First Fruits (17 page)

Then we come to the kitchen, and there's
more light here than anywhere else. White walls, green tiles. Lydia's mother
turns away to lay chocolate eclairs on a bright blue plate. Time to glance at
the others. But Laura is pretending I don't exist and Lydia is looking as if
she is somewhere else, a cold dark cave, perhaps, with a fire that went out
long ago. Neither of them knowing what they have. Much nicer to look at their
mother, then, arranging the eclairs, watch her as she licks the cream off her
fingers. You can see straight away why she's not a thin woman.

That makes me remember and I bring out
the box of chocolates.

'These are for you, Mrs. Morris.'

'Kate dear,' she says. 'You shouldn't
have.' And she smiles. A better smile than last time.

'My father sent them.'

There is a pause and then she takes them
from me. The smile stays where it is, but now something has gone out of it. She
turns and quickly puts the chocolates away, and not just anywhere, but up in
the highest cupboard - right out of sight. There will be no way of remembering
they are there, not unless she looks. And somehow I don't think she will be
doing that.

Lydia's
bedroom is tiny, absolutely minuscule,
as if she had deliberately chosen the worst room in the house. And the books
only make it worse. Books on the bed, books on the floor, books lying with
their pages split open as if to let all the words escape. And this is where she
manages to sleep. No wonder she knows it all. You can almost imagine the words
crawling across her pillow in the dead of night, like a line of ants, marching
in one ear and out the other. I wouldn't like it.

But Mrs Morris doesn't seem to notice
the mess, or the fact that the books are taking up all the space. She says I
could either have a camp bed here with Lydia, or instead, sleep in the room
next door
where she is sure I will be more comfortable
. And it's obvious,
isn't it? If she'd wanted me to stay in the same room, she would have made
Lydia tidy away the books.

And Lydia doesn't say a word, not about
the books or where she wants me to sleep.

So I don't say a word either. Because,
frankly, I'm shocked. When you have a friend to stay, you're supposed to share
a room, all girls together. It's one of the laws of friendship. What sort of
friend is one who would make you sleep in the room next door instead?

But then her mother opens another door,
and everything changes.

This bedroom is three times the size of
Lydia's, and ten times better. Here are walls the colour of lemons, and a
carpet the colour of green apples. Green curtains. There's a lemon painted
fireplace and above it a picture of a tree. It has its own wash hand basin  with
a bar of soap you can smell from here, and even that is lemon scented. A single
bed with lacy covers spread out like a layer of foam. I have never seen a room
quite like it. Not even in my dreams. And that's the reason everything changes.

It doesn't do to bear a grudge. Lydia
can keep her messy little cupboard. I'll hang my clothes in the wardrobe, sleep
in the lemon painted bed under the frothy cover and forget every little thing.

ALL
the same, you mustn't let people off
too
lightly. When we are by ourselves,
sitting in the muddle of Lydia's room, I ask what she has in mind for the
weekend. And of course, she goes bright red because she hasn't a thing lined
up, not unless you count a pile of homework.

But then, when it's almost too late to
answer, she stumps up with a reply - of sorts.

'Daddy's giving a lecture tomorrow
morning at the art gallery. We could go to that. He might even let us change
the slides.'

A lecture. At an art gallery. I give her
a look which I can only hope just says it all. Strangely, she doesn't seem to
see it. I notice she has gone very still, however. Then I realise; it's because
she's listening. And I bet I know what for. It must almost be time for her Dad
to come home. Lydia wants to get to the door before Laura.

Everything goes quiet after that. Well I
have to listen too now. Wouldn't it be funny if I beat them all, arrived at the
front door before any of them, Laura, Lydia and their mother?

But all we hear is her mother, calling
to us to help lay the table. Lydia makes a face, but I don't mind at all. It's
a chance to show how helpful I can be.

And I was right. Downstairs, Laura and
Lydia are worse than useless, standing in the kitchen with empty hands and
sulky mouths, deliberately getting in each other's way, ready to bite each
other's head off for no reason at all. Except they do have a reason of sorts.
Time's getting on. Who'll get to the door first?

Makes you wonder how she puts up with
them.

What a difference to have me, then, all
sweetness and light, nothing like her daughters, running back and forth into
the dining room with plates and cutlery,
candles
even. She says the
candles are just for fun, it being Friday night, that they always have them.

Not that Lydia or Laura seem to be
having much by way of fun. They'll be slapping each other in a minute, two
daughters who just don't know how to share.

Maybe that's why she sends them both
upstairs, Laura to get undressed, and  Lydia to supervise.

Or did she send them away for another
reason, altogether? With Laura and Lydia gone there's only the two of us left.
And at least I know how to be cheerful.

Lydia's mother asks me if I know the way
to toss a salad.

A moment later, she is showing me how,
helping me measure out vinegar and oil and little bits of sugar. When I told
her the salad oil is the exact same stuff Gran uses to get rid of the wax in
her ears she burst out laughing, as if she'd never heard anything so funny. It
would have been nice to ask her why, but I was afraid it would spoil the joke.
Spoil everything.

It's almost a shame Laura's busy doing
what she was told. If she walked in now, you could see just things would look -
as though there was another daughter in the family, one who knew how to share,
and how not to sulk. That would teach her to make faces.

Even Mrs. Morris seems to have fallen
into the swing of it. Laughing at every little thing, holding up the spoon for
me to taste, making sure I hold the knife the right way to cut up cucumber.
This isn't how Gran makes dinner. This is almost like having fun, a way of losing
track of the time…

Then comes the faint sound of a key in
the lock, followed a split second later by another sound, much louder.
Footsteps on the stairs, frantic, uneven, so you can imagine the scuffling
involved, the elbowing and pushing. At the bottom something goes crash and
something else begins to squeal, louder than a stuck pig.

