First Fruits (9 page)

Now look at her as a result. Eyes lit
up, cheeks pink, Lydia is transfigured. Why, she's almost pretty. That's more
like it. That's what we're used to.

Then at last, Mrs. Morris does catch
sight, and it's almost comical. 'Lydia,' she murmurs. 'Lyddie love.'

But she'll have to do better than that.
Lydia hasn't even heard her.

'Darling...' Mrs. Morris tries again.
That faint colour in her own cheeks is deepening rapidly to a becoming pink,
prettier even than her daughter's. 'Darling, I know this is absurd - but I've
been thinking how very upset Aunty Jane is going to be, about you going
somewhere else to stay. I don't know if she'll ever get over it. But it isn't
too late, and I'm sure Mr. Carr and everyone would understand if...'

If... what? If she dragged her daughter
away from us now, after it's all been arranged? I don't think Lydia will be
going anywhere, not this time. Dad has put his arm around Lydia's shoulders.
She's shrinking into the space he's made for her, growing small enough to put
into his pocket if he so minded. As for her mother, I don't believe Lydia has
listened to a word she's said even now.

In fact no-one has. Not so it counts.
Dad's talking to Lydia. At least, she
thinks
he's talking to her, but
it's her mother he wants to hear him. So she knows how it's going to be. He's
caught Lydia round the waist, tickling her a little so she wriggles and
giggles, though not too much. 'What's this?' he's saying. 'There's nothing of
you, Lyddie-love. What do they feed you on at home? String beans? We'll have to
do something about that, won't we, mother? Fatten the old kid up a little.'

Here he winks at Gran, who stands
unsmiling. She has picked up the ladle with one hand and has a saucepan lid in
the other, in readiness, Mrs Morris or no Mrs. Morris. She looks as if she
could batter someone as easily as feed them.

All the same she's ready to do exactly
as he says. We all are, Lydia included. Especially Lydia.

So you see, there's nothing for Lydia's
mother to do now but go. She brought her daughter here, and now she's going to
have to leave her. It's what everyone wants. Even Gran. It only took
her
a moment to understand that Lydia was no threat. No-one was going to miss any
meals because of Lydia.

LYDIA,' Mrs. Morris tries one last time,
emphasising the full breadth of her daughter's name - for others to take note,
no doubt. She hadn't reckoned on my Dad, had she, picking up on that '
Lyddie
'
the way he did.

But all she wins by it is a brief
colliding of heads as Lydia allows herself to be kissed goodbye. A moment later
Mrs. Morris has found herself standing by the door, probably wondering how she
got there. Still she hangs on, though, refusing to leave, hoping that Lydia will
change her mind.

But it doesn't happen. Instead, my
father sends Mrs. Morris another one of his special smiles, the sort that could
pacify nations, and send old ladies fluttering like pigeons back to their own
homes. But, for all those strange reasons that I can't fathom, it has no effect
on her. Mrs. Morris doesn't move. In the end it has to be Lydia, suddenly
looking across at her from under his arm and frowning, mouthing that one little
word.         

Go
.

SO
what can she do except just that?

What's more, she'll probably end up lost
again. She doesn't even have Lydia now to help look for signs. Lydia is staying
with us.

Now it's just the four
of us, the way it was meant to
be, the way it would appear to someone on the outside - a mother, say - stealing
a glance through the window, to see what has happened to the daughter she has
given up. 

We know exactly how it would look on the
outside. Dad and me, it's a knack we both have - of knowing - a God-given
talent you might say.

But now here's Gran, elbowing her way
between us with a steaming saucepan which she bangs upon the table with a
thump. But even then, wonderful things continue to happen - wonderful if you
were Lydia. Dad leads her to a chair and, with infinite pains, sits her down,
right next to him - where normally I would sit. And still Lydia can't take her
eyes off him, watching from behind the dazed sheen of her spectacles as if
afraid he might disappear.

