First Fruits (12 page)

I said she was learning
though.

This morning, I watched Lydia's eyes
open long before any movement on the landing. That's the trick, isn't it. Be
awake before he wakes you. That way, a person has time to prepare, compose
herself - and in this case, to smooth all that stringy brown hair into some
kind of shape. Lydia is trying to make the best of herself, just for him.

And quite right too. He says you can
tell everything about a female just from the way she wears her hair. Shoulder
length is best. Not too long and not too short. Short is what makes him think
of Miss Jamieson, not caring what people think. Long is caring too much.

Shoulder length is just right. Like
mine. My best feature, he says. Sometimes he strokes it, tells me I should be
proud, that a woman's beauty is the one of the greatest gifts God gives to men.
My hair is different from his, lighter - honey coloured, according to Hilary,
who must have got
that
from a magazine. Different from his, then. Yet
it's only lying here now, watching Lydia that I've ever thought about it. Lydia's
hair is stringy, but the same colour as her mother's. If my hair is different,
it can't have come from him. So where did it come from? Who gave me the colour
of my hair?

Did
she
have hair this colour?
The person we don't mention?

Don't. Don't ask, don't even let it
cross your mind. More important, don't let it cross
his
mind. Because if
I have
her
hair then it would be a reminder, like my leg; only worse,
much worse. You can hide the sight of a leg, the damage that's been done. But a
head of hair? What can you do with that? You can tell everything about someone
by looking at their hair, he says. And what would happen if one day he looked
at my hair, looked at me, and saw somebody else instead? What would he...?

It's seven o'clock. The room explodes.
But this time it's me that jumps. While Lydia stays calm, I'm the one whose
hair is standing up on end, arms, legs flying in all directions.  I'm the one
in shock.

LATER,
at breakfast, Lydia applies herself to Gran's porridge, forces herself to eat
every scrap. But it rebounds on her. Later still, in the back of the car, she
begins to look distinctly ill. It's the porridge of course, thudding against
the walls of her stomach as we veer into the bends, reminding her that she has
a way to go before she can become one of us.

But once again, you have to admit she's
learning. Outside the school she mumbles something and disappears. The next
time I see her it's in the classroom, already slotted in beside Moira, careful
not to look at either Hilary or me.

It's just a pity Hilary couldn't take a
leaf from her book, at least try to show a bit of restraint. In other words,
Hilary was a complete nuisance today. It's gone right to her head, thinking
she's got me all to herself, as if she hadn't learned a thing from Dad,
teaching her a lesson last night. The worst was having to sit next to her in
Latin while she fired off notes right under Jamieson's nose, just so Lydia
could see them - and know none of them were for her.

It's childish, that sort of thing. And
tiring, having to pretend to be enjoying every second of it.

It was a relief to get into Greek -
especially as Lydia had done all the homework for both of us. As usual though,
Miss Jamieson gives me no credit, not even for a job this well done, and
concentrates on Lydia. Maybe she's worried I'm going to smile at her again, the
way I did before.

Promises, promises.

But after Greek, it's the same old
story. Hilary acting as if she's Queen for the day, and Lydia sitting closer
and closer to Moira as though there was comfort to be got there, of all places.

Just before the bell rings, though, I
squeeze her arm and smile, to show there are no hard feelings.

But would you believe it, Lydia just
sniffed and looked the other way. Something I didn't expect. Something to worry
about. The car will already be outside. Someone is waiting to hear all about
everything, every minute of our day.

What if Lydia has decided not to behave?

And it gets worse. The bell goes but
Miss Grumpy never even bothers to wait for me and marches off on her own,
straight into the crowd but with a surer line this time. I have to run to keep
up with her, just so that we arrive together, the way you would expect of
friends. To make it look the way it should.

'Good day at school, girls?'

Horns blare, lights flash. We are moving
out into the traffic.

'Yes,' I cry from the back seat. 'Oh
yes.' You should have heard the enthusiasm. But Lydia, what is Lydia going to
say?

The answer is - nothing. Lydia says precisely
nothing. And silence of course is the ultimate give away. He turns around in
his seat, ignores the road, ignores everything just to stare at her. 'Lydia?'
He says again, eyebrows rising. 'No word from Lydia?'

And still Lydia just keeps quiet, staring
out of the window. Suddenly there's a cold feeling, spreading in the pit of my
stomach. Because this is how things go wrong, isn't it? When people suddenly
realise they have power.

Stupid of me, stupid. Allowing Hilary to
go too far. Allowing Lydia to get cross. Allowing Lydia to get even.

And still she doesn't say a word.
Instead we all have to listen to it, the sound of silence, telling all sorts of
tales. Making sure he thinks the worst. Even the car seems to have grown more
quiet as we carry on, waiting for Lydia to say something.

Finally an answer. Lydia breaks the
silence. Opens her mouth and says: 'I had a lovely day, Mr. Carr. An absolutely
lovely day.'

I have to stop my breath, or else the
sigh of relief would be too loud. Dad grins at both of us, then turns back to
pay attention to the road, and just in time. A lorry is bearing down on us,
horn booming, with the face of the driver flat against the windscreen, mouth
wide open.

A flick of the wheel to the left and the
lorry disappears behind us. But the danger isn't over yet. Not by a long chalk.
The fact is, I started breathing again too soon.

Dad hasn't finished, you see.

'And what did you like best about
today?' He has to know everything. He has to feel that he was actually there.

But what is Lydia's reply? Nothing about
Greek. Or getting top marks in French spelling. Or having her maths homework
held up for everyone to observe. Instead she says, 'Latin, Mr. Carr. Latin was
the best thing about today.'

And that means she's lying. Because
Latin must have been the very worst thing about today - if you were Lydia.
Notes flying and Hilary sniggering. Being left out of everything.

