The Friday Tree (19 page)

Brigid clapped her hands, and jumped. “Francis! Are we going to build the tyres?”

They had not done this since the summer.

“Yes, but don’t jump. Roll them. Tyre houses, what do you think? A well, and – will we do a tunnel?”

Brigid, still jumping, nodded her agreement. She knew what to do. They rolled them, heavy and black, smelling of rubber and old petrol, out onto the square between the passageway and the house. Behind the kitchen windows she could hear the sounds of cooking, a clink of saucepans and the running of water, and the slow drifting smells of carrots and onions, sweet and sharp. Brigid stood and sniffed, and Francis, not stopping, said: “Come on, Bisto Kid, roll!”

It had been a long time since they had spent a morning rolling and crawling and calling and climbing. No one told them to be quiet; no one said they were making too much noise. Francis put Brigid in the well, and she followed him through a cavern to safety. A high stack was a tower; toppled, it was an escape tunnel, and Brigid followed Francis – he was now a group captain, she was a princess – scraping and crawling through the tyres, emerging dirty and breathless.

They were about to start a castle for the princess when they were called in for dinner, and Brigid gave her hands the scantest of washes before sitting down to the fragrance of carrots and onions and lamb. Francis took every vegetable he could find out of his food and set it on the side of his plate. No one said anything, no one minded that he did that, not even Brigid, because Francis was almost himself again.

Then the adults started again about the paper and the news, and Brigid grew restless. Once they started, Ireland would be the next thing. She signalled to Francis, nudging him with her knee beneath the table, but he ignored her. He was listening.

Their father said: “There’s to be parole again for Christmas.”

“Really?” said their grandfather.

“Apparently,” and the paper got another slap, in the motion Brigid had come to dislike. “Yes, here it is. ‘
The Minister of Home Affairs in the Six Counties, Mr G.B. Newe, is to follow this year again the practice of allowing certain prisoners parole to spend Christmas with their families. Last year more than forty men in Crumlin Road Prison were allowed out on giving their word to return at the time fixed after Christmas.
’”

Francis said: “Don’t they get out any other time?”

His father looked at Francis over his glasses. “Well, it seems they do,” he said. “It says here that last Christmas ‘
not one man had broken his word
’ and ‘
since then parole has been extended to include a summer break and liberty for family and business reasons
’.” He stopped, looking away from his son to his father, and the two men exchanged glances.

“Well,” said the grandfather, “that’s humane.”

“Yes,” came the reply, “if it’s right that they are there in the first place.”

“Easy,” said his grandfather, swivelling his eyes to the children and back. “No politics before . . .”

Brigid, impatient, tugged at the sleeve of her brother’s jersey. “Francis,” she whispered, “the tyres!” but he shook her off. He did it gently, but he still shook her off. Dicky clucked, and turned his back. You, too, thought Brigid and, affronted, got up without excusing herself and wandered over to the window. She wanted to be outside, playing, and she wanted Francis to hear her think it, and come with her – but Francis was as bad as the rest of them.

“I’ve seen them,” he was saying, “over the wall from the College.”

“Have you, son?” said his grandfather, in some surprise.

Francis nodded. “They always seem cold,” he said.

His grandfather looked at him for a moment, then across at his own son. “Are they as close as that, Maurice?” he said.

“Close enough. The prison’s next door to the College.”

“Yes, but I didn’t realise the boys would be able to see in,” said the grandfather, turning back to Francis. “And they look cold?”

“Yes,” said Francis. “They shiver. I think it’s their exercise time when I see them. They look up at the sky. There’s one man who always looks down at a book. He doesn’t seem to mind as much.” He paused. “I’m glad they’re going to get home.”

Brigid, edging beside him, moved from one foot to the other. “Francis,” she said.

“I am, too,” said the grandfather.

“Francis,” said Brigid.

“Whatever they may have done,” said the grandfather, looking at his son as though he too were a child, “I’m glad they get the chance to see their families at Christmas.”

“Oh, please,” said Brigid, tugging at Francis’ sleeve, unable to wait any longer.

“Francis, please.”

