The Truth Will Out
by Glenn Muir
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Lies and the consequences of telling them.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Lies and the consequences of telling them.
“Lees
will aywiss come back tae haunt ye, tell the truth and shame the deil. Onieway
if ye tell the truth ye dinnae hae tae remember whit ye’ve telt folk. I wish
folk wid keep this in mind when they are talking tae me, ye’d be surprised how
monie different versions o a story they’ll tell ye and they cannae aa be true, can
they?” Gus said quietly as he sipped his Guinness.
I sensed that I was about tae be subjected tae yin o Gus’s diatribes against his feckless in-laws. Sure enough, that is exactly what occurred. As Gus’s closest freen and confidante, I kenned this was going tae tak up a lot o valuable drinking time, so I suggested we sat at a table instead o standing at the bar.
The Rid Lion was jist aboot empty, Harry the barman’s glum face was less than welcoming and he muttered something inaudible as we took a seat at yin o the wee rustic tables next tae the open fire.
“Nane o that lot are capable o stringing a sentence thegither withoot inserting a lee at some point. Senga the pathological liar is probably the worst, aye that’s her that claimed the man on the porage box wis climbing the drainpipe outside her hoose. According tae the shrinks, she’s got multiple personalities, her being an alky doesnae help of course and her penchance for approaching complete strangers saying gimme a fiver or I’ll shout rape isnae a winner either. It wisnae really a surprise when the social took the weans aff her. The wife’s parents had tae step up tae the plate an tak owre their upbringing.” Gus had deep hatred for Senga, I think it micht hae had something tae dae wi the time she broke intae his hoose and chased Doris wi a big jaggy shard o gless.
Gus continued, “Billy Handbag (the brither) he continually lees, pretending he isnae gay. Naebody wha loves housework like he does can be straight, noo it disnae bother me if he he’s a jobbie jabber. Live an let live, Ah say, as long as he isnae touching ma erse. Ye ken he bocht a fedora oot o yin o they charity shops doon the toon. He sauntered intae his maw’s kitchen wi it perched on his napper. Doris wis in having a cuppa, she telt me that the mither said tae Billy that he wis the spitting image o Michael Jackson wi that hat oan. Noo that wis Doris’s cue tae leave. As she said, and I will quote verbatim, he looks fuck all like Michael Jackson, Michael Jackson is guid looking, Billy is an ugly wee get, Boris Karloff eat yer hert oot. His heid’s wasted enough withoot his maw filling it wi pish.”
At this point, I says tae Gus, “Whit aboot Sid, he didnae constantly lee tae ye, did he?” Sid (Gus’s guid-faither recently deceased) wis the patriarch o the family and he aywiss seemed ok tae me.
“Ah’ll gie ye that yin, Sid wisnae intae that mendacity malarkey.” Gus drained his glass and shouted tae Harry, “Twa pints o Guinness, please Harry, hae yin yersel, he’s paying.” Nodding in ma general direction. Gus continued wi the character assassinations of his wife’s family.
“Josie, noo I reckon she even tops Senga on the disingenuous front. (Josie or tae gie her her Sunday name, Josephine, was the eldest of Doris’s siblings). Her life is a total lee. Pretends that she’s nicey, nicey tae her neebours, butter widnae melt an aa that. They think that her fancy lifestyle is due tae her man having a weel paid job and that. Crap! Her and Dick (her aptly named husband) have been living aff his mither ever since they got mairrit. Ye ken if ye taen everything aff them that his mither bocht, they widnae even hae the dug. Dick is the only fifty year auld man I ken, wha still gets pocket money frae his mammy every week. Pair o wasters, I ken Sid didnae trust them, Doris disnae either.”
At this point, Gus’s rambling narrative took a natural pause as we finished oor pints. The logs in the fire crackled invitingly and yin or twa ither customers came in frae the dreich November High Street. Harry the barman looked a little less glum noo.
