The Friday Tree (13 page)

Unnoticed, she drifted back towards the aisles of books and, almost immediately, walked into a solid wall. It was a strange wall, giving way slightly, like a tree in a breeze. It was made of tweed and cloth, but it was much too big to be a person, so wide and broad and high. Brigid sensed life and movement, and realised, all in one second, that she had simply walked into a giant, reading a book. Only a little nervous, she looked up to see if there was a head to which she might apologise. The tweed and cloth covered a great distance before she found hands holding a large, dense book in dark brown. Even further up was the enormous head, intent, a huge head of a giant, reading, concentrating. Brigid had never seen anyone so big. She opened her mouth to apologise, and immediately realised the giant had not taken her under his notice, and that it would be safe, even prudent, to remove herself quickly. She backed away until she found herself, breathing hard, beside her father.

“Daddy,” she said, slipping her hand in his, “I walked into a giant, but he didn’t see me.”

Her father, peacefully turning over more books while he and the shopkeeper conversed, looked down at her. “Well,” he said, shaking her hand a little, “you’re not too big yet, Brigid. You probably didn’t do very much damage.”

“But, Daddy,” said Brigid, shaking his hand back, “it was a giant. There’s a giant in this shop. Look!”

She raised their joined hands towards the back of the shop, forcing a half-turn on her father. He looked, stiffened, whistled beneath his breath, and put down the book he had been reading. He looked intently for a few seconds, then away, then back, almost in disbelief.

Brigid whispered: “Didn’t I tell you? A giant.”

“Yes, Brigid,” said her father, slowly, his eyes still on the giant. “You did, indeed.” Then, without ceremony, he took her hand firmly, caught up the parcel under his arm, bent his head, made a brisk farewell to the keeper of the shop, and the next thing Brigid knew they were outside on the pavement. Above them the starlings circled and called, as if nothing had happened.

“The shop’s not closed yet, Daddy,” said Brigid, a little surprised at their swift exit.

“Don’t you want to have tea with me?” said her father. “Come on. Let’s find your mama and your brother.”

He led her across the road, across a lane into Fountain Street, climbing up stairs and more stairs to The Bonne Bouche. In that bright, warm room, kindly ladies in white aprons and caps served even children with china cups and saucers, placing sandwiches and cakes and hot scones on a dish that was three dishes in one, with lace paper beneath them. Outside the starlings wheeled and chittered in the evening air; inside, lamps wrapped them in soft light. This day was perfect. Her father had kept the promise made in the summer, and any moment her mother and Francis would join them. Brigid closed her eyes, and listened to the sound of the birds and the tinkle of spoons in cups and the low hum of voices at tables all around her.

When she opened them, she knew something was wrong. Her father, napkin in hand, was on his feet, and he was looking straight at the door leading from the stairs. Brigid turned right round in her seat, almost taking with her the white tablecloth. At the top of the stairs, she saw her mother, in her heathery costume, small pearls at her neck. But something was wrong. Beside her, inside the circle of her arm, stood Francis, shaking and pale. Over one eye, he wore a thick white bandage. Francis, but not Francis – Brigid remembered her father in the summer. Quickly, she looked up at him. He had no bandage now, only the heavy glasses masked his eyes, but his hands were clenched and white, frozen on his napkin. Joy drained from the day.

Before they could speak, her mother moved quickly across to them, her hand under Francis’ elbow. “I’m sorry, Maurice. I had no means of letting you know. Hello, Brigid,” she said, absently, as Brigid, looking up, touched her sleeve. “Francis was hit by a brick as he was walking into town from school. We’ve had it stitched. He’s all right. No,” she said, as her husband’s mouth opened to speak, “he
is
all right. Really. There’s no damage to his eye.”

Francis did not look all right. Everything in him seemed to be shaking, and his unbandaged eye had a look Brigid had never seen before.

Their father spoke, and his voice was tight, and high, like wire: “What are we doing here? Let’s get him home,” and he began to signal to the waitress.

