First Fruits (10 page)

'Duty calls,' says Dad, with a sigh. Yet
Lydia must see that he's tired just from the way he walks, from the table to
the door, closing it behind him. It's twenty eight minutes past eight, the time
Duty always calls, every single evening without fail.

SO
what's left? Only Gran and me. Lydia turns her eyes from the door and gives a
little start. You'd swear she was seeing us both for the first time.

 'Kate.' she says. '
Kate?
'

Good grief, next she'll be asking me
what she's doing here. Blinking and confused as if it's only now that she's
waking up from a dream.

Fortunately, Gran's having none of it,
starts snatching at saucepans and glaring at us to do the same. A moment later,
Lydia finds herself holding a tea towel, damp even before she's touched a
plate. And no-one says a word. You'd think we were worn out with talking. And
maybe we are, in a manner of speaking.     

Just the same, right in the middle of it
all, of the wiping and scraping, and the sound of Gran tutting and mumbling,
Lydia stops what she is doing and looks at me. Her mouth is open, as if
something shocking has just occurred to her.

'Kate?' she says. 'What's wrong with me?
I completely forgot to ask. Where on earth is your mother?'

Beside me comes the sound of old bones
snapping. Gran, who until now has been bent over the sink, has sprung back into
shape, suddenly straight as a young girl. Even Lydia notices and glances at her
nervously.

Yet you'd think Gran would be used to
it. People are always going to ask. It's only Dad, driving everything else out
of their head, that stops them. Then they remember, and notice that something -
someone
- is missing. And that's when they speak up. So why does it have
to be my fault when they do?

Better still, why couldn't Lydia have
asked me while we were at school, where there is no Gran, listening to every
word I say so she can pass it on. Something else she can tell him I've done
wrong. You can see why there's the temptation to say nothing, pretend I didn't
hear.

But I can't keep them waiting. Not Gran.
Not Lydia even. So out it comes, the same old answer.

'Gone.'

The wrong answer. Gran glares and shakes
her head. Because there is no right answer.

And now it's Lydia causing problems.
'Gone?' She says. 'Gone?' She says again. Then something unexpected happens.
That little voice of hers suddenly raises itself up into a wail that sounds,
well, grief-stricken. 'Oh Kate, poor Kate. Your mother died, and I never even
knew. I'm so sorry.'

For a moment all I can do is stare at
her. There are tears - real tears - starting in her eyes. And that's what is so
shocking. She must be thinking about her own mother suddenly, and imagining.

It's an effort to find the words to put
her back on track. 'Not dead, goofball, just...I don't know.'

And it's true. I don't know. I don't
know anything. Only that's not what I should have said, not with Gran
listening. We don't talk about her, we don't even think about her, my mother.
That's the rule, the one that is never broken. Yet Lydia has shaken me, all set
to cry for my sake because she thinks the worst and is sorry about it. Sorry
for me.

You can see how she would get me all
muddled, cause me to forget the rules. When people ask, the thing to do is look
sad and turn away. But don't say anything, not a word because even the mention
of her....

But still the words come out. Anything
to stop Lydia crying. 'She left us, you see. When I was very young...'

Gran begins to growl. But she can't say
anything. And maybe even she is shocked, at the sight of someone so ready to
cry.

'Now she could be....'

Anywhere. She could be anywhere. And
there I stop. Someone had to get a grip.

Lydia blinks. For some reason she looks
down. It's my leg. She looking at my leg. And it's then I feel the blood come
rushing into my face. Is
that
what she's thinking? A daughter with a leg
like mine, no wonder she left. No wonder she couldn't bear to stay, my mother.
Is that what Lydia's thinking?

And I thought she was a friend.

It makes me want to tell her. I wasn't
born like this. I was perfect until it happened, until my leg was damaged. I
was like anybody else. Better even. And what is a leg anyway? Someone should
remind her of what I've got. A father who loves me. Which is more than she has.
Even though I'm less than perfect, less than I should have been, he thinks the
world of me. Can she say that about hers? Still lucky, then. The luckiest girl
alive.

Actually, I don't have to say anything.
She's clammed right up. There'll be no more questions from Lydia. She can't go
talking about mothers now. Or about one mother in particular, the one who stole
away and left her own child behind, left her damaged beyond repair. She can't
ask about what kind of mother would do that. Or why. Or where she is now.
That's not a question anyone can ask.

Not even me.

IT’S
time Lydia was in bed. No more questions of any sort.

In the passage, though, I see her start
to shiver. It's our house of course. Nobody had thought to warn her about the
rest of the house. Cold. Darker than dark.

Well, everybody knows that ministers
don't earn much. Men like him don't preach the Word of God for money. And they
earn even less if they don't actually belong to the Church any more.

It's been a journey, he says, moving
through the body of The Kirk to where he is now. Other ministers, the ones who
were so high up, they didn't like him because he preached the truth, and
because his congregations were bigger than theirs, leaving empty pews all over
the place. They wanted him to change his tune but he wouldn't. Now he has his
own church and they say that the numbers in the Church of Scotland are falling
every week. Well we know why. We know where they all end up.    

But the truth is, it's not a question of
money, the reason the house is dark. And cold. Or that we have linoleum on the
floor and tape around the windows. It's a reminder, he says. We pass from life
into death the way we pass from room to room. Cold rooms help us to understand,
just as the dark helps us to understand. Unless we are chosen, we will pass
from the light and warmth of the world into the dark that comes after, and
nothing will change it. And that's what the cold does, and the dark. They
remind us.

Maybe that's why Gran can't stand the
cold.

