Arthur had turned grey overnight. Irene, his widow, had struggled to raise their daughter alone, scraping by from penny to penny.
Elsie, youre mistaken! Davids dead!
No! Elsie shouted, hoarse. I recognise him! The birthmark on his neck, his watch! Please, look closely!
Ethel dropped the knife she was using, wiped her hands, and rushed to the tablet. She opened the picture and zoomed in. Past their smiling faces, towards the white steamer, a group of people could be seen. Among them stood a man in a white shirt and light trousers, halfturned, speaking to a woman who held a little girls hand.
She zoomed further. The image was grainy, but the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the watch on his wrist the very watch they had all gifted Arthur and David for their thirtieth birthdays and the dark spot on his neck, just visible under the shirt collar.
It was him. David, alive, healthy, apparently happy with another woman and another child.
The world tilted. Ethel sank into a chair, stunned. This could not be real; it felt like a cruel prank.
You see? Elsie cried into the receiver. Hes alive and Irene shes been grinding away for three years, barely getting by, and he just ran off! How could he?
I I dont know, Elsie Ill call you back.
Ethel hung up, staring at the photograph, at her own smiling face. How foolish she had been, how blind.
Then her mind, still numbed by shock, started piecing together the disjointed fragments into a grotesque picture.
Arthurs monthly transfers. Hed claimed they were for his elderly Aunt Lucy in York, saying, Shes struggling, the pension isnt enough, we must help family. Ethel never questioned a aunt.
His hushed, clipped phone calls, always disappearing into another room. Yes, Ive received it. No, she doesnt know. Dont worry. Shed assumed it was work.
The sudden stinginess that had crept in exactly three years ago the constant save, save, save, the refusal to pay for Micks camp.
She understood at last. The money didnt go to an aunt; it went to his dead friend. He had been complicit in a monstrous deceit, siphoning from their modest life to fund a new, comfortable existence for David.
The front door opened. Arthur walked in, humming.
Hello! Whats that wonderful smell? he asked cheerfully, heading for the kitchen.
He saw her pale face, the tablet on the table, and stopped. He followed her gaze to the screen.
Something wrong? he asked, his voice suddenly strained.
Its happened, Arthur, she said, eyes empty of tears, only cold and void. Your sister called, asking after Aunt Lucy in York. Shes apparently settled nicely down south, by the sea. In fact, shes now called David. I suppose youre aware.
She turned the tablet toward him. His face went ashen for a heartbeat, then grey. He understood.
Ill explain everything he began.
No, she cut him off. Im not listening to your lies any longer. How much have you sent him over these three years? One hundred thousand? Two hundred? A million? How much have you stolen from us? From me, from our son?
I didnt steal! he blazed. I was helping a friend! He was in debt, he would have been killed! The only way out was to disappear and start anew!
And Irene? Her daughter, little Anny? Theyre not in trouble?! she shouted. His wife, who thought shed been widowed at twentyeight! His child, growing up without a father! Did you ever think of them when you were funding this scoundrels fresh start?
Ira is strong, shell manage, he muttered. David had no choice.
Choice is always there, Arthur! she snapped, the thud of her fist on the table sounding like a gunshot. You chose him over us! You lied to me every day! Every time you said we couldnt afford Micks camp, you were lying! Every time I patched his jeans because there was no money for new ones, you were lying! You made me an accomplice to your lies!
He lowered his head, speechless.
One thing I want to know, her voice fell to a whisper, our trip to the sea we didnt end up in Brighton by accident, did we? You wanted to see him?
He nodded slowly.
That was the last straw. The whole holiday, the little bliss, had been a cover for his secret rendezvous. She, Ethel, and Mick had been nothing more than scenery in his other mans drama.
She reached for her phone. Her fingers trembled, but she forced herself to dial.
Who are you calling? Arthur asked, anxiety in his tone.
Where truth still lives, she replied.
On the other end came Elsies sobfilled but composed voice.
Ethel, maybe we shouldnt she
It must be done, Elsie. She has to know. Weve lived in lies far too long.
Arthur stared at her, horror dawning as he realised the impending collapse of his secret and his entire life. He stepped forward, trying to snatch the phone.
Dont she hissed, her eyes blazing with cold fury, forcing him back.
A weary voice whispered from the line. Yes, Im listening.
Its Irene, Ethel said, taking a deep breath. We need to talk. It concerns David.
She sat at the table, her back to the man who once seemed unshakable. She did not know what tomorrow would bringdivorce, the division of assets, Micks tearsbut she was doing the only thing she could: returning the stolen truth to the woman whose life had been robbed. It was the first step of her own liberation.
Sometimes a single, careless photograph can shatter the illusion of a happy life and expose a terrible reality.
