The Friday Tree (36 page)

She shook her head. “I did. I nudged him.”

He took both her hands. “You didn’t cause it. It wasn’t a sensible thing to do, but that isn’t why it happened. He didn’t see her. He didn’t see her, because his eyes are bad again. Do you remember the way they were before he came back with the bandages?”

Brigid remembered when he covered his eye and the other one could not see. She said: “His eyes were open but he couldn’t see me.”

Francis nodded, still looking straight at her. “It’s that way again. That’s why it happened. A Brigid nudge wouldn’t do it. You can believe me.” He looked straight at her, his eyes full of light, and Brigid knew he could see her, right through her. “Do you believe me?” he said.

“It’s because he can’t see out of part of his eyes?” she said.

“Yes,” said Francis. “He has to have his eyes tested again.”

“He gets headaches,” said Brigid, “when he wakes up.”

“Does he?” said Francis. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes,” she said, “but then they go. He told me this morning.”

Francis looked thoughtful. “Poor Daddy,” he said. Then he sighed, as their father had done. “Do you think you could let me change out of these clothes and go downstairs and get myself something to eat?” He steered her to the door. “Go.”

Once again, Brigid found herself outside a closed door. In the same instant, she realised that she had not told him about the plot and seeing Isobel give something to the man with a head like a seal. Just as she turned round to knock on the door and tell Francis she heard, to her surprise, the voice of Isobel herself. “I’m sorry to be so late, Mrs Arthur,” she heard her call from the kitchen. “I couldn’t get a bus from town.” Brigid, her hand raised to knock, let it fall. She knew now what unreliable meant. It meant telling lies.

Chapter 24: The Churn Rock

The following Monday was Brigid’s last school day before the summer. On that morning, both parents went with her on the bus as far as the school. Her father was going to have his eyes tested, and her mother was going with him. They walked with her to the gate. Her mother told her to be a good girl, and her father told her not to get any slaps, and then he stroked her head with his hand.

“Will you come back for me after school?” Brigid said, touching her hand to his.

“Grace?” he said, turning to her mother.

There was a hesitation. Please, said Brigid in her head, please come.

“If there’s time,” said her mother. “If not, Isobel will come,” and Brigid felt her father’s hand slip from hers. She watched as they went away from her down the little street. Walking in step, they made an elegant pair, tall, complete and self-contained. Her father held his hand under her mother’s elbow as if it were she, not he, whose sight was in question. At the bottom of the street they turned, as one, and lifted their hands to her in a wave. Brigid, waving back, just stopped herself from running after them. Instead, she watched them disappear, then turned into the yard on the last clang of the bell, and joined the end of the line. All day, she hoped they would come back for her, but it was Isobel, unreliable Isobel, who stood at the school gate that afternoon.

“Isobel,” said Brigid, when she saw her, unable to hide her disappointment.

Isobel said nothing. She simply started walking, with Brigid by her side, down the street towards the bus stop.

It was not until they had been on the bus for some time, and the hill began to descend towards home, that Isobel finally turned to Brigid and spoke: “You’d better behave today. None of your nonsense.”

Brigid, by now indifferent, knew better than to give Isobel an argument. She stayed silent as Isobel herself. They approached the park and the depot, and then the stop, opposite her home. Behind the house the trees waved, soft and dreamlike in the quiet afternoon. Despite herself, despite Isobel’s surly, silent antagonism, Brigid felt a surge of happiness.

“Did you hear what I said back there?” said Isobel, as she took her arm to cross the road.

“Yes, Isobel,” said Brigid, without expression.

“Because it’s serious, you know,” said Isobel.

In spite of her resolve, Brigid could not help herself. “What is serious, Isobel?”

She saw the gleam of satisfaction in Isobel’s eyes as she turned to her: “Your father has to have another operation to his eyes.” She waited for Brigid’s response, but Brigid could only stare.

“In London?” she said.

“Here. Immediately,” said Isobel, her triumph visible. “He had to go straight to the hospital after he had his eyes checked. The specialist insisted. And they’re keeping him in, and they’re going to operate first thing tomorrow.”

Brigid could not speak. Above her, she could still see the trees in the plot, but their leaves no longer waved in greeting. Now, they were agitated, shivering in distress.

“So, you behave yourself,” said Isobel, as she turned the key in the door.

“Is my mama here?” asked Brigid, in the silent hall.

“Of course not,” said Isobel. “Put your school bag in the cloakroom. Don’t leave it at your heels for someone else to pick up.”

“Is Francis here?” asked Brigid.

“Use your head,” said Isobel. “Isn’t the College beside the hospital? Where would he be but with his parents?”

But, Brigid thought, I’m left here with you, and she could not hide her distress.

For a moment, Isobel’s features seemed to soften. “Your Aunt Rose is on her way,” she said. “Your mama telephoned her from the hospital, and as soon as she finishes her work she’ll drive up here.”

