The Friday Tree (22 page)

Ned and Brigid looked at each other from under their eyelashes, but said nothing.

Ned wandered over to the tree. “Nice,” he said. “You do this, Francis?”

“Yes,” said Francis, without any of his earlier enthusiasm. “I always do it.”

“Nice,” said Ned again, and he pushed one of the Cinderella bells, idly. It made a tiny noise, the tinsel shimmered, and the tree trembled, as though it still stood in the forest, shaking off frost and snow. Ned was still, then, for a moment, and his face was quiet.

Despite herself, Brigid felt sorry for fighting with him. “Is your tree up, Ned?” she said.

Ned turned away from the tree. “No,” he said. “My father doesn’t any more . . . and, anyway, he isn’t there.”

“Who is there?” asked Francis, and his voice had lost its irritation.

“Probably nobody.” said Ned, and he turned his back on both of them. He looked out the window, as if something were going on.

Brigid looked, but there was nothing to see.

“Mulvey goes to her own family at Christmas,” said Ned.

“But then, where do you go?” asked Brigid, and prayed every prayer she knew that he would not say he was going to be with them.

He smiled, in an instant his unpleasant self again.

He raised one eyebrow, and Brigid thought: now he’s copying Uncle Conor.

“Don’t you know?” he asked.

“Of course I do,” said Brigid, immediately.

“Good,” said Ned. “Then I don’t have the bother of telling you.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Francis. “So you can tell me. Where are you going, Ned, and why doesn’t your father ever come home? We never see him.”

Ned, to Brigid’s annoyance, turned immediately to Francis and said, quite simply: “He can’t. His work in Egypt is too important . . . to do with the government,” and he paused, lifting up his chin, letting the information sink in. “It takes him away a lot. He keeps the house pretty much for me, for holidays. I think he was going to sell it when . . . one time. Then he didn’t. Mulvey says it was because of me.” He tossed his head, and his hair shone like a chestnut in the light of the fire. “I don’t think he would keep it if it weren’t for me.”

Francis’ voice was quiet. “I’m sure he’d rather be here with you, now, at Christmas.”

Ned’s ears, turned away from Brigid, grew first pink, then red.

Brigid thought: he’s going to tell a lie.

“He does,” said Ned. “He does want to be here with me. He’s just busy, that’s all, all the time, and Mulvey can’t always be there. That’s why I was going to stay at school over Christmas.”

“At school!” cried Brigid. She could think of nothing worse.

“It would have been fun,” shot back Ned, his ears redder even than before, his eyes bright in the firelight. “I wanted to. I was looking forward to it. I was going to get in all the places we’re not allowed. Really good ones, secret places.” He breathed in, his mouth a pale straight line. “Secret as the plot,” he said, and he shot them both a glance that was a warning, just short of a threat.

There was silence. Brigid listened to her own breathing, while Francis sat down on the arm of the chair.

“So, Ned,” he said, his voice still quiet, “where will you be spending Christmas?”

Ned looked straight at him. His eyes were calm now, a clear dark blue. “With your Aunt Rose. She asked me when Mr Todd told her I had to stay in school.”

Francis sat still.

Brigid puzzled, said: “But how did he know?”

Ned pushed the Cinderella bell again, harder: “Don’t you know already?” he said. “I thought you said you did.”

“How, Ned?” said Francis, and his voice was very steady, but not so quiet.

Ned shrugged. “Because he came to see me, that’s how.”

“At your school?” said Brigid and Francis together.

“But isn’t that in England?” added Francis. “He went to see you in England?”

Ned, though he opened his mouth to reply, closed it again as the door opened, and Rose herself put her head round its edge.

“My goodness,” she said, “it’s quiet in here. What’s going on? Are you colloguing?”

Francis stood up. “No, Rose. Ned was telling us he’s going to spend Christmas with you,” he said, his voice now quite flat.

“Yes,” said Rose, her smile a little apologetic. “I was going to tell you about that, but everyone arriving together, and I –”

“Children,” called their mother’s voice. “Come in here to the dining room, will you, please?”

Rose reached across to the tree to straighten the bell Ned had disturbed and, as she did so, Brigid glimpsed, nestled at her throat, peeping out from underneath the collar of her blouse, something shining, bright as a star.

