I remember my first lie very distinctly. I was four years old and our family unit, consisting of my parents, my big brother and myself, had only recently been posted to Bangkok, Thailand. The bikini clad expatriates were a far cry from the nudist club that my parents had joined in Surrey when I was two. Not only was the temperature considerably warmer, but these strange people wore clothes to swim, which seemed ludicrous to me. I had been introduced to water by being thrown in naked and had taken to it like the tadpole that I was.
I was dressed and fed, spoon to mouth for the two years that I lived there, but if ever I took it upon myself to venture out of this tropical cocoon, I was confronted by the more exotic, sometimes sinister elements pertaining to that country.
I attended an English school for the first year in Thailand and an American for the second. I had just begun to become accustomed to my second school, despite the knuckle-rapping techniques of one of the teachers, who, on reflection, resembled a villainess from one of the popular Bond movies of the time.
I was developing instincts to be strong but adaptable. For instance, when I had my first memorable haircut, the Thai hairdresser discussed with my mother as to what sort of style would suit me. With understandably little reference to what my five-year-old opinion may have been, it was agreed that it would suit me to have a very short haircut, in an attempt to strengthen my very fine hair.
The result was not favourable to me. Perhaps in our current culture, in which our sex is perceived to be of a less binary, gender fluid sort, my reaction may have been different, but in all honesty, I doubt it. To the very best of my memory, I always perceived myself to be utterly female, with no variants within that. My new haircut, however, appeared to dictate otherwise. The children at school, who all thought that I had become male over night, mocked me relentlessly. I considered being presented to anyone as a male as being a fate worse than death. That week I declared to my mother that it was “my body” and that in future “I would choose what style I wanted myself”. It already felt important to me, that boys should recognise me as an attractive girl. Plus ça change.
Weekends were often filled with visits to regions outside Bangkok, of the yet-to-be Americanised Thailand. I had drunk milk from coconuts that were hand-picked by the local residents on beaches with white powdery sand and a turquoise sea. Life was beautiful. Occasionally, if my ego was yearning for attention, probably due to my brother becoming more conversant with my parents, I would seek ways to distract them.
I once packed a little pink case, declaring that I was leaving home and “going into the big, wide world”. I had jealously tolerated the friendship my brother had with a neighbouring boy on whom I had an enormous crush. Blair was quite beautiful, and occasionally took to dressing up as a girl. It was unclear whether he did it to amuse us or himself. He would often bring us snakes, otters and other examples from the range of animals that he was rearing at his liberal home.
My parents meanwhile would have adult conversations about the ongoing Vietnam war, Nixon, hippies and the American G.I.s who often came to Bangkok for R &R. At one point, we attended a close friend’s Buddhist blessing of his new house during which we all knelt in a circle and chanted. The monks took to blowing their noses without handkerchiefs which I found weird. My father was spotted crawling out of the ceremony behind the monks in order to join the host, who was watching us from the outside whilst enjoying his pint of beer.
Under our house, we discovered a huge snake, which our Buddhist housekeeper would not kill because the soul of his grandfather might be inside. On days when I went for little walks, I was often approached by Thai gentlemen, who had a varied list of items for sale. I recall a particular stranger, who used to spring from foot to foot, holding a hand out, crying “You give me one Baat, I show you Thai boxing.” Following the negative reply from the tiny pink girl, he would dangle sticks of brown stuff to sell, telling me that it was a good price for “ganja”. I had no idea what these words meant but having a wise mother who gave me sets of sensible rules to follow, I knew that my best course of action was to turn around and head for home. Very useful rules they were too, when I chose to obey them, which was most of the time.
It was on one of my less sensible days that I chose to ignore my mother’s rules, and thus, it was on that day that I chose to tell my first lie. My mother had a very precious tree outside our house, which flowered very rarely and when it deigned to do so, the flowers themselves were one-night- stands with no strings attached. This had been emphasised clearly on numerous occasions.
However, drawn like Eve to the forbidden fruit, I could put up no resistance to the idea of placing one of those short-lived flowers in my hair. At that point in time, I did not realise that my mother was just coming out of the house. What seemed like an hour passed between our two wills before my mother asked me where I had got the flower that was in my hair. I looked at her as innocently as was possible under the circumstances. I replied that I was not sure, but that I thought it was on the ground below the tree. My mother knew I was lying. I knew that she knew that I was lying and yet the matter was laid to rest, both knowing that the truth was omnipresent, despite its apparent disguise.
Returning to England for homeleave after two years in Thailand felt like a betrayal. I had left the country at three years of age and had no major memories of the place. The only fact that I knew, was that we would be returning to our beloved club. I had remembered most points about it. It was a unique little paradise in the middle of Surrey where people stayed, swam, played tennis, badminton, volley ball, table tennis and where parties and barbecues were held to complete the summer evenings. People, adults and children, labourers and lawyers alike would call each other by their first names only, to promote both privacy and equality.
I felt therefore terribly shocked to discover that my memory had not stored the most crucial fact about this club. Our family arrived at Heathrow after an interminable flight, to be greeted by our faithful friend Julian, whose every move brought a touch of glamour and mystery into our lives. On that very first home leave, Julian began a tradition of wearing different hats, ranging from French berets to African Safari hats. He would always pick an extraordinary route back to the club, so that he could introduce us to parts of Southern England that we had not seen, and to pubs we had yet to experience.
On arrival, I was excited at entering the club through its secret door and anticipating a welcome from all my little friends. In front of us stood a sun-baked, wrinkled old man, sweeping the terrace steps. He was naked. Suitcases were being carried through to the house. My mother, whose hand I was tugging frantically, was conducting a completely normal conversation with this unclothed ancient lunatic. Under my breath, I tried to enlighten my mother, but she was too absorbed. Finally, I managed to attract her attention, and she leant down to me.
“What, Catie, what is it?”
“That man, Mummy, he’s not got any clothes on.”
“Don’t you remember? We can do that here. It’s a naturist club.” My mother crouched down and looked me in the face, smiling warmly.
Horrified, I ran up the stairs of the club’s huge old house, ranting about rude people, and refusing to ever take off my clothes. Half way up the stairs, I ran into my fellow six year old friend, Jeremy, who greeted me with suggestions of playing in the sunshine, so that by the time I had reached the top of the stairs all my clothes were off. I ran all the way back downstairs with my friend and was in the swimming pool before anyone blinked.
It was towards the end of our time in Thailand that the difficult decision was made to send my big brother to boarding school. It still hurts to remember sitting with my mother, both of us crying, missing him, and counting the days till his return, as if we were crossing the days on a prison cell calendar. During the ensuing years, I was raised as an only child, except during the school holidays, the beginnings of which were always ecstatic, because my brother was back with us. As the precious days drew to their end, it was my early introduction to the sheer hell of separation. I will always hate saying goodbye.
Kate Terence's Letters from London 