First Fruits (14 page)

But she has a cheek, has Lydia, if I
hadn't dragged her away, she would have stopped just where she was, ears
flapping, listening in on things that had nothing to do with her.

And still too caught up with herself to
think to ask who it is at the other end.

So now nothing's quite the
way it was. Not
for Lydia, anyway. She knows what's important now for one thing, and it's bound
to have an effect. You can see it most clearly at school. At school she's in a
world of her own, dreaming about what comes after, when we go home. School
being nothing more than an interruption.

Tell that to Miss Jamieson. This isn't
what she's used to, not from her star pupil. Half way through the lesson and it
becomes too much, even for her.

'Lydia Morris,' she booms. 'Will you
please sit up straight and listen.'

Lydia jumps, awake again at last, and
stares wide-eyed at Miss Jamieson. It's the old frightened rabbit look we know
and love. But then the seconds on the classroom clock tick by and, little by
little, a change comes over her. Lydia's mouth begins to quiver, and then her
shoulders to shake, something not even her school blazer can conceal. Because,
would you believe it, she's
laughing
. Doing her best to hide it, but
laughing nonetheless.

You know what's happened of course. It's
Dad with his impressions, more like Miss Jamieson than Miss Jamieson herself.
Now, thanks to Dad she can't help but see the funny side.

And Miss Jamieson? She purses her lips
in annoyance. But also she's confused, maybe even shocked. This isn't the Lydia
she knows. And she's right. Because although Lydia settles down, something has
indeed changed, never to be the same. She can't stop fidgeting for one thing,
completely unable to sit still. Forever shifting in her seat and looking out of
the window, looking for something that won't be there for a long time yet. Or
someone.

No, this isn't the Lydia we know. She's
long gone, I'd say.

It's almost a relief to go down for
lunch. We'll have the dinner hall to ourselves and Lydia can day dream to her
heart's content. And Miss Jamieson can find a quiet spot and ask herself what's
happened to Lydia.

But as it turns out, I'm wrong about
having the hall to ourselves. Another person is still there, as late as we are,
sitting at a table all by herself, having her lunch. Moira MacMurray looks up
as we walk through the door, then carries on eating her Spam fritter.      

Lydia stops, then gives herself a little
shake - and heads straight for her, actually pulls up a chair. Perhaps sitting
next to Moira has become second nature to her these last few days. But even
that doesn't explain why she then chose to sit the way she did, bringing her
chair so close she's practically leaning up against her. Watching her, you'd
almost think she
likes
sitting next to Moira.

I suppose there might a reason. If we
were on a mountain or a beach, you might even call it natural. Moira would make
the world's best windbreak, so huge she would shelter you from anything. But
Lydia doesn't need shelter. For goodness sakes, we're in school, in a dining
hall. There's only me here. There's nothing to be protected from.

And Moira? She doesn't say a word. It
never seems to occur to her that a little conversation at lunch would be
desirable, not to say normal. This is probably how they eat at home, Moira and
her Granny, neither of them saying a word, happy the way they are. Two old
ladies content just to sit and eat and stare. The way Moira is staring at me
now....

'
Stop it
, will you just stop
looking at me!'

Lydia, silly Lydia, jumps. Nearly hits
the ceiling. She thinks it's her I'm shouting at. And of course, it's Moira.
Who else but Moira?

But maybe she has a point. She wasn't
expecting it.
I
wasn't expecting it. The words seemed to shoot out of my
mouth of their own accord. Nothing to do with me. Why should
I
shout?
Moira can stare all she likes. It's not a problem.

Besides, it hasn't made a blind bit of
difference, to the staring. True, Moira's jaws may have stopped moving, just
for a second or so. And, did I imagine it, or did Moira blink? The trouble is,
Moira doesn't even blink like other people. Moira blinking makes you think of a
shutter closing on a camera. Another picture for the collection. Something for
the record.

I push my plate away. 'I'm off to find
Hilary.'

And that's where Lydia truly lets me
down. A proper friend would have been on her feet before the words were out of
my mouth. But not Lydia. Lydia didn't move. No-one would believe this, but she
was actually
snuggled up
against Moira now. And showing no signs of wanting
to budge.

Yet who's meant to be looking after her,
me or Moira?.

If you ask me, Lydia needs to be taught
another lesson.

Which
brings me to this afternoon, and what happens after
school.

Hilary is waiting outside, huffing and
puffing with excitement. And fretful with it. Today's the day I catch a bus. In
other words, it's the highlight, the very best part of her week, and she's
afraid of missing a second of it.

So when we move off, Hilary sets the
pace, neck stretched out like a racing camel, picking up speed as she goes.
Lydia is left behind from the very start, mostly because no-one had told her.
She was expecting the car. Now she can't keep up, not with the pavement full of
people and that great satchel of hers wedging her between sections of the
crowd.

It would help her if she knew where we
were going, but she has no idea. Somehow I never got round to telling her.

She made me wait, you know, at
lunchtime. I had to stop while she sat tight, claiming she wanted to finish off
her banana sponge pudding. Making me have to sit another five minutes while
Moira...

...While Moira just did what she always
does.

But there's no waiting for Lydia now.
She'll have to concentrate, take care not to lose us in the backstreets.
Otherwise how will she ever find her way home?

There's no sign of her when we arrive at
the arch, the one that leads into the bus station. But then, it would be hard
to see anyone in that mob. First there are the girls, the ones who also have to
catch the buses, but secondly, and far more importantly, there are the boys.
Hilary stops and sighs, the way she always does, overcome by the moment,
lifting up her head as if to sniff the air, air that is thick with bodies completely
different from our own. She can practically smell them. Browning School Boys.

