First Fruits (29 page)

So I pile the cheese on the bread,
spread the butter thick. You have to show gratitude one way or another.

IT
was crowded in my room with the four of us. Hilary had made doubly sure
she
got the other bed, covering the pillow with all the cuddly toys and mascots
that she normally keeps on her desk. Which left Lydia and Moira with the two
camp beds and just enough space to get undressed. Suddenly Hilary nudges me,
and nods her head towards Moira. And sure enough, it's a sight to behold; Moira
has expanded into a huge flannel nightie that can only have belonged to her granny,
something only an old lady could possibly wear.

Still, she might need it, every bobbly
yard of it. Her bed is as far away from me as it could possibly be, right under
the window where it will get all the draughts.

We're no sooner in bed than
my
gran
stamps into the room and cuts off the light. Hilary giggles and pretends to be
indignant, but Lydia you could feel welcoming the dark, snuggling down and
sighing happily. Somehow, Moira and her laugh have wiped out all memory of what
passed between Lydia and Dad. If she remembers it at all, she'll think she
imagined it.

Is she sparing a thought for her mother,
though? I hope so. I hope they were careful at the hospital, when they told her
where her daughter was. I've heard the least thing can cause a relapse, even
when you think the patient is getting better. I hope they told her gently.

I wish they could have told her Lydia
was coming home. Or at least that I tried to make it happen.

Now, one by one, everyone is falling
asleep, Moira being the very first to go. You could hear the change in her
breathing almost right away, each breath sounding longer and wheezier than the
last. A person could use up half the air in a room that way. Then there's
Hilary. Five minutes after she falls asleep she starts to snore and doesn't
stop. Only Lydia drifts away discreetly. Little tiny mouse sighs that wouldn't
disturb a soul.

And she doesn't wake up. Nobody does. I
lie here and listen to the sound of so many different people breathing. Yet if
you asked me, I would say there really is only one other person in this room.
One other presence, separate from the rest, wide awake and watchful. A silent
presence that is not only there, but growing. Becoming bigger and bigger until
I feel I could stretch out and touch it. And I know where it's coming from;
it's coming from under the window, where it's refusing to stay.

Here in the dark, even when she's asleep,
there is a part of Moira that is everywhere. No getting away from her.

And getting bigger by the minute,
closing in around me like a hand, blotting out the dark. Which brings me to the
strangest thing of all. This is what I feared, what I somehow knew would happen.
Yet now, with Moira all around me, I discover that I don't mind. This must be
what it's like for Lydia, discovering that you can lose yourself in her, if you
only let yourself. If you only take the chance.

IS
Moira the reason that I dreamed?

Standing in
his
room again,
staring at the picture of the dancing girls with their offerings, and the Golden
Calf. And waiting. This time the footsteps take no time to arrive, are already
there, right outside the door. So close now, it seems I can almost hear her
breathing on the other side. Now she's stopped, is waiting there, on her side
of the door. But why doesn't she open the door?
Why doesn't she come in?

Then suddenly it becomes so clear. She's
waiting too. For me to let her in.

The sound of her breathing grows louder.
It's filling the whole room. And still growing. The breathing has turned into
the very air that I breathe.
I am breathing in another person...

And then here I am again, in my own
room, wide awake. His desk, the picture, the girls have all gone. But the
breathing is still there - as well as something that's just been learned.

She
. I dreamed a person who is
she
.
I know who is on the other side of the door.  But don't say her name. Don't
even breathe it. Remember the rule.

I've said it before; no
-one knows how to rouse a room
like my Dad. First the explosion of the door, then the blare of music from the
wireless to make an unsuspecting sleeper's hair stand on end. And
then
-
as Lydia and Hilary are sitting up in bed, eyes sleepy but already lit up at
the sight of him - the small remark.

'Eeeh ladies, but it's whiffy in here.'

So saying he marches over to the window
and flings it open, as if the air is tainted. As if everything in the room is
tainted. Lydia and Hilary immediately lose the lit up look, and stop breathing
altogether. Only the one person is unconcerned. I can see her from here.
Slowly, belatedly, Moira opens her eyes. And already they are trained on him,
as if she could have found him with her eyes shut.

And just see Dad shiver.

But he opens the window still further,
so the wind rushes past him to get to Moira. Yet she doesn't turn a hair.
Apparently Moira doesn't mind the cold.

Dad turns down the music, rearranges the
lines of his face. 'Bad news, girls. Old Keith Carr has discovered he has to
work today. You're going to have to have fun all on your own.'

When did he discover? Last night? This
morning? Whenever it was he realised that Moira is never going to look away?

But the effect is exactly what you'd
expect. 'Oh Mr. Carr we can't possibly have any fun without you.' This is
Hilary - though not questioning, you understand. Hilary is voicing regret not
criticism.

On her camp bed, however, Lydia doesn't
say a word. It's a question of good manners now. She's forgotten the rest. But
it's Lydia that Dad is turning to.

'You see how it is, Lydia love. Duty is
duty and Keith Carr has never been a man to ignore his.'

If he's trying to remind her of
something worse, then he's failing. All she does is smile vaguely, flattered by
the attention. And that's Moira again, making sure that what's forgotten, stays
forgotten.

But when he leaves the room both she and
Hilary are cast back into gloom. Again it's not what they expected. When had he
said anything about leaving us to our own devices? Lydia looks positively
tragic. Could it possibly be that we don't like each other enough to be able to
have fun by ourselves?

'What are we going to do then?' Says
Hilary, glum as a schoolgirl chum. 'Go somewhere?'

