First Fruits (20 page)

That's the book talking. But she sounds
wistful, because as he says, they broke the mould when they made his mother. Mrs.
Morris though gives my hand another squeeze. And you can see what she is thinking.
What a shame it is, having a grandmother like mine, and a father who...

A father who does what? This is where I
don't understand Lydia's mother. Why doesn't she like my father? Why doesn't
she see him the way others see him? It's almost enough to make you worry about
her, ask yourself if there may not be something wrong with her.

Then I catch her looking at her husband,
and any worry I might have had on her behalf just disappears. She's smiling at
him, Mr. Morris, bending towards him and the wine I had almost forgotten she
was drinking. And you can see what is happening. She has stopped thinking about
me. She's only got eyes for him, Lydia's father. She doesn't care about anything
at all.

Serve her right then when it slips away
from me, a little flash of
It
. As she goes to sip her wine, I turn and
catch his eye - and smile, just the way I did yesterday. For a second he stares
back at me, mouth half open, sleepy eyes waking. Wouldn't it be interesting to
know what is going through his mind right now? Then again, there's no need to
guess. He's just like Mark, only older. They all are if you ask me, except for
him. My dad.

Finding that she's lost him suddenly,
Lydia's mother turns to look down the table, mystified. But there's nothing
there for her to see. And he's hardly going to tell her, not after what's been
passing through his mind, coming to him from out of the blue, as he would say.
As he would
like
to say. So she's none the wiser, and already I'm almost
sorry it happened.

Still, it's taught Laura a lesson. Seven
year olds should be in bed at this time of night. That way she wouldn't be
sitting there, staring first at him and then at me as if she had seen something
infinitely more shocking than a simple smile.

At nine o' clock precisely I yawn.
Golly, I say to everyone. Golly, having so much fun has tired me out. I'll have
to go to bed.

Suddenly it seems that everyone is
looking relieved - except for Lydia who hasn't even heard me, who has a head
full of pit disasters.

You'd almost think they didn't want me
around. But I don't mind. It means I can go to the room that is all mine, the
room I would never have left if had it been up to me. Given half a chance, I
would have stayed here all day, and let them muddle through the best they
could.

But now I'm back, I can lie on the bed
and let it all open up around me; wardrobe, curtains, greens and lemons. Tree
above the fireplace, green painted table. Play a little game with myself, planning
what I would change and what I would keep the same if it all belonged to me.

The fact is, if this room were ever to
become mine, I wouldn't change a thing. It's perfect just the way it is.

Next morning and I'm out
of bed the
moment I wake up, before the phone can even think of ringing. It's Sunday,
remember. No-one sleeps through a Sunday.

At least that's what I thought. But
downstairs their newspapers are lying untouched on the mat under the front door
and the curtains are still drawn. The kitchen is warm, but empty. Lydia's
family haven't even begun to get out of bed. And it's
Sunday
.

I knew they didn't go to church in this
house, but somehow I never thought they would begin the day like this, by doing
nothing. Just sleeping. As if they had all the time in the world.

Let's hope he doesn't phone now, for
their sake. He'd never let me come again. Because I'd have to tell him; how
they are all in bed on a Sunday, how even
she
hasn't appeared yet.

Although of course, she'll be the first
one to do just that. Mothers generally are. The day can't start without them.
Not unless you have Gran instead, ruining it all before it's begun. So Lydia's
mother will be the one to come down, yawning and rubbing her eyes. A little
ruffled perhaps, not quite herself, not yet.

What a surprise for her, then, if she
walks into her kitchen and finds someone is already up, happy to keep her
company. While the rest of her family stay wallowing in their beds.

It will be just the two of us, the way
it was the first night, like mother and daughter. And this time, no-one to
interrupt.

I wonder where she keeps the teapot?

****

FIVE
minutes later, and it's all ready. Plates, cups, saucers, a table set for two.
Bowls and spoons. Jam and marmalade and honey. Milk in a jug. Everything she
could possibly want. A treat for someone everyone else seems to take for
granted. And all I have to do is wait.

And then at long last, here it comes,
the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The very lightest of sounds. That will be
her bedroom slippers. I noticed them yesterday, fluffy things with kitten heels
that go tap tap tap like a dancer's on the polished floors. You'd almost think
it was a child walking.

What is she going to say when she sees
breakfast all ready and waiting? That Lydia has never done this for her. That
Lydia would never dream. Not Lydia.

The door opens, and in walks...

....Laura.

Laura, carrying a doll that is almost as
big as she is, so big it's a struggle just getting it through the door. It's
the reason she doesn't see me, not at first. When she does, she stops, looking
suddenly quite drawn. For a moment I thought that she might turn right around
and go back the way she came. But the moment passes and she looks away, carries
on past me, into the kitchen, as if to pretend I wasn't there. Before I realise
what she is up to, she is putting the doll in one seat and taking the other
seat herself. Then she fills both the bowls with cereal and begins to eat.

You know what's happened of course.
She's put herself in my place. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she's made
sure there are two of them, that it's like seeing double.

And there's nothing I can do. Because
now there are other footsteps, heavier, and this time, unmistakeable. Lydia's
mother appears, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Soft in her dressing gown, a
little ruffled. The way I knew she would be.

But she doesn't notice me. Seeing Laura
and her doll, both with their bowls of cereal, she begins to smile, goes
positively misty eyed.

'Having a quiet breakfast with Angelina,
darling?'

And would you believe it, she kisses
Laura, and
kisses the doll
.