In the meantime, I should warn Lydia,
about the noise she's making. She doesn't have to bump into things, bouncing
off walls, pretending it's even darker than it is. All she has to do is stop
shivering and start thinking about where she's going and she'll get along fine.
We're right outside the study now. His study. This is where we have to be most
careful.

So why does she have to trip and fall
just here? Maybe she meant to. I wouldn't put it past her.

Because now look what she's done.
There's a silence then the study door bursts open, and here he is, surrounded
by light pouring out around him. Now, suddenly, thanks to that golden light, we
can see.

But Lydia hasn't noticed.  'Oh Mr.
Carr,' she breathes. At the sight of him, she has begun to glow herself, ever
so faintly. But though she gets a smile, there's nothing more for her. Not
tonight. It's me he wants.

So he winks at Lydia. 'Up to bed with
you, little lass. Old Keith Carr needs a word with his one and only.'

She sighs, but naturally, she does as
she is told, carries on along the corridor, around the pillar at the bottom of
the stairs. But there, suddenly, she stops. You can see her problem. She's
frightened, having to climb strange stairs in an old cold house, alone.

Then Dad smiles and everything is
alright again. 'Now up you go, Lyddie my love. Nothing to be frightened of in
this house. You'll never sleep in a safer place.'

And of course, she believes him. A flash
of her brace and she's off again, skipping up the stairs as if every step was
bathed in light, and every tread was clothed in soft thick wool. As if there
was nothing to worry about at all.

And when we hear the bedroom door close
behind her, Dad nods me into his study, where Gran is already waiting. Silly
Lyddie, stupid Lyddie if she thinks that lessons stop at school.

The taste of chocolate is
still in my
mouth when I come to bed, coating my tongue, trickling down my throat when I
swallow. If I can swallow.

Gran gets chocolate too, every time,
although she won't have done anything except watch. Chocolate is the reward for
a lesson well learned, but it's a reminder too, the reason she gets some, a
taste of things to come. After the bitterness, the sweetness. A taste of
heaven.

Rather like his room, with its warmth,
and its carpet, its picture by Trompetto, showing the Golden Calf and the
dancing girls, and Moses glowing with discontent; and the faint smell of polish
and the record player with all the music that appeals to him. It's all there
when you step into his study. From the dark into the light. From the cold into
the warm. His room reminds you that better things are waiting. If you're
Chosen.

But it means I have to clean my teeth
twice, to get all that taste of heaven out of my mouth. Sometimes I have to
clean them three times. And still I can't rid of it.

Meanwhile Lydia is unconscious, curled
up on top of the other bed without even a single blanket over her. She's
wearing  a bright pink nightie covered in hearts which doesn't suit her at all,
and
she's fallen asleep with her glasses on. The things you see when you
don't have a camera! Another time I'd want to laugh out loud but not tonight.
It would hurt if I laughed now.

Another lesson well learned. Where would
I be if he didn't care?

Why didn't she get under the covers to
sleep? It's freezing in this room. Even in the summer it seems to be cold, and
it's definitely not summer now. There's frost forming on the window, on the
inside
.

Actually, I don't have to wonder why she
didn't go under. She was waiting for me. All girls together, remember, giggling
far into the night. All those messages under Hilary's nose. That's what I promised
her. Now she's fallen asleep waiting, with the result  that, if I don't do
something about it, she'll catch her death of cold. Is it my imagination or is
she already faintly blue around the mouth?

But if I wake her, she might ask
questions, and how would I explain; about the odour of chocolate on my breath,
and the lateness? What sort of difficulties will I be making for myself?

Her bare arm is icy when I touch it.           

She wakes up instantly when I shake her,
starts shivering uncontrollably. But she climbs under the blankets without too
much help, begins talking to someone who isn't there. Something about Laura,
she's complaining about Laura. She thinks I'm her mother! I take her glasses
off for her and put them beside the bed. Pull the blankets up around her chin.

Silly Lyddie, stupid Lyddie. She didn't
have to wait for me. Hilary wouldn't have. Hilary would have been tucked up and
snoring long before I got myself up the stairs.

But then, Lydia shouldn't have told him I
didn't like Greek. There wouldn't have been any lesson in the first place. And
she
wouldn't have nearly caught her death curled up on the bed, never dreaming
she'd have to wait so long. Look at it that way and you can see. It's all her
fault.

And still I can't get rid of the taste
of chocolate in my mouth. A sweet reminder that refuses to go away.

I
suppose I should have warned her. About mornings in this house.

Actually, I don't think a warning would
have been enough. It has to come as a shock then, the tramp of feet on the
landing, the crash of the door, and above all the sudden explosion of the
wireless, a huge box weighed down by knobs that only he could be powerful
enough to carry around at shoulder height from room to room.

Waking up to that, to the shock of it,
you might think the house was falling down around you. You might think the
world was coming to an end. If you didn't know better.

Lydia doesn't know. And so wakes with a
jolt that lifts her clean out of bed and onto her feet.

'Morning Lydia, love,' he says, and
turns down the wireless, but not by much.

Lydia stands, eyes staring blindly
without her specs, teeth chattering, knees knocking. Good grief, she looks so
rickety!
As if one more blare of trumpets would blast her off her feet.

But then, incredibly, her lips move.
'W...w...w...' she stammers. Only it sounds like V...v...v. Tries again, keeps
at it, until: 'W...wagner.' She manages it at last. Then blushes, still
blinking, still shocked, but unmistakeably pleased with herself.

But
pleased
is nothing, not
compared with Dad. His eyes, already light, full of the morning, fairly blaze
with good things. 'Well Lyddie, love. What do you know? Wagner, absolutely
right.'