First Fruits (33 page)

Or better still, just kill it. He has
given me everything I need. There's nothing else I want. There's nothing else I
need to know. I am who I am. His daughter.

 And what did he say after the last
time? When the last chocolate was gone and my body was burning with sweetness?
Only a question of time now, he says, until I am ready. All I have to do is try.
Be the daughter I was meant to be. That's what all the teaching has been
leading up to.

But something else has to happen first.
I have to grow up. No more questions. No more wanting to know who made me. No
more wondering about
her
.

And no more dreams.

Kill it then, the part that's been
causing all the trouble. It's easy if you know how. Think of it like that eel.
Something you can crush under your foot. Kill it, Kate. Like that, just like
that. No more dreams. No more crying. Ever.

IS
it done? It must be. Why else should suddenly I feel so different? Where there
were questions, now there is....nothing. No more questions, only him. I am full
to the brim with him.

In other words, I am happy, ready for
anything. Ready for what he has planned.

Maybe I should tell him now. Or does he
already know? He knows everything else about me.  Maybe this is why he's been
taking so long with Moira. He's been waiting for me to come and take my place,
to be there at his side.

Isn't this what he has always promised?
I am the Future. I am The What Will Come After. Why else would he have a child
- unless it was to help him in his work, to make a difference? To make sure
that he lives on in me.

I never really believed him, not before
tonight. But I've seen him take on Moira. I've seen the uselessness of dreams.
I've killed the part that wasn't his. Now I feel as if my soul is bursting out of
me. I am his daughter.

A place for everything, and everything
in its place. I should be downstairs, not sleeping, not dreaming, but by his
side. Helping him, now and forever.

Get out of bed, Kate.

And so I do. There's nothing to stop me.
The old Kate is dead, crushed underfoot like that baby eel. And now it's a
minor miracle in itself - the way I float, fly, rather than run downstairs.
Quieter than thought I go, happier than the day I was born. This must be the
feeling that comes over you, when you say goodbye to obstacles and contrariness
and dreams, and give yourself up to what is meant to be.

Happiness like this could send a person
skimming over miles and miles of space. But tonight, his door is far enough.
And here I stop. It's very slightly open, with just enough light escaping to
welcome me, his daughter. And invite me in.

So I give the door the gentlest of
pushes and smiling, stand there.

And stand there.

AND
all I can think is that the miracle has failed. Moira hasn't changed a bit. Her
eyes, trained on mine as if they were expecting me, are without expression,
empty. Her face is a perfect blank. The only remarkable thing about her, as she
stands facing me, is her stillness. Even now, after all this time, I cannot believe
the stillness of Moira.

Next to all that stillness though, is
movement, a busyness of sorts. Dad is bent with his back to me, face level with
her chest - like a man stooping to a keyhole, trying to see through a door that
is closed to him. His whole body is intent, twitching with the smallest of
movements, vibrating to the motion of his hands. Not that I can see them. They
are thrust deep inside Moira's blouse. But you can see the shape of them
easily, shifting, scrabbling just about where her heart must be, as if he were
searching for something that's been lost.

But it's no good. He's not going to find
what he's looking for, and he knows it. You can tell from the noises coming
from his throat, small desperate moans, the same whimpering sounds a man would
make when flailing through muddy water for something precious that has fallen
in a pond and is dropping further and further out of reach.

Of course you know what's happened. He
must have tried everything else with Moira, and this was the only way left.
Working through the flesh to reach the soul. It's what he would say. So it must
be true. Everything he says is true. He says.

But the work is coming to nothing. He
set out to save Moira, but now he's scrabbling for something that will save
himself. And he'll never find it. Moira is keeping it from him. Moira is in
charge.

Meanwhile Moira looks at me as if
nothing is happening, as if neither of us is really here, as if this is
someone's else's dream. Then slowly, very slowly, she raises a finger to her
lips.

But it's too late. Because although I should
know the truth, although I know everything there is about righteous men,
something inside has suddenly decided not to believe it. The small part of me I
thought I'd left dying has found a voice, and all at once, it won't be quiet.

In fact, it has started to scream. Is
screaming and screaming,as if it would never stop, as if all this time these
screams have been waiting for one particular moment of release. Happy to scream
the house down if necessary. Happy to wake the dead.

Happy? That can't be right.

Happy. In this house the dead are
already awake. How else to account, finally for Moira and her stare?

Dad's head swings up, and he tries to
turn around. But what can he do, with his hands still there, caught up in
Moira's clothes? Nothing. And the screaming just goes on.

Inside me though, despite the screams,
inside that little space that was always there, everything is perfectly quiet.
I'm even able to think, to observe the event with something close to wonder.
For the truth is, there has been a miracle after all. Moira is the same, yet
Dad - he is completely changed. And not just for now, but for ever, I'd say.
After all, no-one ever talked about the wine turning back to water, not so much
as a drop of it.

And what did I say about screams to wake
the dead? Here's Gran now, standing beside me, mouth hanging, a black hole
where her teeth should be. And the ruffle around her neck looking more like a
shroud than ever.

Then her mouth snaps shut like a trap
and she lays her hands on my shoulders, fingers like old dry bones as she
begins to shake me, hard as she can. But that doesn't stop the screaming. Quite
the opposite. All that shaking, it just turns the screams into accidental howls
of laughter.

Eventually it's too much, even for her.
Out of the blue, Gran begins to scream herself. There must be something in the
air tonight, having its effect, because once she starts, she can't seem to stop
either.