His wife laid her hand on his sleeve, shaking her head: “Not quite yet, Maurice. He’s had a shock. Hot sweet tea and something to eat will help him, and then we’ll go. Besides,” she said, and Brigid saw her mother incline towards her, “wasn’t someone else promised tea with her daddy in town, a long time ago?”

Brigid was grateful, but even she, who had so longed for this treat, could not now enjoy it. “That’s all right, Mama,” she said, “we don’t have to,” but her mother, no longer looking at her, was suddenly sitting on the chair that had been Brigid’s, her hands at her face.

“What are we to do?” she said. “What sort of a place is it where a child could have a brick thrown at him because of his uniform?”

“Easy,” said her husband, looking behind him. “You don’t know that was why.”

“I do,” came the low reply.

Both children turned towards their mother, and Brigid saw her, on an instant, fix her face into an expression she knew: interested, cheerful and distant. “Anyway, what sort of time did you two have?” she said.

“A fine time,” said her father, catching the mood. “Brigid saw – what did you see, Brídín?”

Brigid took her attention away for a moment from Francis’ stricken face. “A sky full of starlings,” she said, instantly reliving that joy.

“That’s right,” said her father. “A sky full of starlings. And she has a new book, haven’t you?”

Brigid nodded, and she began to take out the parcel from beneath her white napkin, but her mother put her hand on hers, and stilled her.

“I think we’ll look at that together at home,” she said.

“And then,” said her father in a quiet, measured tone, “and then she walked right into a very large young reverend gentleman, no friend to those of the – shall we say – of the old faith.”

There was silence.

“What?” said her mother, putting down the cup she had just, for the first time, raised. “Do you mean the person I think you mean? The man Cornelius Todd heard preach against . . . ?”

Brigid saw her father, the finger of one hand casually travelling to his lips, nod his head. “He was a giant,” she said.

Her mother kept her eyes on her husband’s face. “Is there something going on in the town? One of those . . . you know, those . . . meetings?”

“Not that I’m aware,” he replied. “The man was standing reading a book, and Brigid charged into him, didn’t you, Brídín?” He turned again to Brigid, and his hands were spread open, inviting her to help him.

“No, Daddy,” said Brigid, firmly, “I did not charge. I just walked into him by accident. And he was not a man. He was a giant. Do you know who he is?”

Her parents looked at each other. Brigid saw her mother shake her head, just perceptibly, and then her father said: “Just a man, Brigid. Just a big man – yes, all right, then, a giant – who came in to look at books in a bookshop, and didn’t notice a little girl bumping into him. There was no harm done.”

Brigid was not satisfied, and thought she might ask Francis about it later, if he was able to speak. He was still very pale. They left straight after tea, and walked to the sad car park, past the ruined house. Brigid saw again the corner room, cut away like a doll’s house, its peeling wallpaper and the darker places where pictures had hung, and the empty grate where a fire had been. She looked away. In her dreams, she had been the child of that house.

When they reached home, Francis asked to go up to bed. On the stairs, he stumbled once, and their father made to move forward and catch him, but their mother, coming from the telephone, caught his arm and shook her head. “Leave him,” she said. “Let the child be. I’ve sent for the doctor. He’ll look at him.”

Still, to Brigid, her father seemed restless, pacing the kitchen, until her mother led him out to the hall by the arm. “Maurice,” she said, “please. It does no good to get excited, and you are really under my feet at the moment. Why don’t you and Brigid go out for a walk, while I see to Francis? You’ll see the car at the gate when the doctor comes, if you don’t go far.”

Brigid’s father said nothing and, without looking at his wife, put Brigid’s coat back on her, took her hand, and opened the door.

Superfluous, they set off together down the road. Neither was in the mood for a walk. Not far from the house, to the relief of both, they met Mr Doughty. Until now, Brigid had seen him only in the plot. How different he looked in his uniform, not exactly
black, not quite green. His flat cap had a peak that hid the kindliness of his eyes. He looked much taller, not as tall as the giant in the bookshop but, because she could not see his eyes, he was forbidding. And like Mr Steele, he carried at his hip a great gun, in a holster. Brigid felt a slight shock. She had become used to the idea of Mr Steele carrying a gun, but she could not reconcile it with her picture of gentle Mr Doughty. She did remember, from the meeting with Mr Steele, that she must not mention the gun. Still, she could not avoid looking at it, on a level with her eyes, as her father and the policeman stopped in greeting. They spoke of the kindness of the weather, and a surprising result in a match they had both watched on television the previous Saturday. Mr Doughty inquired after Mrs Arthur. He said Brigid was growing taller by the day, and asked after her brother.