It's all that attention of course, going
to her head, putting her in a spin. Don't they pay her any attention at home,
then? This morning, I'd have said, of course not. But I'm not sure now.

Unless it's Laura, always getting more,
no matter what Lydia does. Curly little Laura who will never need a brace, the
apple of her daddy's eye.

Well there's no question of Lydia having
to share the attention here. Dad hasn't so much as looked at me in fifteen
minutes. Well, he's been busy, naturally. But it's the strangest feeling in the
world. It's like...it's like being invisible.

Is this what Lydia complains about at
home? Having people look away, forget she's there? If that's the case, then all
I can say is silly Lyddie, stupid old Lyddie-love.

And that's when I catch Gran's eye. I'm
not invisible after all. There's always Gran, isn't there? Gran and her nose,
forever sniffing in my direction. Gran is there to keep an eye on me. Gran
never forgets. She's his mother, so she's bound to have talents too.

But for once I'm not doing a thing
wrong. There'll be nothing for her to report. She won't even be able to say I
was jealous, watching the two of them, Lydia and him, getting on like a house
on fire. She's talking nineteen to the dozen about Greek, and
he's
making her a promise that one day soon they will go to his study, just the two
of them, and read Greek together. The New Testament to be exact. The very thing
he had in mind for me.

Oh, this is better than I ever dreamed.
Gran may be watching me, but
he'
s not. Lydia's there, taking up all his
time, chattering away about Greek verbs, about Miss Jamieson, about the books
she likes to read. Books you would never catch me reading. In the meantime,
Gran has turned off the gas, and the steam clouds are vanishing like mist on a
summer's day. Lydia must feel as if she's sitting in purest sunshine.
Everybody's happy. Even him.

But then, all good things have to come
to an end. Slowly his head turns, and the light that's bathed us all fades -
just a little. Suddenly I know what's coming.

'Kate, love. I've never heard you talk
about Greek once, not even once.'

See? I was right. But no need to panic.
There's a correct answer to everything. All I have to do is take a moment to
think.

But then, before I know what's
happening, there's Lydia, suddenly answering for me. 'Oh I don't believe Kate
likes Greek, Mr. Carr. I think she'd rather be doing something quite different.'

What?
What?
Doesn't she realise
what she's just said? Apparently not. She's smiling at me, thinking everything
is the same as it was five seconds ago. She doesn't know. She can't see Dad's
eyes, for a start. And if she could, she wouldn't understand. All she'll see is
the smile. But I know. While Lydia beams, the light in Dad's eyes is telling me
that we will be talking about this later, when we're by ourselves. He thinks
that I've forgotten what's expected, that I have to be reminded. His daughter,
you see.

He doesn't even have to use words. Dad
and me, we're that close.

And it's all her fault, Lydia's that is.
So you won't catch me feeling sorry for what happens next. In the gap she's
made in the conversation, Lydia decides it must be time to eat. She scoops up a
forkful of Gran's dinner and pops it in her mouth. And then it happens. Her
face changes, as it must when her tongue shrivels and the salt seeps into her
cheeks. The only sound is what comes from the back her throat, tiny, like a
bat's squeak.

'Something the matter, love?' says Dad. He
has begun to frown. Ingratitude, the worst sin. Then he gives an exclamation,
and hits his forehead with the ball of his hand. The frown has disappeared.

'Of course, Lydia, love. What a girl you
are. And too polite to say a word.'

'What is it, Keith?' Already Gran is
halfway to her feet, all that skin and bone bunched for action. If it's
something to do with her food, then she would gather up every bit and throw it
away without another word. Start all over again. That's the way she is. Not for
anyone else though. Only for him, only for Dad.

'The Blessing, mother. I clean forgot
the Blessing. And here's young Lydia, reminding me.'

And he grins at Lydia who, still shaken,
uncomprehending, does her best to smile back. The food stays sitting in her
cheeks, scorching her.

