Why Mum Taught Us to Tell the Truth Even at the Ends of the Earth. It’s a Small World

Why Mum Taught Us to Tell the Truth Even at the Ends of the Earth — ...And what are we going to tell her? — We’ll say we lost something. — What, are we all going in to look for it together? — Nah, I’m out. You go. I’ll wait for you here and cover your rear. I wrap a one-litre carton of milk in a scarf and turn resolutely towards the museum. My comrades-in-arms, Nastya and Lada, march hand in hand. The captain covers our rear from the pavement. .... Two hours earlier... Two hours earlier, our crew had arrived in El Hierro’s capital to return our hire car. We had decided to take the bus back. Allowing for the Saturday timetable, we discounted the final, six o’clock service, reasonably concluding that on a Saturday no one was likely to set off for the other end of the island after four, even if the timetable said otherwise. While waiting for the three o’clock bus, we went for a wander around Valverde. The town seemed deserted. A siesta combined with a day off in the Canary Islands is a subject for a whole separate post. It is impossible to tell at first whether anyone in the town is still alive. Their presence can be inferred only from snatches of conversation and the sound of music drifting through open but tightly curtained windows. The shops and even the cafés are closed, and the streets are deserted. Strolling lazily along the road, we photographed houses that matched our idea of “Canarian character,” when one of them suddenly turned out to be the entrance to a museum of local life. The Museum A path from the gate led to a little shop selling folk handicrafts, traditional costumes and other household essentials. The lovely young woman in the shop also turned out to be the keeper of the museum tickets. We bought our tickets. A child’s ticket for Nastya. When asked how old she was (she was 13), I replied without batting an eyelid, “Eleven and a half.” We did not feel the slightest bit ashamed of saving those 3 euros. When my grandmother used to take six-year-old me to the bathhouse, she would confidently announce at the entrance, “My granddaughter is five.” And I would wonder, “How can that be? Granny has got my age wrong!?” Buying Nastya a child’s ticket, I naively thought that, apart from my grandmother’s good name, I was risking nothing. After looking around the museum exhibits—a reconstruction of a smithy, a weaving workshop, and shelves of authentic clothing and household utensils once owned by long-deceased local residents—we went down to the cosy courtyard for lunch. “Give a Cat the Gift of Life” A scrawny, filthy adolescent kitten came trailing along to have lunch with us. He gazed piteously into our eyes and mewed with his whole trembling, bedraggled little body. But all we had was fruit and water. The cat bravely declined our offerings and continued to stagger from hunger. We finished our snack, said goodbye to the proprietress and left. But I could not get the weeping, ugly little cat out of my mind. I even realised that, on my way to purgatory, his scrawny face would be looming before me, asking, “You could have saved me!” Deciding to launch a “Give a Cat the Gift of Life” campaign, I dashed to the nearest supermarket (a kilometre away), leaving the whole family bewildered. I bought a tin of cat food, a couple of bread rolls and a carton of milk, then returned to my family. — What if you’re not allowed to feed stray cats in museums? — So what, is he supposed to die because of that? The Saboteurs And so our sabotage unit, consisting of the first mate and both junior crew members, armed with food and a carton of milk, infiltrated the museum grounds. The woman was not in the little shop, and the door was locked: the siesta had reached even here. We hurried into the courtyard and found the proprietress there with her husband and son. — We left... um... a lens cap here! — I lie uncertainly. — Oh! Oh dear, how could that happen? Of course, do look for it! — exclaimed the museum keeper, and followed us. Once in the courtyard, she told her husband what we had lost, and the whole family joined the search. ... If awkward moments have a peak, this was it. Quick-witted Nastya discreetly removes that very cap from my lens and slips it into my hand as we walk towards the cats’ courtyard. The first thing we saw there was the cat, sitting dumbfounded beside a bowl full of cheese and sausage. The little fool was not eating: perhaps he was frightened by the quantity of food, or perhaps by the indigestion that might follow. Making a Quiet Exit Right, time to get out of there. Clutching the litre of milk wrapped in a scarf, I feigned delight at the sudden discovery of the lens cap. There was much rejoicing all round. Just as we were leaving, inspiration struck: — Ummm... And we just happen, entirely by chance, to have a carton of milk. Let’s pour some out for the kitty! A little bowl was found at once, and the cat got his milk. The shock even made him start lapping it up. Reassured that the animal was now being looked after, the crew of our vessel, led by the captain, finished the bread rolls outside the museum entrance. We decided not to finish off the Whiskas and saved it for another occasion. — Even if they guessed that we came back because of the cat, so what? It was a white lie, — we reasoned on the way to the bus station. Back then, we still did not know that lying was wrong. And we had completely forgotten about another little lie. For now... To be continued — Mum Was Right: Lying Is Wrong. The Continuation of the Story That Began Yesterday