“On you go,” said Rose, giving Brigid a gentle push. “I was sent to get you.”

Francis and Brigid looked at each other.

“Go on,” said Rose, with her wide, warm smile. “All will be revealed!”

Ned at their heels, Rose behind, Brigid and Francis did as they were told.

“It is good news, all the same, Cornelius,” their mother was saying. “When did you last read such a hopeful headline? What a Christmas present for the world!”

Standing at the door of the dining room, Brigid felt her spirits sink. Not the world again. Not the news. The next thing, it would be Ireland.

“All it means, Grace,” said their father, “and I think this is Conor’s point, is that they have stopped their fighting for the moment. Look at it. Yes, the headline says: ‘
Guns are silent in Bethlehem
,’ and yes, that’s good. But read on: ‘
Israel and Jordan laid aside their guns today and opened the border to hundreds of Christmas pilgrims
.’ It doesn’t say they have settled their differences.”

“It’s a truce, Grace,” said Cornelius. “Maurice is right. All it is, is a temporary gesture of goodwill – like the business of letting prisoners out of the gaol here for Christmas, a cheap . . .”

Here it comes, Brigid thought. Here comes Ireland; but instead, to her relief, he saw the children, and stopped. He got to his feet, pulling out Rose’s chair for her. She sat down, her wide dress spreading its flowers and its perfume round her. He seated himself beside her and, as she smiled at him, the bright shining at her neck caught the light, flamed like fire, then settled white against her skin. The children took their places at the table.

“Well,” said their father, “are we all met? Children, there is some news!”

The children sat down, looking from one to another, apprehensive.

“We know Ned is going to spend Christmas at the farm with Rose,” Brigid said.

“Well, yes,” said Uncle Conor. “That is part of it. I’m driving your Aunt Rose down today, and Ned’s going, too. I don’t think school would be the best place at Christmas, do you?”

Brigid looked at her parents. Her father was smiling, her mother not. She seemed preoccupied, absently twisting on her left hand the thin gold wedding band. Probably, Brigid thought, Isobel had forgotten to get something she needs. As if to confirm this, Isobel came in, unsmiling, unfriendly, with a pot of tea.

“But how . . . ?” started Brigid.

Cornelius looked at Rose, who nodded and
gestured with her hand. “You go on,” she said.

“Well, look,” said Cornelius, “that’s not the news we were going to tell you, but that can wait a moment or two more. Ned: well, something your Aunt Rose said a few months ago made me aware that I knew of Ned’s . . . family, some time ago. And, I happened to be in England a little while back, and I tracked down this young man and found he was going to be spending his holidays at school. Then your Aunt Rose,” and he stopped and smiled at her again, “said she and her brother would be happy to have Ned as their guest. So, we . . . well, Rose, really, obtained the necessary permission from his father and the school, and here he is, and he’s going to have a very nice Christmas with your aunt and your uncle.”

Brigid was silent. She could not bear to think of Ned having Christmas with anyone in her family. She wished he had stayed in school for Christmas. She could not see why he did not just go to Egypt. It could not be much further away than England, and he would be with his own family, not hers.

Francis, who had been listening quietly, said: “What was the news you were going to tell us, Uncle Conor?”

“Ah yes,” he said, “our news.” He drew his napkin from his lap, dabbed at his mouth, and replaced the napkin beside his plate. “The news is,” and here, to their surprise, he reached over and took Rose’s hand, “that your Aunt Rose has agreed to be my wife and, just as soon as we have told your Uncle Michael – because, you know,” and he laughed, and Rose laughed too, “I must inform the man of the house, if not quite ask his permission, we will make it formal.”

Rose looked down, and the shining something swung forward. Brigid saw that it was a ring, like her mother’s engagement ring, of glittering white stones, hanging on a chain round her neck. Brigid looked at her mother, whose eyes were still cast down. She was not smiling.

Her father, heartier than she had seen him since the summer, said: “Now, isn’t that good news, children?”

