A Pack of Lies by Geraldine McCaughrean

structure of the building!’
    ‘Ah, but just for coats . . .’
    ‘
Here
for coats,’ said MCC, swinging from the great looping curves of wood to show their sturdiness. ‘And
here
for the umbrellas. Note the lead lining in the base, allowing the water to
evaporate
gradually.’ (His whole body mimed the life cycle of a raindrop caught in the Victorian umbrella-stand.) ‘Do you have no umbrellas at the convent?’
    ‘Well . . . y-e-e-s . . . I suppose we do. We do have. A dozen or more in fact.’
    ‘I thought so! I mean, I know it would have been better — much better — if the last owner of this stand had
never owned
an umbrella, but then it seems to me that a convent is one of the few places a stand like this would be
safe
, given its history.’
    Ailsa closed her eyes and willed and willed and willed the nun to say (and she did):
    ‘Why? Who was the last owner of the stand?’
    It was all the excuse MCC Berkshire needed. Like a ferret in a laundrette’s washing machine, he seized his opportunity.
    * * *
    Dafyd Tresillick wore an oilskin when it rained (and it rains a lot on the west coast of Wales). He wore an oilskin and a sou’wester, even though he was no longer a member of the lifeboat crew. The oilskin was so stiff that it stood up on its own account — a headless apparition haunting the corner of the shed. In light rain he wore only an oiled-wool aran pullover, whichsmelled of tarry sheep when it got warm but which would keep the rain off nicely so long as nobody washed it in detergent.
    Tresillick did not believe in umbrellas. Some people don’t believe in God; Tresillick didn’t believe in umbrellas. In fact, he disbelieved with a pagan fervour. He did not own one. He would not be given one — not for birthdays or Christmas or to please his wife. He said that any man who used one was a pansy, and any woman a public pest.
    There was nothing Tresillick liked so much as a good, healthy, drenching, torrential great downpour of rain. When it did not rain, his allotment suffered.
    The summer of ’fifty-two was not wet. In fact, there was a drought and, to his dismay, Tresillick toiled under a blazing sun every day only to see his lettuces shrivel, his tomatoes wither, his bean canes break out in a sickly crop no bigger than caterpillars. When autumn came, it blustered the burned leaves off the apple tree and knocked down the pebbly apples, but hardly a drop of rain came in on the wind. It was as if the great western sea itself had dried up in the summer and there were no waves for the winds to sip up and spit out on parched, blighted little Pontieth.
    So it was a happy man who looked out of his bedroom window to see the first cold wet downpour of autumn drenching his thirsty lawn. ‘Time for the winter underwear, Gwen. Where did you stow it away?’
    His wife blushed, put in a burst of activity tidying the bedclothes, then hurried out on to the landing saying, ‘I threw it all out in spring. It was a sight, it was really.’
    After a stunned pause, Tresillick called after her, ‘Well, didn’t you buy new?’
    There was a guilty silence, and the footsteps on the stairs halted. Gwen Tresillick, who was a Methodist, decided she must tell the truth, and she crept back into the room. ‘The shops’ve stopped keeping them, love. They don’t sell your vests no more.’
    ‘What are you talking about, woman? Don’t sell vests? What do you mean, they
don’t sell vests
?’
    Gwen winced. She was well-acquainted with her husband’s temper, which was vile. ‘Ah, vests they got a-plenty, love, but not
your
kind. Not the long-down-to-the-knees kind. Nor long drawers. Nor woollen combinations even. I’ve tried all over. Shops say there’s no call for them these days.’
    Tresillick opened and shut his mouth several times before he was able to ask, ‘What’s wrong with the world these days? Eh? Answer me that! What’s the country coming to?’ He went on to say this many, many times during