But here she is, carrying on and looking
as if she means every word. 'We're doing
Caesar's History of the War
,
and it's really interesting, isn't it Kate?'

Is it? Sometimes I just give up. Half
the time Lydia is completely see-through, and half the time you don't what on
earth she's up to. Maybe she's telling the truth now. Who knows?

But here comes the real trouble. In the
front seat, behind the wheel, Dad is thinking hard. 'What's the famous
quotation from that? Something Caesar himself says?'

He's showing that he knows, of course.
That he may not have had the education we're having, but he still knows.
Everything. The car drifts towards a line of hedges as he wrestles with the
problem. Angels alone correct our course. Then he smacks the wheel. 'Got it.
Iacta
alea est
.'

Which is when Lydia sits bolt upright in
her seat. 'Oh Mr. Carr, that's
exactly
the bit we did today.
Iacta alea
est
. Fancy you remembering that.'

Well, fancy indeed. I don't remember any
such thing. Blame Hilary, and her messages, making sure the entire lesson was
nothing but a blur. And now look where it leaves us. Dad has remembered me.

'Kate, my love. Haven't heard much from
you recently.'

I want to close my eyes. But I can't,
because he's got them, caught in his rear view mirror. The windscreen has
disappeared. All I can see is light. Suddenly I know what's coming.

'
Iacta alea est,
' he's saying.
'Famous last words, eh?'

'Oh no, Mr. Carr!' This is Lydia,
thinking she can have her say. 'Those weren't his last words at all. They...'

But he ignores her. This is between us.
Father and daughter.

'
Iacta alea est
, Kate. Now tell
your old dad what they mean.'

What they mean is another silence.
Because I don't know. How could I, when there was Hilary and her messages? You
can't be thinking of so many things at once. Something has to get lost. Surely
he would understand that. People have to be kept on board. Hilary has to be
kept on board. What about Fiona McPherson?

But it's no use. Something has ended up
lost and I have nothing to say.

'Ah, Kate. Kate, love.' And he sighs,
turns his eyes back to the road, as if that was the end of it.

As if.

Then something touches my hand. I look
down and Lydia is tickling my wrist with a piece of screwed up paper. I take
it, unscrew it - and read the tiny, neatly printed words. '
Iacta alea est
=
the die is cast.' Whatever that means.

The fact is, it doesn't matter what it
means. I needed to clear my throat first, but out it comes, as loud as he could
wish.
'Iacta alea est
. The die is cast.'

In the front of the car, Dad goes still,
then throws up his hands. Once again he's turning round, but this time to smile
at me, to catch my knee and squeeze it tight. 'That's my Kate, that's my clever
Kate. Knew it all along, didn't you, love?'

And I nod, nod like anything. But when
it's all over, and the car is back on a straight line, I slip my own hand
across the seat to find Lydia's. Snatch it and hold it tight. She looks at me
in surprise, but then smiles. Not that she knows. Lydia has no idea what's
happened. Which just shows. People can achieve immeasurable good and never even
guess what they have done.

When we get out of the car, Dad is still
smiling. Puts his arm right around me. I can smell the wool in his tweed
jacket, and the ever present scent of something else, something always there.
Sweetish. Perfumed.

But inside the house, I grab Lydia's
hand again, and together we run past Gran who stares at us, open mouthed, as we
race through her kitchen, into the hall, and upstairs to the bedroom.  Lydia is
laughing out loud, but with no idea of what she's laughing about. Gran's voice
rises to complain about the din, but
he's
not listening to her.
Leave
it, mother
. His voice reaches up the stairs, making sure we can hear him.
There's
nothing like the sound of innocent young voices. Good girls are God's gift to
all men
. Lydia listens, lips parted, and blushes like the good girl she is.

And the wonderful thing is, he's talking
about both of us, Lydia and me in the same breath, using one word to describe
two. You could say that is what Lydia has done. She's made him think double.
Made him see double. It's not just me any more. Attention shared is attention halved.

It's the sort of thing that makes you
wish she was staying a month. No, not a month. A whole year.

Suppertime
, and I'd bet Lydia would say exactly
the same thing. She couldn't wish for more. She is sitting next to Dad, she is
the absolute centre of attention. It must feel as if she's turned into Laura
overnight, everybody's favourite girl.

And Dad is being so funny. At first
Lydia was shocked when she heard his impression of Miss Jamieson, all manly and
commanding. Half a minute later however, and she was laughing, too.

One thing is for sure, she won't be
seeing Jamieson in the same light again.

'Ooh Mr. Carr,' she says, over and over.
'You should be on the stage.' But she doesn't realise. That's exactly where he
is, every minute of the day, on the stage.

And it's only just occurred to me,
watching him doing his impression. Dad must have known all along, about Miss
Jamieson, how she's no different from the Games teacher. It explains why he
leaves her alone, never tries to get on the right side of her. He has all the
other teachers blushing like young girls when he meets them, leaves them all
heated and confused. But that stops with Miss Jamieson. He never even goes near
her, not unless he has to.

That's what it means to have
It
.
You know when to leave well alone. My Dad has
It
in spades. More than
me, even.

At eight o'clock precisely, though, he
stands up. 'Time for a stroll down to the church, girls. Someone there's been
waiting all this time to have a word with Old Keith Carr.'

Lydia opens her mouth, and you can guess
what she's about to say. Who could be waiting for him at this time of night, in
a lonely church? Then she sees the light in his eyes, the way his hands lie
still in his pockets. She sees the bulk of him, the power of him -  and the penny
drops. A look of awe comes over her face. It is the idea of God, waiting,
hoping against hope that
he'll
turn up, my dad.