Regular columnist and icon of truthfulness, Michelle Hanson bares all about her Auntie Celia ...
We had a champion fibber in our family: Auntie Celia, my mother’s younger sister, otherwise known as Moonface. Auntie could have fibbed for Britain and was very well-equipped. She was pretty, blond, had a pale, round, face and the look of an innocent and regularly robbed the till in my Grandmother’s shop. This meant that she always had pocket money, but my Mother and little brother, Cyril, didn’t.
"Where d’you get your pocket money from?" asked my Mother, aged seven. Out came a huge, ginormous fib.
"Well you know that cat who lives behind the bins in Rollason Street?"
"Yes."
"Well you know it’s had kittens?"
"Yes."
"Well it has to go to work, so it gives me money to babysit its kittens," fibbed Moonface, her big blue eyes shining truthfully, and for a few seconds my mother believed her. "Where does it keep its money then?"
"It’s got a pouch on its tummy like a Kangaroo and it keeps it there."
"Fibber!" shouted my Mother, extra-furious because she nearly fell for it. See how good Moonface was getting? She could tell the most outrageous fibs and everyone except my Mother believed her, and she was doing very well financially, so she carried on stealing and fibbing and couldn’t resist throwing in a few porkies about her big sister and little brother. Moonface’s fibs were better than her siblings' truths. People believed her every time.
As she grew older, Moonface grew more accomplished, and by the time she was thirty she was highly skilled and told her new husband-to-be an absolute whopper. "I’m a virgin," said Moonface sweetly, and he believed her.
My Mother learned a horrid truth – that the world is unfair. Moonface didn’t go to prison or Hell.. Her husband was a kind and wealthy man; she had a fabulous time and led a life of luxury. Auntie fibbed on.
"Don’t leave any money to Michelle," she whispered to my Grandmother on her deathbed, "that father of hers will take it all away and waste it!"
Naturally Grandmother believed her. She changed her will and left everything to Moonface to look after. Now my poor mother had to be nice to Moonface for thirty whole years, because Moonface had all my money and who knew whether she would ever hand it over?
Moonface eventually died, her hospital bedside cabinet still stuffed with champagne. Surprisingly some of Grandma’s money was still there. But this had all taken a terrible toll on my Mother. Moonface has been her millstone for life. She is still thrown into a boiling fury by the weeniest fib. It dredges up the spectre of Moonface - Queen of Fibbers and Manipulators. "Don’t you ever lie to me!" my mother has bellowed all her life to everyone. "I don’t care what you’ve done, as long as you never tell a lie." And she, of course, never lies at all. Not even the weeniest of white lies. To her, even tact and flattery is only a form of fibbing. She must tell the absolute truth, however unpleasant, to anyone who comes within range.
"Your bum is getting fatter!" she shouted the other day. "You’ll have to diet/This is a waste of money/This tastes of nothing/Your hair looks shocking! How about a wig? It may sound like harsh criticism, but it is only my Mother expressing the truth and making sure that she’s not the tiniest bit like Moonface. Only one person never heard the truth from my Mother - the very person who deserved to hear it most of all - Moonface.
