Without a Word of a Lie

Today

This morning Paul asked me where I'd put my water glass. "Did you bring it down?" he asked. "I might have done or it might be in the study," I said "actually, I don't remember what I did and that's the honest truth." "As distinct from the dishonest truth," I added.

Paul and I had a discussion about how the language contains many expressions that presuppose that lying is a common element in our speech "without a word of a lie", "I gotta to be honest" "to tell the truth" "that's the honest truth" etc.

In My Day

When do we learn to lie? At what age do we discover the possibility and what drives the extent to which we lie? Is it when we lose the completeness of trust; catching our parents or siblings out in a lie?

Daddy took a strong view about lying (it's understandable; if your children always tell the truth it makes your life much simpler), reserving corporal punishment for this transgression.

I think that I was generally a truthful child, but between the ages of about eight and ten I got into the habit of lying to avoid trouble. I think I only lied because of a sense that what I had done was so naughty that retribution must surely follow.

The problem was, being only a child and not naturally devious, I wasn't very good at it. Successful lying involves sustaining the lie for ever and the expert concealment of evidence.

It was no good my telling Mamma that Beatrice had stolen and eaten her Toblerone (initially a reasonable supposition as Beatrice had a much sweeter tooth than I) when the remains of the packet was sticking out of my pocket. And whom did I blame for eating the entire soft inside of a loaf of bread, leaving just the outside crust?

And retribution surely followed the discovery of the lie. With some ceremony I would be laid face downwards on Daddy's knee, my head dangling uncomfortably close to his lymphatically swollen feet. He would yank up my skirt and plant about half a dozen wallops with the flat of his hand on the fleshiest part of my buttocks. Once done I was free to go and the matter would not be mentioned again.

Daddy used to talk openly about his attitude to corporal punishment; use it rarely, give a good and proper warning, use only the palm of your hand (this puts a natural brake on actually doing any damage) and smack only the fleshiest and most resilient parts of the body.

I remember not the stinging of the smack (he was true to his word and never did anything that actually caused lasting pain or injury) but the utter humiliation and unpleasantness of being so treated.

One day I put him to the test. I accidentally broke a window playing ball. When the matter came to light I decided to make a clean breast of it. I was not smacked; only ticked off and learnt that Daddy, at any rate, could be trusted. Mamma never smacked me; her forays into this art being limited to catching the boys a clip in passing when they were being unbearably cheeky.

I think that what I learnt was that it's nearly always best to be truthful, and if you're going to lie, plan it well and never be caught out.