Ned glanced sideways at Brigid, and raised his eyebrow. He
is
copying Uncle Conor, Brigid thought, and she was put out, though precisely why she could not have said. Yet, the feeling that her day had been stolen persisted as the visitors stayed, and stayed, so that Isobel had to stay on too, and Brigid could see her mother’s face grow pinched and tired. Yet, Rose, who always noticed everything, seemed not to notice this. She spent her time gazing at Uncle Conor, and he smiled and kept smiling until the crooked tooth Brigid had come to dislike seemed to have developed a life of its own.

Eventually, after a very long lunch, the visitors set off in Rose’s little car. Francis and their father saw them off at the gate, but Brigid did not go with them. She did not want to have to look at Ned Silver sitting gloating in the back. It pleased her to think that Uncle Conor would have to fold himself up to fit into the front seat. She hoped he would be uncomfortable. She was not sorry they were gone, yet the quiet of the house washing back to her was now empty, drained of the morning’s promise. They had taken that with them.

Chapter 15: Under the Tree

The visitors had stayed so long that the day had grown dark. She could see her father, after watching them off from the gate, remain standing there, lost in his own thoughts. She heard her mother go upstairs, calling to Isobel that she would be down in ten minutes. Francis was nowhere to be seen.

Brigid, obscurely disconsolate, set out to find him. Out through the kitchen, warm with currants and spices and steam, to the back yard: no Francis, but she could see where he had been. His Stanley knife, a glint beneath the gap at the bottom of the coalhouse door, first caught her eye. She pushed the door back and looked around it: beside the knife, flattened, pushed well back against the wall furthest from the coalstack, was a large newspaper parcel. She drew it out slowly and, trying not to get black coal dust on her hands, opened it up carefully without touching its contents. Inside lay the remains of a cardboard box. It had arrived, full of fragrant oranges, the day before. Brigid had seen it. On it now there were pencil drawings, arches and balconies, sweeping swathes like cloth, like curtains. He had done that: Francis had done it. He had cut out a huge square. He had folded it back so that it looked like . . . Brigid stopped. She knew what it looked like. She knew what he was doing. He was making her a theatre, because she had asked Santa Claus for one. Brigid felt her heart expand within her and, for no reason at all, her eyes filled with tears. She swallowed hard, wrapped the parcel back up, replaced it just where he had hidden it and pulled the door closed. She crept quietly back into the house, hoping that no one had seen her.

She had just finished washing her hands at the sink when she saw Isobel through the kitchen door. She was standing at the door of the cloakroom, crossly pulling on her coat, tying a headscarf under her chin. She was breathing hard, and talking to herself: “One more wouldn’t have killed them, as far as the bus.”

Still unseen, as Isobel reached into the darkness of the cloakroom for her bag, Brigid slid into the hall and then into the sitting room. From next door she could hear Dicky clucking in complaint. “Quiet, you,” she heard Isobel say. “You’re another one.” Standing behind the door, Brigid looked at the Christmas tree, as yet unlit, and tried to recapture the happiness she and Francis had felt, before Ned Silver and Cornelius and Rose – yes, Rose too – had broken their peace. Then she remembered: Francis was making her a theatre. She looked again at the tree: the tinsel catching the firelight; the coloured baubles gently turning in the draught from the door, the Cinderella bells heavy and still, the angel in her paper frock gazing at nothing from the top of the tree. A hopeful thought came to Brigid: Rose had said she would leave something if the porridge were eaten. It had been eaten.

Her eyes travelled downward. She bent her knees and crouched by the tree. There was something, right at the back, tucked away almost out of sight. It was oddly shaped, with points in strange places, like a sailing ship, and it was loosely wrapped in brown paper with string, and a label. Brigid burrowed down, and above her felt the branches of the tree shiver. She shivered, too, because the parcel’s label showed her name. Beside it, another parcel, square, heavy-looking, was inscribed “
Francis
”. She did not touch them: she wanted to touch them, but she did not. Yet, she could see, in clear, sharp print, a label saying, “
With love from Rose,
” and beneath, in black, bold letters, there leapt the words: “
And Uncle Conor.
” Brigid sat back on her heels. He was going to be her uncle, really. She shook her head. She did not want him to become her real uncle. For a moment, Brigid felt dislike, almost hatred for Rose, for letting this happen.