“What is it, Brigid?” said Francis, and he even sounded like an adult. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Hold on.”

“I . . . Nothing, Francis,” said Brigid, and he turned back to the two men.

“I’ve . . . I’ve seen someone else, too,” said Francis, his voice shaking a little, as if he were nervous. “I’ve seen Uncle Conor. With the man who reads. He talks to him, in the yard. Is he, do you think, is he visiting?”

“Cornelius Todd?” said his grandfather, in surprise. He turned to his son: “Maurice? Is young Todd still rebelly? I thought he . . .”

Brigid did not hear what her grandfather thought about Cornelius Todd, or her father’s reply. Bored and impatient, she left the room and walked straight to the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the stove. She wore a loose blouse, long and navy-spotted, which Brigid did not like. It did not suit her. It widened her. She was leaning backward, holding her spine, stretching.

“Mama,” said Brigid.

“What is it, Brigid?” said her mother, turning round. Her face was pale. Shadows showed beneath her eyes.

“I have nothing to do, Mama. Francis won’t play with me. He just wants to sit and talk to Granda and Daddy about prisoners and Uncle Conor.”

Her mother stood up straight. “Prisoners and . . . ? Tell Francis I want him. I’ve better things for both of you to do. Hop, now, go on!”

Brigid hopped. At the table, the long and tiresome conversation was still dragging on. “Nationalist,” she heard, and “good family” and “interned” and “decent people” and “broke his mother’s heart”, before she delivered the message to Francis. She saw his frustration as he excused himself and got up, but he came and, before long, she had what she wanted. Together with Francis, she was standing wrapping threepenny bits in greaseproof paper to put inside apple tarts, and no one talked about prisons or Ireland or Uncle Conor.

“Wrap them up well, Francis,” said his mother. “We don’t want to choke anybody.”

“Some people have rings in theirs,” said Brigid. “Isobel said.”

“We have threepenny bits,” said her mother, “and that’ll do us. You, Miss, get me over that basin.”

Brigid, wondering if she could ask about Isobel, reached under the sink and brought out a white circular basin. She put it on the table and watched as Francis followed his mother’s instructions, half-filling it with water from a jug. Then their mother placed two apples in it and set it on the floor.

“Now, down on your knees, hands behind your backs, take turns, and try to get the apple out with your teeth.”

They splashed and snuffled until the tiles round the floor were awash, and their mother, the blue spotted smock splashed, put her hands on her hips, and laughed out loud as they had not heard her do in a long time.

Quickly, skilfully, she took one of the apples, dried it on a linen cloth, scooped out the core, and knotted a length of twine. Then she hung it from a hook in the ceiling. Still damp, but excited and happy, the children ducked and bobbed round the moving apple, hands firmly behind their backs, until Francis caught it and with the nearest thing to a snarl that they had ever heard from him, took a huge, crunching bite out of the apple.

“Well,” said their mother. “Thank goodness.”

“But me, Mama!” cried Brigid, and dived at the swinging half-eaten apple. She felt Francis steady the string and then the apple was in her mouth, and she was satisfied.

Finally, they sat down, their mother rubbing their heads with a rough towel, the tyres forgotten.

As the evening settled into night, Brigid’s excitement grew. It was Hallowe’en.

Their mother looked out the window. “A lantern,” she said. “We’ll hollow out turnips,” and she placed two turnips, heavy, woody-smelling, in front of them, and handed Francis a knife. She took another knife, started Brigid’s off for her, then handed her a fairly robust and ancient spoon. “Do what you can with that,” she said, “and Francis will help you if you get stuck.”

They began to scrape, Francis much quicker than Brigid. At last the turnips were hollowed and Francis set to work on his, cutting out the face. An eye appeared, two eyes, a grinning mouth, while Brigid had only the beginning of one hideous eye-socket gouged out in hers. She asked her mother to help her, but there was no reply. Her mother was standing at the window. Brigid looked up.

“Francis,” their mother said. “Did you put away the tyres when you finished your game?”

Francis stood up. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot. I’ll do it now.”

Their mother shook her head. “No,” she said. “No need. I’m afraid they’re gone.”