Only then does she look up and give a
start. 'Why Kate,' she says. 'Kate, you're up too.' But she isn't pleased to
see me, not the way she was pleased to see Laura. She doesn't even ask who laid
the table. And you know why. She thinks her precious Laura did it. With the
help of a doll no doubt.

I
really wasn't going to do this. I was going to let Lydia decide what to do
today. But that was before her mother came downstairs and didn't even notice I
was there. So now I'm going to do it anyway.

Lydia looks suspicious when I tell her I
have an idea for this morning. She's remembering yesterday. So just in case she
has it in her mind to say no, I ask her where she has got to in the book, and
that draws her up short. Then, just to clinch it, I say:

'I was thinking we might go to church,'
and sit back to watch her face light up. It's the book again, isn't it, having
its effect.

FOR
a second time, Lydia's mother doesn't ask us where we are going. Another sign
that she's different.
He'd
want to know where we were going, so he could
be with us, every step of the way - in spirit, that is. Some people care about
their children.

But it's just as well she doesn't ask.
Lydia's mother wouldn't like it if she knew, not one little bit. Yesterday I
wouldn't have done this. But I'm going to do it now.

ON
the bus, Lydia keeps spotting churches, and every time thinks this must be
where we get off. But I stay put, don't even bother looking out of the window.
After a while, I can feel her becoming suspicious again, wondering if religion
is really what I had in mind. Silly Lyddie, all too quick to think there's only
one kind of church.

So, when finally I do stand up and ring
the bell, she's not ready and almost gets left on the bus. It would have served
her right too, letting her suspicious mind run away with her like that. I told
her we were going to church, didn't I? Why think otherwise?

The trouble is, standing on the pavement
and staring round her, she just can't see it, not a church, or anything
remotely like one. She doesn't even know where we are. And why should she? You
can't see her mother ever bringing her to this part of town. There's nothing
here they could possibly want. Over there is the harbour, and the wind is
blowing straight in from the sea, leaving traces of salt and dead fish on lips,
pushing old bits of paper against our knees. The street itself is empty, the
shops not just closed, but boarded up - except for the bingo hall behind us. I
could
mention to Lydia that her good friend Moira lives with her gran only a
street or so away from here. But I won't. We're not here to think about Moira
MacMurray. Or her gran.

'Come on,' I say, and push open one of
the big swing doors to the Bingo hall. For several moments she's too surprised
to follow, with the result that the door swings right back behind me. When I
turn around Lydia is still outside, face up against the glass, like a baby owl
looking in.

Poor Lyddie, silly Lyddie, thinking
there's only one kind of church.

Yet all she had to do was take a look at
the posters on the doors. It's there in big letters, unmissable.
A meeting
for Friends in the City
. And in even bigger letters, his name, my Dad's.
She should learn to notice things better, should Lydia. That way she would be
more prepared.

'Come on,' I say again, forgetting she
can't hear me through the glass. It's a forgivable mistake. Bingo halls are my
second home, but I have to remember this is all new to her. Lydia still thinks
that God lives in those churches that we passed, like something kept in a
museum you have to visit specially. Something that never sees the light of day.
But she should know by now. She's read
his
book after all. God gets
about. And for some reason He really seems to like bingo halls.

With Lydia safely behind me now, I push
on another door, the one that used to lead to the big screen when the bingo
hall was still a cinema. 'Stick close,' I say. Well, I wouldn't want to lose
her, would I? I'd never find her again, not in this crowd.

Because behind the door is a solid wall
of people. It's standing room only. But then, it always is.

And still Lydia doesn't understand. She
doesn't know where all these people have come from, or what they are doing
here. Or even why the smell of the harbour seems to have followed us indoors
with its tastes of fish and salt. Lydia's parents don't move in these sort of
circles. Lydia's parents don't even go to church.

She should have read the posters,
though. Because most of all, she doesn't understand the silence. The silence of
the led. Lydia hears it and stops, then looks at me, wide eyed with alarm. Some
people can't take silence. They expect crowds to be noisy, not quiet like this,
making you think that anything could happen. She begins to edge back towards
the door, making it clear she wants to leave. But we can't do that. We've only
just arrived. There's no escape now.

And anyway, who said anything about the
silence lasting?

At first it's just a groan. Lydia hears
it and stares sharply round, looking for who's making it, for where it comes
from - only to find the sound is coming from everywhere.
Then
look at
her face when she realises that, instead of dying away, the sound is growing,
gathering strength like something with a life of its own, filling all the
spaces of the hall, above and below her. Inside her even. Oh yes, look at Lydia
now. A case of pure terror. And all because of a noise. Suddenly it becomes too
much, she starts into action, begins to make a dash for the door. Fortunately
I'm too fast, and grab her by the arm.

Wait, I say.

Because the noise has reached its peak.
And now, little by little, it is falling away, gathering itself in, coiling
round itself, to come back to nothing, to the silence that gave birth to it.

Silence again.

For a long moment nothing stirs. Then
somewhere in the crowd a woman begins to cry, sobbing as if in fear or grief.

Lydia's body has begun to pulsate.

Perhaps I'd better put her in the
picture. So I pinch her arm and point, making sure she looks. First at the
giant speakers above our heads, responsible for turning a simple groan into an
ear shattering event. Then at the crowd who are, after all, no more than
ordinary, just a little over-excited, including the woman crying. There's
always one. By the end, they'll all be at it, all the usual suspects, heaving
and sobbing. You'd be surprised at the number of folk who believe they can
speak in tongues, who believe they have something to say.