First Fruits (15 page)

...Until something comes along and ruins
it all. Or rather, someone.

Do I even have to mention the name? It
has to me that sees her first, heaving her way through the crowd. Not looking
in our direction even, yet apparently drawn to us like a huge moving magnet. As
if there was no getting away from her. No escape.

Moira MacMurray.

Look away then. There's just the chance
she might not see us, might not see me.

But I was forgetting Lydia. '
Moira
'
A tiny little cry of relief you wouldn't think anyone would hear.

But Moira does. Moira stops, turns - and
through all the different heads in all the crowd, looks directly at me, eyes
mild, not even curious. Eyes that are just....there. And that make everything
else disappear like so many objects sinking into milk.

Mark is saying something now, is
touching me, but it doesn't matter. There's no point in listening, not to him
or anyone else. Mark will have to understand. There's nothing for him today.
He'll just have to keep on hoping and waiting for the things he thinks I've
promised.

AT
home there's no sign of Dad. He won't be back till late. Thursday night
remember. Pastoral visits.

But you should have seen her face when
she discovers it. Coming home was the whole point of her day. Tonight is her
last night, her last chance to read Greek with him, show him how much she
knows.

Instead she's just got us, Gran and me.
Or rather, she just has Gran. Thursday night is bath night, when he's out of
the house, and there's no danger of an accident. No danger of a towel falling
or covering less than it ought. No danger of his coming into the bathroom and
catching me staring at my leg through water, watching the water smooth all that
stippled skin.

As for Gran and Lydia, they'll be good
company for each other. They'll get on like a house on fire. Like Moira and
her
Gran.

This morning, Lydia is very
quiet. It's
Friday and she doesn't want to go home. She wants to stay with us, with Gran
and me - and him. Just one of the family. And all the more so because she
missed him last night, and because she never did get to read Greek with him all
by herself.

Does anyone remember the old Lydia now?
The Lydia who didn't want to come, who wanted to go the boarding house? The
Lydia who was ready to cry her eyes out because she thought I didn't have a mother?
Of course not. We have a new Lydia, who has seen us, seen how happy we are. Now
nothing's going to be the same.

In short, you could say we've done her a
power of good.

Dad carries her bag for her to the car,
which, rightly enough, she considers a great honour. But her eyes only light up
at the very last moment, when he takes her by the shoulders and promises
faithfully; next time they really will read Greek together, just the two of
them, in his study.

But then, sensible Lydia, she's looking
over at me, eyes suddenly anxious. She's wondering what I think of it, all this
talk about the two of them, in his study, and no mention of me.

I could tell her and put her mind at
rest; attention shared is attention halved, and I don't mind at all. But she
wouldn't understand. She couldn't think why anyone would want to share his attention.

She should cheer up all round, stop
looking so tragic. We don't let go of people, not so easily. And as Dad himself
said to her as she was getting out of the car,
this isn't goodbye, Lyddie
love, simply
au revoir.

Meanwhile, at the end of the day someone
else is waiting patiently, just for her; it's Mrs. Morris, hovering right
outside the gate. I could see her clearly when I looked out of the window
during French. I didn't say a word to Lydia though. She was too busy doodling
names on her jotter, not taking an ounce of notice of anything. So it was only
me that knew she was there, Lydia's mother. Almost like a secret between ourselves.

She looks softer than ever. Perhaps a
little plumper even. All that pasta and ice cream - just a shade too much of it
maybe - having their effect while her daughter was struggling to force down
Gran's porridge every morning.

It suits her though, all that softness,
and some more besides. A person who has just returned from the most romantic
city on earth should be all smiles. Instead she's staring into the school,
trying to find our window, biting her lip as if something was bothering her, as
if she was worried about what lay ahead.

Finally the bell goes and we all pile
out, with Lydia looking ever so slightly surprised because I've slipped my arm
through hers, while Hilary has to follow as best she can. Today it seems
important to go slowly, keep a dignified pace.

But then she sees her mother, and for a
moment it's as if she's going to forget about dignity and pace. Yet I've got
her arm, remember. And she can't expect me to run, not with my leg the way it
is. And anyway, that's what friends are for, sticking together no matter what.
So Mrs. Morris has to wait, and watch us coming at no great rate. But it's not
a bad thing. It gives her plenty of  time to see the new Lydia, a more
dignified Lydia. A Lydia who doesn't run even when she catches sight of her own
mother.

But the very best thing about being arm
in arm is that when at last we do arrive, she has to throw her arms around us
both. Lydia's mother has to give us both a hug. We are so locked together she
can't avoid it.

Attention shared is attention halved. But
Lydia is hardly going to complain. She's seen me set an example.

'Hello Kate,' says Mrs. Morris.

Odd, don't you think, her greeting me
first? I thought so too for a moment, especially when it was clear as daylight
that all she wanted was her own daughter. But you know what's happened, of
course; it is at work, making sure it's me she looks at, whether she wants to
or not.

'Have you had a nice time?'

Again, it's me she's addressing. Poor
thing, it must be confusing, wanting to concentrate on Lydia and not being able
to. She can't work it out. She doesn't know about
It
, that nothing will
change until I switch it off or turn away. And why should I do that? She's the
softest thing I ever saw.

'Lydia's had an outstanding time, Mrs.
Morris.'

This time when I smile, I remember to
keep it down, not too wide, not too bright. Just right.

Hilary drifts past. Out of the corner of
my eye, I see her, taking a sideways peek at us, trying not to look interested.
But folk are always going to be interested in Lydia's mother, aren't they, just
for the softness of her.