“Whaur wis I?” Gus mused, depositing twa fresh pints on the table.
“Ye were telling me aboot yer wife’s family and aa the lees they tell,” I reminded him.
“Oh aye, so I wis, weel it seems tae be hereditary,” Gus continued. “Ye mind Senga’s lassie, Angela?”
Angela wis yin o the weans that Senga had taen aff her by the social work and brocht up by Senga’s parents. I nodded, from previous conversations I had gleaned that Angela had moved in wi Gus and Doris no long efter Sid had kicked the bucket, Elsie(Sid’s widow) couldnae cope wi haen a teenager so she went tae Auntie Doris’s.“That’s her oot oan her ear noo,” Gus went on. “She got pregnant, mind I telt ye?”
I nodded.
“Telt Doris that the faither wis some joker called Jack Riley. A executive high up in some technology firm, something tae dae wi renewable energy. She used tae disappear for the weekend and we never got a swatch at wha she went wi. They never picked her up at oor place.She says that her and Jack were going tae move intae some fancy gaff at North Berwick once she’d had the wean. Weel she had the wean and lo and behold Jack Riley wis jist a figment o her imagination. There wis nae fancy gaff in North Berwick, that wis jist pure fantasy. Turns oot the daddy wis jist a wee fanny frae Falkirk called Eddie Jones that she got aff the internet. Works in a factory and apparently his only hobbies are Celtic and watching soaps on the telly. Naw we didnae toss Angela oot for getting pregnant tae a wee fanny frae Falkirk. It wis because o aa the lees she’d been telling. Worst thing wis that Doris fund oot that she’d been in constant contact wi Senga aa the time she wis staying wi us. Doris couldnae believe it, that wee tart lived aff o us for mair than a year, never contributed a thing. Took advantage big time, aa her meals free gratis and Doris did aa her washing and ironing tae boot. As I say, it wis consorting wi her mither that done it, ach weel, the aipple disnae fa faur frae the tree.”
With that, Gus drained his glass and headed for the pub door. “Are ye coming, or whit?”
“Aye, Gus,” I said as I followed him intae the High Street.
I sensed that I was about tae be subjected tae yin o Gus’s diatribes against his feckless in-laws. Sure enough, that is exactly what occurred. As Gus’s closest freen and confidante, I kenned this was going tae tak up a lot o valuable drinking time, so I suggested we sat at a table instead o standing at the bar.
The Rid Lion was jist aboot empty, Harry the barman’s glum face was less than welcoming and he muttered something inaudible as we took a seat at yin o the wee rustic tables next tae the open fire.
“Nane o that lot are capable o stringing a sentence thegither withoot inserting a lee at some point. Senga the pathological liar is probably the worst, aye that’s her that claimed the man on the porage box wis climbing the drainpipe outside her hoose. According tae the shrinks, she’s got multiple personalities, her being an alky doesnae help of course and her penchance for approaching complete strangers saying gimme a fiver or I’ll shout rape isnae a winner either. It wisnae really a surprise when the social took the weans aff her. The wife’s parents had tae step up tae the plate an tak owre their upbringing.” Gus had deep hatred for Senga, I think it micht hae had something tae dae wi the time she broke intae his hoose and chased Doris wi a big jaggy shard o gless.
Gus continued, “Billy Handbag (the brither) he continually lees, pretending he isnae gay. Naebody wha loves housework like he does can be straight, noo it disnae bother me if he he’s a jobbie jabber. Live an let live, Ah say, as long as he isnae touching ma erse. Ye ken he bocht a fedora oot o yin o they charity shops doon the toon. He sauntered intae his maw’s kitchen wi it perched on his napper. Doris wis in having a cuppa, she telt me that the mither said tae Billy that he wis the spitting image o Michael Jackson wi that hat oan. Noo that wis Doris’s cue tae leave. As she said, and I will quote verbatim, he looks fuck all like Michael Jackson, Michael Jackson is guid looking, Billy is an ugly wee get, Boris Karloff eat yer hert oot. His heid’s wasted enough withoot his maw filling it wi pish.”