'Stop that, you little bitch. Stop the
row.'

But of course it doesn't stop me. It
would take more than Gran to stop me now.

So she shakes me even harder, and with
the shaking a babble of words streams out of her, not making any sense. 'I said
stop that or what happened to
her
will happen to you. You'll learn your
lesson just as she did. Do you hear me?'

Yes. Yes of course I do. It was that
mention of the word
her
. But I don't stop screaming. The more I scream,
the more Gran will forget to think what she is saying. And I need to hear what she
has to say.

'
She
thought she could scream as
well, make all sorts of noise.
She
thought if she made enough noise she
could have the whole world running to see what she was screaming about.'

'Mother...' This is my father, but his
voice sounds odd. Gran doesn't even hear him.

'
She
thought she could run out of
the house screaming all those lies, spread them around. Ruin everything he'd
done, pull it all to pieces, and for what? Because she wouldn't understand a
man like him and his needs. All that work, all that sacrifice, it meant nothing
to her. The bitch, she had her bags packed that night.'

'
Mother
...' Dad is doing his
best, but it's still no good. He remains trapped, in all the different layers
of Moira.

'But you listen to me, my girl.
She
had her mouth stopped didn't she, that night. She learned, oh yes, she learned.
She had me to contend with, didn't she. Do you know what she had in her bag?
Children's clothes. All those little pairs of socks. First things I put my hand
on.  And they did the trick, my God they did the trick, stopped the screaming,
stopped the lies. She should have shut her mouth. But one pair of cotton socks
and they shut it for her. Put an end to all that raquet. One little pair of
socks stuffed where....'

But here it's Gran who stops. There's
been another sound, another movement, one that neither of us saw coming, ending
in a small explosion. My father has somehow freed himself from Moira, and the
sound was his hand catching Gran full on the side of her face. The blow jerks
her head away from mine, so now it's him she's staring at, standing there with
his hand still raised, ready to strike again.

'What?' She screams. 'You thanked me for
it. You got down on your knees and thanked me, remember?'

Then she stops. For the first time she
hears the silence, realises that no-one is screaming, not any more. Her breath
fails and her mouth opens and closes, like a sea anemone swallowing stones.
Then her hands dart to cover it up, so nothing else can escape.

Dad steps back. 'Mother?' he says, in a
way that shows he's not yet sure of her. He'll use that hand again if he has to.

Gran looks at him, then slumps. 'Son,'
she moans, 'oh son...' Then remembering, swings round to see who else was in
the room. Who else could possibly have heard?

       But there's only me. Moira has
gone, which suddenly explains why Dad is free. Yet I never even saw her leave.

       'Son,' she says again, reaches
out with her hand, tries to catch his arm, but he takes a step back. Her face
crumples. Next she's turning to me, to show him there's no harm done. She even
attempts a smile which is worse than anything.

'Kate love.' There's a tone in her voice
I've never heard before, wheedling, almost pleading. 'You don't want to listen
to your old Gran talking her nonsense. You just made her cross, that's all,
wandering about in the middle of the night, making all that noise. You don't
know what it does to my nerves. See?' Her voice hardens, begins to sound more
familiar. 'It's you that's caused this, making a poor old woman come out with
all kinds of rubbish. You're a naughty little girl, Kate, that's what you are.
Tell her, Keith. She's a naughty little girl. In need of another lesson, isn't
that right, son?'

But Dad doesn't stir. He's staring at my
hair, frowning, like a man trying to remember what he was looking at before. I
feel my hand go up, both hands, trying to cover what's there. But it's no good.
His eyes stay where they are, until finally the frown disappears. And that's
how I know. At long last, my father has noticed the exact colour of my hair.
Now Dad is looking at me, but he's seeing somebody else.

'Keith,' snaps Gran.

'What?' His voice seems to be coming
from far away.

'I said she's a naughty little girl, who
needs to learn her lesson.'

But he's not listening. His eyes are
still snagged by the colour of honey. But here's the most surprising thing. The
look on his face is almost tender. What is it he's remembering then? Who can he
see? If I looked in a mirror, would I see her too?

And just for a moment, watching his
face, I can't help thinking, perhaps there is an answer, things don't have to
be like this...

Then the look disappears. So fast, so
abruptly, it's like a window slamming down. To be replaced by a new expression,
one that even I have never seen before. And that's when I know there is no
answer. My father's hand drops down to work at the buckle on his belt.

So now I know what's going to happen
next. It's going to start all over again. All that education. All that
punishment. But this time it's not only me. Someone else is going to be
punished all over again. He was looking at
her
just now.

And this time, who knows where it will
end?

I have a feeling it will end in here, in
this room. There is no place for me any more. There is no future, not for me.
And all of a sudden, I feel so tired. So very tired that even the end seems too
far away.

But then, something catches his
attention and his hand stays where it is. He's listening. Now we can all hear
it. From the other side of the door, the sound of whispering, of feet
shuffling, all the tell-tale signs of a nervous discussion.

And finally a voice, tremulous, not even
sure that it wants to be heard.

'Mr. Carr, oh Mr. Carr. Is that you?
Please, what was all the noise, Mr. Carr? Has something happened?'

The voice belongs to Hilary. Gran frowns
at Dad and shakes her head, ever so slightly. He sighs.

And buckles up the belt again, though
tighter than it was before, as if he were girding himself for another
challenge. Then he raises his voice.