And even now she doesn't understand,
even when he closes his eyes and clasps his hands together. I have to push her
head down for her. Show a bit of respect.

'Dear Father, bless this food which you
have set before us....' At this point, Gran mutters into her fists, as she
always does '....Bless the people who eat of it. And Father...' here he stops
'...Bless the new child in our midst. Help us to love her and keep her as one
of our own. Help her to love us and become part of your Family of Love.'

And with the Amen, he raises his head -
and winks at Lydia, one last time. But  look, he's done it again, caused Lydia
to stare back at him, incapable of speech. Surely nothing compares to this, not
if you're Lydia. No-one has ever prayed for her before, you can tell. I don't
suppose God gets so much as a mention in her house, not from one week's end to
the next.

The consequence is, there's not a peep
out of her after that, not about Greek or anything. Cheeks burning, she
concentrates on swallowing Gran's food instead. After all, she's seen us doing
it. Maybe knowing it has been blessed makes all the difference.

No, that's wrong. It's knowing she's
been blessed, that's what makes the difference.

And now that Lydia's been sorted, it's
all clear for Dad. You see, he was just being kind, allowing Lydia to have her
say, letting her think she had something to contribute. But now it's his turn.
It always is, in the end. Maybe that's why Miss Jamieson and he don't get on.
She's used to holding the floor herself, isn't she, so certain she has
something to say. About the Greeks and such. And then along comes Dad to make
her see; some people have more important things the world will have to hear.     

 It's what Lydia thinks anyhow. If she
was all ears for Miss Jamieson, it's nothing compared to the way she is now. I
reckon that if you waited until it was all over, and then asked her what he'd
said, she would be able to repeat it, every sentence, word for word.

Or would she?

Because here's something I only started
to notice very recently. The way that Dad talks. Lately, when I've tried to
remember what it is he's actually said, there's...nothing. Simply nothing. Dad
talks, yet it's only his face I remember, and the sound of his voice. And I
can't help thinking I'm not the only one. Stand in church and look around you.
Do folk actually remember what he's said? Do they? They reel out at the end as
if they're drunk. As if they would find it hard to remember their own names,
let alone what he's taken all that trouble to tell them.

Maybe it's just as well, because it's
not all good news, is it? He preaches The Bible, in other words, what is true,
and The Bible doesn't say anything about us being put in this world to be
happy. Or in the next world either, come to that. Not unless you're Chosen.

Maybe somebody should write it all down
for them. Jesus had the same problem, when you think about it. Someone had to
write it all up for others to digest. People wouldn't have remembered a word he
said otherwise. A case of the messenger outshining the message.

So, no reason to think any the less of
him. Of either of them. What's more, Dad has a secret weapon. Dad tells the
best jokes in the world. No fear of anyone forgetting those. If you want proof,
just look at Lydia now. Laughing? The girl is practically falling off her
chair. It's all a revelation to her. I don't suppose anyone's taught her to see
the joke in being a nun, or a fat lady, or a foreigner. Until now.

No, there's no-one like my Dad to make
people see the funny side. Unless you've heard the jokes before, more times
than you can remember. Then it can be difficult, laughing the way you should.

And now Lydia may be about to learn
something else. All of a sudden, the jokes stop. Dad gets to his feet. 'Well,
ladies,  time to be getting on. Old Keith Carr has work to do.'

'Work, Mr. Carr?' Lydia looks startled,
and steals a look at the clock.

Does that mean he's going to explain to
her then, about Time and Tide, how it waits for no man? How God's work needs no
clocks, because it is never done? No, there's no time. I've just sneaked a
glance at the clock myself. It's twenty seven minutes past eight, only a few seconds
to go...

....And there it is, the sound of the
telephone. Bang on time. It never misses. Yet even now, Lydia stares up at him,
eyes full of hope, as if she half expects him to ignore it. But of course it's
not going to happen. That's what she is going to learn tonight. Some things are
always going to take precedence.