At this point, I says tae Gus, “Whit aboot Sid, he didnae constantly lee tae ye, did he?” Sid (Gus’s guid-faither recently deceased) wis the patriarch o the family and he aywiss seemed ok tae me.
“Ah’ll gie ye that yin, Sid wisnae intae that mendacity malarkey.” Gus drained his glass and shouted tae Harry, “Twa pints o Guinness, please Harry, hae yin yersel, he’s paying.” Nodding in ma general direction. Gus continued wi the character assassinations of his wife’s family.
“Josie, noo I reckon she even tops Senga on the disingenuous front. (Josie or tae gie her her Sunday name, Josephine, was the eldest of Doris’s siblings). Her life is a total lee. Pretends that she’s nicey, nicey tae her neebours, butter widnae melt an aa that. They think that her fancy lifestyle is due tae her man having a weel paid job and that. Crap! Her and Dick (her aptly named husband) have been living aff his mither ever since they got mairrit. Ye ken if ye taen everything aff them that his mither bocht, they widnae even hae the dug. Dick is the only fifty year auld man I ken, wha still gets pocket money frae his mammy every week. Pair o wasters, I ken Sid didnae trust them, Doris disnae either.”
At this point, Gus’s rambling narrative took a natural pause as we finished oor pints. The logs in the fire crackled invitingly and yin or twa ither customers came in frae the dreich November High Street. Harry the barman looked a little less glum noo.
“Whaur wis I?” Gus mused, depositing twa fresh pints on the table.
“Ye were telling me aboot yer wife’s family and aa the lees they tell,” I reminded him.
“Oh aye, so I wis, weel it seems tae be hereditary,” Gus continued. “Ye mind Senga’s lassie, Angela?”
Angela wis yin o the weans that Senga had taen aff her by the social work and brocht up by Senga’s parents. I nodded, from previous conversations I had gleaned that Angela had moved in wi Gus and Doris no long efter Sid had kicked the bucket, Elsie(Sid’s widow) couldnae cope wi haen a teenager so she went tae Auntie Doris’s.“That’s her oot oan her ear noo,” Gus went on. “She got pregnant, mind I telt ye?”
I nodded.
“Telt Doris that the faither wis some joker called Jack Riley. A executive high up in some technology firm, something tae dae wi renewable energy. She used tae disappear for the weekend and we never got a swatch at wha she went wi. They never picked her up at oor place.She says that her and Jack were going tae move intae some fancy gaff at North Berwick once she’d had the wean. Weel she had the wean and lo and behold Jack Riley wis jist a figment o her imagination. There wis nae fancy gaff in North Berwick, that wis jist pure fantasy. Turns oot the daddy wis jist a wee fanny frae Falkirk called Eddie Jones that she got aff the internet. Works in a factory and apparently his only hobbies are Celtic and watching soaps on the telly. Naw we didnae toss Angela oot for getting pregnant tae a wee fanny frae Falkirk. It wis because o aa the lees she’d been telling. Worst thing wis that Doris fund oot that she’d been in constant contact wi Senga aa the time she wis staying wi us. Doris couldnae believe it, that wee tart lived aff o us for mair than a year, never contributed a thing. Took advantage big time, aa her meals free gratis and Doris did aa her washing and ironing tae boot. As I say, it wis consorting wi her mither that done it, ach weel, the aipple disnae fa faur frae the tree.”
With that, Gus drained his glass and headed for the pub door. “Are ye coming, or whit?”
“Aye, Gus,” I said as I followed him intae the High Street.
About the Author
West Lothian-born Glenn Muir is a fiftysomething postman working in Linlithgow. Previously a member of the West Lothian Song Writers Group, he is now with Quill, a poetry and writing group based in Bathgate.