But blow Hilary, it's had its effect.
She's distracted me, catching my eye for just that instant. Suddenly free, Mrs.
Morris blinks and turns straight to her daughter. Starts talking hurriedly as
if afraid that something else will stop her. 'Is that true darling? Did you
really enjoy yourself?'

Lydia looks at her and says, straight
faced, 'I had the best time of my entire life.'

At which Mrs. Morris blinks again. As if
somehow, this wasn't what she wanted to hear. So then you have to ask yourself
what it is she had hoped Lydia was going to say. I mean, what sort of mother
actually
wants
her daughter to be unhappy?

No time to think about it however.
'Look,' I say, bright and breezy. 'Here's Dad.'

And sure enough, here is Dad. Lydia's
face changes. Her mother puts a hand on Lydia's shoulder. But Lydia shakes it
off and runs straight for him, my Dad - who throws both his arms around her and
fairly lifts her off the ground. And with his arms still tight about her, beams
over her head at Mrs. Morris. As if to say, look what I've got.

But what he actually says is, 'That's a
lovely girl you've got there. Truly lovely.'

Lovely?
Lydia?
Lydia hears the
words and blushes, right to the roots of her mousy hair. She blushes deeper
still when he adds, 'We're going to miss her, you know. Are you sure you want
her back?'

He's joking of course, making it sound
as if she is some precious jewel left in his care, and doesn't want to return.
But hearing it Lydia's face has lit up as never before, so her mother can see
there's no mistake. Lydia wants to stay with us.

But nothing is said. Instead they just
stare at each other, Mrs. Morris and my dad. And is it only me, or do all the
sounds of school seem to die away around us, as if just for these few seconds
everything has stopped, waiting to see what will happen next. All I know is, in
that silence - real or imagined - Dad's eyes seem to grow lighter, his smile
warmer. His arms around Lydia that little bit closer.

Then Mrs. Morris puts out her hand again
and gently - and this time effectively - pulls Lydia towards her. She smiles at
him, suddenly prettier than I've ever seen her. But not soft, suddenly not soft
any more.

'Oh we want her back, Mr. Carr. Let
there be no mistake, we want our Lydia.' Now she has both hands on Lydia's
shoulders, stroking them as if she could smooth away all the difficulty that
has temporarily entered her daughter. 'And now I'm afraid we have to go.
Lydia's father can't wait to see her.'

She turns. But then, at the last moment,
she walks back towards us, towards me.

'Kate, my dear. I almost forgot. Give me
your hand.'

It's a moment before I realise what she
is doing. She is pressing a tiny box into my hand, all done up with gold paper,
and gold ribbon streaming off the sides.

'Don't open it here,' she says. 'It's
fragile.' This time she really is smiling, properly and sincerely. 'This little
thing came all the way back from Venice with us. I do hope you like it.'

Then she was gone, and Lydia with her,
leaving me standing with my hand still held out, and sitting on top of that,
the tiny golden box. Dad is staring at it. I know just what he's thinking.

But
Don't open it here
. That's
what she said. And something else beside, I'd swear it. Other words not spoken,
but clear as a bell - if you knew how to listen. '
Don't open it in front of
him.
'

How could could she have managed that
without words? The only answer must be that Lydia's mother has
It
too.
After a fashion.

Well then
, he says later,
in the car.
Aren't you going to open it
?

Answering is easy; not here, it's
fragile. And somehow, he can't say anything. Don't ask me why. Mrs. Morris
seems to have impressed him more than anyone would have thought possible. What
she says, goes. For the moment.

Best of all though, the very second we
walk into the house, the phone begins to ring in the hall. Which means he has
to answer it, leaving me to walk right past him, and Gran, to my bedroom.

Whatever is in the box, I'll get to see
it first.

AND
what is inside the box is a horse, a tiny crystal horse with a long neck and
legs that look as if they have been spun out of sugar. A perfect thing. When I
hold it in my hand, its hooves prick my palm, but the rest of its body is
smooth, with a coolness that becomes warm the very moment it touches my skin.
It's almost impossible to remember it's only glass. It looks more like a sweet,
something clear and cool to suck.

In a way that makes it easier. To put
one barley sugar leg in my mouth and feel its hoof pricking my tongue the way
it pricked my hand. And bite.

After that, I put them both back in the
box, the horse and its broken leg. It was the only way, you see. He'd never
have let me keep it otherwise, not if it had been perfect. Now he won't mind so
much. Now it can stay mine.

Monday
, and Lydia must have spent the whole
weekend doing homework. In Greek she seems to know twice what she did last
week. Miss Jamieson listens to her translate with a nod and a smile - and
ignores me. She thinks Lydia is doing it for her, or for the love of Greek. She
doesn't realise. This is all for
him
. For when she next comes to stay.

Which serves Jamieson right, for
forgetting she has two pupils not one. It makes her think she can go easy now,
spend a little of the lesson having 'a chat'.

But yet again, it's only Lydia she's
interested in. Miss Jamieson wants to know what her father has been up to in
Italy all this week. (Note that she never asks similar questions about Dad.
Remember Scarborough? Not so much as a query about that.)

Consequently Lydia tells her all about
Trompetto and Venice, and Miss Jamieson looks impressed, goes on to say how
much she has always liked his treatment of grand classical themes. In return
Lydia looks faintly bored. I suppose she has to hear too much of this at home.
She would rather we were banging our heads learning still more Greek! Lydia is
a funniest girl in the world.

'He did the Bible as well, you know. He
painted things from that.'

Both heads turn. They hadn't expected
this. But I had to let them know that if there's an expert on Trompetto in this
room, it would have to me.