Mrs. Morris sighs, and forgets to wipe
her hands, pushes a streak of olive oil right through her hair.

A moment later, everyone's piling into
the kitchen, ruining what's left of our peace. First Lydia, red faced and
panting, then Laura, smiling now and looking like the cat - or rather the
kitten - that's got the cream. And behind them, the person everyone's been
waiting for, the reason for it all, Lydia's Dad. At long last.

And doesn't he look pleased? Here's
someone who likes to be the centre of attention, no matter who gets hurt. No
mistaking the signs.

Not that he's seen me yet. That's
because you won't catch me pushing myself forward before I'm invited, unlike
some folk. Besides, he's not in any state to pay proper attention, not with
Laura and Lydia hanging round him, and his wife stepping forward with that
smile of hers - the good smile, not the poor one. A smile you'd think she'd
want to keep for someone who spends his days doing something worthwhile - and
not just messing round with a lot of old pictures.

But most importantly, hanging back means
you get to have a good look, make up your mind, and decide the best way to go
about things. Learn about a man from the way he lets his family quarrel over
him.

Although now Lydia's father seems to
have eyes only for Lydia's mother. He is pulling her towards him so as to give
her a kiss, a long one, right on the mouth. It's almost enough to make a person
blush. And as if that's not enough, next he puts his lips to her ear,
whispering something no-one else can hear, words that make her laugh and turn
away.

And still he hasn't noticed me. After
his wife, he turns to the table, towards the salad that
I've
just
tossed, picks up a fistful of leaves and folds them into his mouth. Big hands,
he has, with long thin fingers, shaking the salt and drops of oil into the air.
Hands that look as if they could paint a picture, but never a fence. He's been
at work all day, but he's not even wearing a tie. Curly black hair, sleepy
black eyes. He looks like a husband. He looks like the father of daughters, the
male of the family, the sort that half-grown ugly girls moon over - unless they
meet someone better. He'd die if he ever had a son.

And even now he doesn't know I'm here.
But things are quieter. I would say that he was about ready.

The dinner plate makes an awful crash as
it hits the floor. Makes them jump, even him.

'Oh Mrs. Morris,' I cry, 'I'm so sorry.
It just slipped out of my hands.' Right away I drop to the ground to pick up
the pieces, which means he has to lean all the way across the table to see
where I've got to.

And of course, a moment later, she's
down there with me, urging me to my feet, telling me she'll take care of it.
Only when she's crouched right down, busy with dustpan and brush do I stand up.
And smile at Lydia's father.

My very best smile.

Mark, the Games teacher, Miss Jamieson,
and now Lydia's dad. It never fails. Not if they are the right sort, the ones
who are looking for something they never even know they wanted. Until they meet
me. Whatever it was he whispered into his wife's ear, it's as if I've whispered
it back to him, and more besides.

All with a single smile.

His eyes aren't sleepy any more. They
are wide awake, and startled. Sometimes even I forget how easy it is.

'John?' Lydia's mother's voice reaches
from behind, on her way to standing up. 'John, can you help me?'

He gives a little start. Next thing,
he's sneaking glances to right and left, checking that no-one saw what just
took place. But there's no problem, at least not with Lydia. All those books,
yet she doesn't know the first thing about people, least of all her own father.
She's staring at him with that half baked look on her face - and can't actually
see a thing. But he should take a better look at Laura, who is staring at both
of us with an expression I doubt she has ever worn before.

My, she's quick, that one. Maybe we have
those things in common after all.

'Oh look,' I say very softly. 'My finger
is bleeding.'

And so it is, blood trickling from the
very tip as I hold it up, running in a thin red ribbon down the centre of my
palm. I lick the blood from my wrist, salty as Gran's cooking, never take my
eyes off him.

Mr. Morris swallows and looks away. 'Elizabeth,'
he mutters, gesturing towards me, 'Do something, won't you.' At once Mrs.
Morris stands up.

'Oh Kate,' she exclaims. 'Poor little
thing. I'll take care of that for you.'

She's
so
nice, her hands
infinitely gentle with sponge and cream and plasters. I almost regret that it
had to happen, the smile, I mean. But it's like Dad always says. If you are
blessed with a gift, then it's a sin not to use it. You have no choice. It's up
to other people what they do about it. So there it is. I had to smile.

But he could have looked away.

Yet it seems almost unkind to her,
Lydia's mother, who is busy wrapping a plaster round my finger. Her touch seems
so familiar, it's as if someone has been doing this for me all my life. Which
isn't true of course. If I hurt myself, there's only Gran, scything strips of
adhesive bandage for me to stick on myself. Old fashioned stuff that rips your
skin when you try to take it off, does more harm than good. There only ever has
been Gran.

Or has there? Someone must have put plasters
on me when I was little. Someone I can't remember. Using such a gentle touch
that
her
touch feels familiar to me now. Makes me wish I could make all
my fingers bleed, one after the other, just so it could go on, and never stop.

I won't smile at him again, Lydia's
father. Even if it's a God given gift. I won't smile.
She
wouldn't like
it.

AT
dinner I ate my salad but I can't say I was impressed. Not enough salt, not
enough vinegar. We use salad cream at home which disguises the taste of the
lettuce just nicely. Yet nobody else seemed to think so. Everyone eats it up
and says that it tastes fine. Meanwhile, Lydia's father has begun to let himself
believe he imagined it, that smile. Too many hours looking at works of art, at
the smiles painted out of people's imaginations. He'll be telling himself
that's what caused it. Everything goes swimmingly. Everybody talks, even Lydia.
You'd think we were one big happy family, really you would.