Not a very nice smell, actually. Too
much sweat, too many unchanged underpants, unwashed hair and skin. Boys smell
so very different from girls. I'm surprised Hilary seems to like it so much,
when you think of all the frills and freshly ironed blouses and even her own
bathroom at home. There's no accounting for Hilary. Here she is, more alert
than she's been all day, eyes twitching this way and that. She honestly thinks
if she keeps looking, she'll catch someone looking at her, one day. But she
won't of course. It's me they are looking at.

Oh yes.

It's what they never have understood,
Fiona and Jackie and the rest. They know that if they came and stood under the
arch in the bus station, the way we are standing now, nobody would give them a
second glance. Not if I was there too. And they simply can't work out why, not
with everyone telling them the important thing is to be blonde, or nicely
developed, or just plain sweet. They don't get it. You don't need to be any of
those things. All you need is to have
It
.

Not that I'm interested, in boys, that
is, not properly, for their own sake.
He
would have something to say
about that. But I'll admit this much. I like Thursdays almost as much as Hilary
does. Just to see
It
at work. Proof if I ever needed it.

And here comes Mark, as I always knew he
would.

Now there's something for Fiona to think
about;  Mark, head of the Sixth year, head of rugby, head of everything
apparently. And
eighteen
years old. You wouldn't think a person his age
would be interested, not in someone from the third year. But Mark is. He's so
interested he doesn't know what to do with himself. And I'll say this much for
him; he smells better than most. Maybe it's the aftershave, covering a multitude
of sins.

But what does he see in me? I know the
answer, but he doesn't, and that's half his problem. He's been told the same
things as Fiona and the rest, about what's important. And he believes it. Which
explains why he always looks so shifty when he's with me. He can't even explain
himself to himself.

Poor thing, someone should tell him about
what it means to have
It
. Maybe he would feel better then, knowing he
can't help it. That I have something no-one else has, something he couldn't
even name, the only thing he sees in me.

Oh, but I've forgotten haven't I. There
is something else he sees in me, and it's only now I'm remembering. He likes my
hair. He said so once, said he liked the colour of it. But I hardly paid any
attention then. Now, today, it's making me blush. Suddenly thinking about the
colour of my hair.

Don't think about it, then. Don't think
about
her
. Remember the rule.

But today, I don't even say hello.
Something else has cropped up. It's Lydia of course. She's made it to the
station, but she hasn't seen us. Instead she's carried on, past our group -
straight into a crowd of boys playing football with somebody's duffle bag. Next
thing she's getting jostled right and left, yet they haven't even noticed she's
in the way. That's Lydia again. Invisible.

Now if I were to walk into that crowd,
there'd be a silence. Complete absence of play. No more jostling. It's what I
would do for her now - if she were the right kind of friend. Stop the scuffling
and lead her out before she does herself an injury. But why should I? The right
kind of friend would never have kept me waiting at lunchtime.

Besides, there's too much going on.
Mark's brought a friend of his own, exactly as I told him to do.

Not much of one, I'll admit. He looks
about twelve. In fact, it's only the physics text books under his arm that show
he's in the same year as Mark. But he'll do, despite being small and wearing
the kind of spectacles that make him look like a cartoon character. Come to
think of it, he reminds me of someone.

But now Hilary has noticed that there
are two of them, and has grabbed hold of my arm, each ounce of excitement
translating into a ton of grip, making it difficult to think. She'll have to
stop that. I need to concentrate.
It
only works when you remember to use
it. It's like a light you have to keep switched on. You can't just forget.

And you can't be distracted - the way I
am now.

It's Lydia, making me forget what I'm
here for; watching her try to cope, turning this way and that, looking for a
way out of a game that is fast turning into a scrum.

How can anyone be so invisible? It
almost makes you want to laugh.

'
Lydia
.'

But it doesn't carry, my voice. We're
not in a dining hall now. In fact, it only makes things worse. Typical Lydia,
she jerks her head round to find out who is calling,  then trots off through
the crowd of boys - in completely the wrong direction.

Well that's it. I did what I could. She
can't expect me to be watching out for her the whole time. I've more important
things to think about.

Five minutes later, here she is again,
plodding towards us. Her satchel looks even heavier now, pulling her shoulders
in, making the rest of her sag. Her face lights up, however, when she catches
sight of us, only to fall again as she takes another look.

You can hardly blame her. Everything has
changed. Just before she lost us, there were only the two of us, Hilary and me.
Now we are four, and what a four we are. Two boys and two girls. And one of
them she can hardly dare to look at. It's too much to take in. Boys like Mark
aren't supposed to exist outside
Just Seventeen
.

She could always steal another peep at
his small friend instead. Well, actually, she can't. It's too late. Hilary has
already moved in to stake her claim. And just to make sure there is no mistake,
Hilary is glaring at her, daring her to so much as look at him.

So here we are. Two matching pairs and
one left over. And to think it could have been so different. The little boy for
instance, I hadn't actually planned him for Hilary at all. Didn't I say he
reminded me of someone? Pipe-cleaner Girl meets Owl Boy. Lydia could have been
having the time of her life.

She should have thought about that at
lunch time, when she made me wait, forcing me to spend those extra five minutes
being stared at by Moira MacMurray. Now Hilary and I are just fine as we are,
thank you. In the mean time, everyone is looking at me, waiting for me. It's
turning into one of those rare moments when, just for once, everything seems to
be going like clockwork, letting a person stand there feeling as if she's the
one with the key, the one who's in control...