“He was hit on the head, Mr Doughty,” said Brigid and, immediately, just as her mother had done when she stared at Mr Steele and his gun, her father squeezed her hand very tightly.

“How’s that, Mr Arthur?” said Mr Doughty, with concern.

“Oh,” said her father, and his hand on hers tightened even more. “Schoolboys, you know, Mr Doughty. Horseplay.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr Doughty, shaking his head. “Boys are holy terrors for horseplay.”

Amazed, Brigid looked up at her father, who did not respond. Why did he not tell what happened to Francis? Wasn’t it something he should tell a policeman? She could make no sense of it.

Then, just as her father was touching his hat, ready to walk on, Mr Doughty said: “All the same, Mr Arthur. Schoolboys and horseplay apart, we need all to be careful these days, nearer home.”

“Indeed,” said Brigid’s father, carefully.

Mr Doughty cleared his throat, and looked over Brigid’s head, to the plot, and the mountain beyond. “Those IRA fellows in England haven’t been caught yet, planting their packages. It’s said they were on the Liverpool boat in the summer. Could be anywhere now.” He paused again, took out a large white handkerchief from under his tunic, and blew his nose. For a moment he looked like the Mr Doughty Brigid knew from the plot. Then, just as suddenly, he was the policeman again. “Could be here among us.”

“Aye, indeed, Mr Doughty,” said her father, lifting his hat a little from his head. “Well, good evening to you, now. I must get this girl of mine home.”

Mr Doughty looked down at Brigid, and she saw her old friend. His face softened.

“Good night to you, Miss Brigid,” he said. “I haven’t seen you out in the garden now a while. Too cold to play, is it?” and he ruffled her hair. The action sent the gun swinging heavily towards her, almost into her face and, just as she stiffened, Mr Doughty took back his hand, and the menacing blackness pulled away.

They turned back to the house. “There’s the doctor’s car,” said her father. “Come on, Brigid. Pick up your feet.”

“Daddy,” she said, “why did you not tell Mr Doughty what really happened to Francis?”

He did not reply for a moment and then he said: “Brigid, I was going to tell you this later, but I’ll do it now. Say nothing to anyone about Francis.”

“But why, Daddy?”

He sighed, stopped, and hunkered down to face her on her own level. For an instant, she thought of George Bailey. “Brigid,” said her father, and his eyes were not smiling. “Listen. I’m only going to say this once. In this place, we keep our business to ourselves. Can you remember that?”

Brigid, not understanding, nodded her head. She had thought she might tell Mr Doughty, the next time she saw him in the plot, until that moment when the gun came close to her, swinging near her face like a live thing. Now, after that, and because her father asked her, she would never tell Mr Doughty, or anybody, what really happened to Francis.

Chapter 9: Children of Other Lands

Now it was Francis who had to stay in bed. When Brigid went in to see him, he was not even reading. Beside him the wireless sat oddly silent and this, more than anything, made Brigid feel uneasy. Without him the house felt too still, though Francis himself was all stillness. What was missing was his light, his peaceful acceptance of whatever came his way. Francis in bed, Francis not reading or listening to the wireless, Francis looking listlessly from of his window at the seven trees, was wrong.

As much to cheer herself as him, Brigid brought him her new book, invited him to run his hand over its cover of red cloth, rough yet warm to the touch, showed him the colours and sounds of the pictures inside, easing herself onto the bed until she sat beside him. The hospital had put on a white bandage, far too much like the bandage their father had worn when he came home from London. When their own doctor had come, he had shaken his head. He had redone it, so that now there was a small bandage; all around it, his skin was purple and blue.