'I don't have any money.' This is Lydia
answering. 'No-one remembered to give me any.' Well, they wouldn't, would they.
Pocket money will hardly have figured large in anybody's mind in Lydia's house
these past few days. Although maybe I'm wrong. You never knew with Lydia's
mother. Lydia is always on her mind isn't she. It's only Lydia who doesn't know
it.

'I've got money.'

Now here's a surprise, Moira suddenly
speaking up. Moira making out she has the answer.

You should have seen Hilary's lip curl.
'Of yes, and how much would that be?'

The answer comes as Moira reaches under
her pillow and brings out a fat, fake crocodile wallet, the sort that will hold
a pension book and TV stamps and pictures of your grandchildren. Peels it open.
Hilary's eyes grow large. Inside are notes. Pound notes, five pound notes, ten
pound notes even. Lydia puts on her specs and gives a little gasp.

'Moira!'

Despite the exclamation, Moira just
looks blank. Yet it can't be what she's used to, finding herself the centre of
attention, and all eyes on her. Or maybe she realises it's not herself that's
surprising, but the wallet. There must be a hundred pounds in there at least.
All kinds of possibilities spring to mind.

But it's Hilary, who speaks up first.

'I know, we can go into town. To the café.'
She looks at me meaningfully. Cafés represent just the one thing to Hilary, and
it's definitely not coffee.

Yet is that all she can come up with for
an idea? Going to a café? With a hundred pounds a person could leave home, go
anywhere, live anywhere. Become invisible. And all Hilary can dream up is going
to a café.

Still, I can give it some thought. It
would mean making a phone call, but apart from that, there seems no urgent
reason to disappoint her.

Typical Hilary though, there's not an
ounce of gratitude. Turning back to Moira she says, 'How did you get the money
then?'

There's no mistaking the suspicion in
her voice, but Moira doesn't seem to mind. In fact she doesn't even appear to
be aware of Hilary. When she answers it's me she talking to, as if I was the
one doing the asking.

'My mum. She sends the money to my gran
to pay for me. But Gran says she doesn't want it. She says she wouldn't touch
it with a barge pole. She says no-one has to pay her for looking after me.

There's a silence. Even Hilary looks
embarrassed. It's that mention of her mother. It's almost indecent somehow, the
thought of Moira as a little girl, of Moira with a mother. Indecent to wonder
about what her mother must think of her so as to left her.

But then, no-one seems to wondering
about what her gran must think of her so as to be willing to look after her.
And for nothing.

Surprisingly, it's Lydia who asks the
question, the one that's on everybody's mind. 'Moira, where
is
your
mother?'

There's another silence as Moira
considers. You'd swear she was trying to remember. 'Abroad,' she says finally.
'With him. And them.'

Hilary makes a face. She's letting it be
known that it's not her fault she's confused. But I know what Moira means. Her
mother is in another country, as far away as she can possibly be, with a man
who's not Moira's father, and children who aren't her brothers and sisters. Or
not properly. A whole family then, but no place in it for Moira, not the way
she is. No-one wants Moira - except her gran of course. Who won't take a penny
for her.

Moira's gran won't touch the money
because Moira's worth more than that. You don't have to have
It
to work
it out. It's the sort of thing even Lydia could manage.

MY
gran has made
porridge for us - although Moira and I are the only ones to eat it. That said,
Gran ignores me to watch Moira eat the equivalent of a bucket of it, salted and
sugared in equal proportions. Gran is still fascinated by Moira, can't seem to
hold a grudge against her, even after last night, and the trouble she caused.
She probably blames Lydia for that.

And of course it helps, having a
distraction. While Gran watches Moira, tries to take her all in, I can creep
out to the telephone, make the one necessary phone call. Plan the day that
Moira has provided for us.

WE
make the journey into town by bus. Hilary sits next to me, and Lydia beside
Moira. As soon as the bus moves off, Hilary begins applying mascara, and
doesn't seem to realise the result is pure disaster; her eyes look as if they
have been joined in dot to dot by furry felt pen. Then, silly girl, she offers
it to me, as if I'd want it. You don't need make up when you have
It
.
People look at you for other reasons. And for the colour of your hair.

Meanwhile, Lydia has returned to the
book she has neglected lately. Even so, she must be on her third or fourth
reading by now. What she'd like is to have him test her on it. She could recite
his entire life back to him.

And Moira? She just looks out of the
window.

Has anybody noticed the change? Dad's
not here. But I am, sitting not six feet away from her. Yet Moira is looking
out of the window. She's not looking at me any more.

'Moira,' I say. 'How about a toffee,
Moira?' But she doesn't seem to hear. Doesn't even look round.

IT
was raining by the time we got to town. Not just raining, but bucketing. Hilary
immediately gets into a flap because she's worried about her hair getting
messed up before anyone else sees the trouble she's taken with it. Then all at
once she stops fussing, and stares. We
all
stare. It's Moira. She has
drawn a flat fold of clear plastic from her pocket, is busy opening it out like
a giant sweetie wrapper. Then it dawns. Moira is about to put a plastic rain
hood over her head, the sort her Gran would wear every time she goes out in the
wet.

'Moira, you're not going to...' this is
Hilary. But Moira
is
going to. She's tying the ribbons under her chin,
making sure everything stays in place. Now her head looks like something bagged
up by a butcher. What's more, if you listen carefully, you can hear the patter
of raindrops bouncing off the top.

Seeing her like this, you don't know
whether to laugh or cry. Because there was me, thinking there was something
special about Moira. Something that sets her apart. Then she puts on a plastic
rainhood and I'm the one that ends up feeling like a fool. This is the real
Moira, then, the Moira everyone sees. The Moira even her mother doesn't want.