“Gone!” said Brigid and Francis together.

All animation suddenly lost, her face white, their mother said: “Gone, yes. Excuse me, children. I’m going inside to sit down for a little bit,” and though Francis watched her as she walked out the door and passed into the sitting room to join the men, he said nothing. Then he walked, slowly, to the back door, Brigid at his heels.

Outside, together, they stood staring at the empty space where the tyres had been. There was nothing: the wells and tunnels, the tower and the beginnings of the castle had all disappeared.

“They’ve gone, all right,” said Francis, shaking his head in disbelief, “but I don’t know where, or how.”

Behind them, unheard, their father and grandfather had joined them.

“I’ll phone the barracks,” their father began, but their grandfather stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no point, Maurice. It’s Hallowe’en. Youngsters will have taken them for bonfires. What puzzles me is how they did it without us noticing.”

They filed slowly back into the house, their father’s shoulders tense at the loss of his spare tyres, collected over years from forgotten cars, and kept there, just in case. Brigid, who rarely gave the tyres a thought unless Francis suggested a game, felt oddly bereft. She walked back into the kitchen, and sat down to the cold, ugly turnip she had been gouging. Francis was already there. He worked for a few moments in silence, then he reached across to Brigid and took over, cutting into the rough vegetable flesh. Brigid was glad. It was too hard and sore for her hands.

“There!” said Francis, after some minutes, and held up Brigid’s grim turnip, where a large and woody piece had just come away in his hands to reveal a gaping mouth. “That’s it, now.” He looked around. “It’s dark. I’m going to put candles in them.”

“Francis!” said Brigid. “Are we allowed? Shouldn’t we ask? Where did Mama go, anyway?”

Francis’ face closed. “She’s lying down. She’s tired . . . I think. Anyway, what age am I?” he said, quite cross.

“Eleven,” said Brigid, then: “No, nearly twelve.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m allowed – you’re not. You sit there.”

Brigid sat. Francis went to the cupboard, found two half-used candles and a box of matches and, with care, placed the candles in the heart of the orange-fleshed heads. Then he struck a match, and Brigid heard its hiss, and smelt its sulphury burning in her nostrils. She was not sure that Francis was allowed, but for a second his face too was fearsome – he was a lurid ghost, and Brigid caught her breath and decided not to question his authority. The kitchen became gloomy, the evening outside a dark blue-black, and the smell of smoke surrounded them. From the sitting room they heard Big Ben strike, and a sonorous voice announced the news.

“I hate the news,” said Brigid. “And I hate the newspaper.”

Francis, putting the match to the white waxen candles in the middle of the turnips, did not reply. The match hissed and sputtered, and suddenly the turnip was a leering, fearsome mask, eyeless sockets staring, toothless lips grinning. Brigid stood up, pushing away from the table.

“Careful!” cried Francis. “You’ll tip it over.”

Brigid, backing away, could not take her eyes away from the horrible thing they had made. And at that moment, just when she thought she could never again be so afraid, there came a loud rap at the back door. She froze. Francis instantly stepped beside her, putting his arm round her, and she felt the tension all through him.

“Stay here,” he said, “I’ll look,” and, stealthily, moved to the back door.

Brigid, ignoring his instruction, stayed right beside him, gripping his sleeve, and she felt both her heart and his pounding in her ears. The door rapped again, and this time it was loud, peremptory. Francis, stiffening, opened a narrow crack. Brigid felt his shock with her own as the door was suddenly and sharply pushed inwards and, together, the children fell back in fear.

Outside the door stood a figure in black, bent, glittering like a frost sprite. It began to unstraighten, and Brigid thought of Miss Chalk.
Then Francis, his breathing uneven, managed to reach up to the light switch, and the figure was suddenly smoothly bathed in light. Something, and it was not relief, washed over Brigid as the terrible figure straightened, to become Isobel, Isobel smoothing her hair, Isobel dressed up for Hallowe’en in a shawl and a scarf and hard, shining, steel-rimmed glasses. The children together breathed out hard. Francis did not move, but Brigid edged back into the kitchen.