Brigid, unusually grateful to Isobel, tried her best to behave. She changed her clothes, came downstairs, picked at the bread and took a little of the soup Isobel warmed for her on the stove, then took herself, as instructed, out to the garden, with no purpose at all but to pass time.

She had no desire, now, to go over into the plot, or to think any more about who had been there or what Isobel was doing. She no longer cared. She hardly glanced over the fence: yet, when she did, she could not help noticing that there was something unusual there. Someone was in the plot: not George, not Isobel, not the man with a head like a seal. It was one of the policemen, and he was dressed in uniform. Brigid half-closed her eyes to try to make out who it was, but she could not. Both policemen were tall and of similar build: it could be either Mr Steele or Mr Doughty.

“It’s Steele,” said a voice beside her. “Old Steely,” and from behind the bushes at the edge of the fence, she saw the head of Ned Silver, clamped to a pair of binoculars.

Brigid was not surprised: she was beyond surprise where he was concerned. “Ned,” she said. “You must get your holidays before we do. I thought you were in England or somewhere.”

Ned Silver laughed. “I know how to get holidays when I want,” he said.

Brigid saw. “Were you sent home?”

Ned shrugged. “I got myself sent home. Like these?” He held up the shining binoculars.

“They’re like the ones Uncle Conor had last summer,” she said.

“Go to the top of the class. They
are
the ones Uncle Conor had last summer.”

Brigid, about to speak, bit her lip to stop herself.

“What?” said Ned. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Brigid.

“Yes, you did. First you said: ‘He’s not your uncle,’ and then you said, ‘How did you get those, Ned Silver?’” and he copied her voice with cruel accuracy.

Brigid bit her lip again, and this time it hurt. It was exactly what she had wanted to say.

“Well,” she said, “how did you?”

“Ha,” said Ned. “Made you ask. I got them,” he said, and his insolent eyes held hers as he spoke, “from Uncle Conor. He lent them to me.”

“Why? When?” For no reason that she could name, Brigid felt jealous.

“Oh,” said Ned, raising the binoculars again to his eyes, “the day he took me to see Davy Crockett.”

There was nothing to say after that. Brigid stood in stunned silence, and Ned, enjoying himself, dropped the binoculars from his eyes and let the leather strap spin. “He did intend – I mean I did consider asking him – to take you and Francis, too, or maybe it was just Francis. I forget.”

Brigid really wanted to hit him: she felt her hands curling into furious fists.

“But then he had that spat with Rose – do you remember?” he paused, and smiled, without warmth, “and I suppose he didn’t like to call to your house when Rose was there. So, he just took me, and then he went and did some things he had to do, and he came back for me, and brought me on up here, and he lent me these . . . for a while.” He raised the binoculars once more. “Yes, it’s Steely, all right.”

“He probably forgot to take them with him,” said Brigid, in her coldest voice. “More likely. He probably wanted to get away from you. And, anyway, we didn’t want to go and see Davy Crockett, and we couldn’t have, because we had other things to do. But we did see him anyway, from our car. He didn’t seem that good. He was only an actor. And I saw you, Ned Silver, screaming your head off. And Francis said you were on your own in town.”

“Did he?” said Ned, through the binoculars, to no one. “Well, scaring Davy Crockett out of Robbs was some fun, tell him.” He suddenly dropped the binoculars, laughing, his whole face transformed by merriment. “You should’ve seen it. That man ran for his life! We scared the . . .” He stopped laughing, and looked across at her, his eyes again cool. “Anyway, Uncle Conor knows I can take care of myself – not like some people. It would have been different if he’d had you to look after. But you weren’t with us, were you?”

Just as Brigid, all resolves forgotten, opened her mouth to tackle him, two voices called: Mrs Mulvey from Ned’s house, Isobel from Brigid’s. Ned, binoculars in his hands, began to sing in her face, about Davy Crockett and the mountain top in Tennessee. Blazing with anger and renewed disappointment, Brigid ran down the garden, Ned keeping pace on his side of the fence, singing away about greenest states and the land of the free.

“Brigid!” Isobel’s voice was loud. “Where are you? Your Aunt Rose is here.”

Ned had got to killing him a bear. It was too much.

“It’s
kilt
him a
bar
, Ned,” she said, her eyes straight ahead. “Get it right.” She turned at the top of the steps to see Ned Silver’s insolent face turned towards hers, singing Davy’s name as if Brigid didn’t know he was King of the Wild Frontier.

Then both children disappeared down their steps like rabbits into separate burrows.

That afternoon and evening passed slowly. Rose explained that it was a good thing that her father was going to hospital, so that they could see to his eyes, try to take away his headaches, and make him well again.

“I’ve seen these things in the hospital,” Rose said. “He’s in good hands, and I’ll stay with you till your mama gets back.”

Brigid, safe with Rose, felt reassured, especially since Isobel was not in charge any more: she retreated into the background where, in Brigid’s view, she ought to stay.

Then when, late in the evening, her mother and Francis came home, Brigid was so well schooled by Rose that she did not tire them with questions. Instead, she went to bed without protest, because Rose told her that the next day, all being well, she had a plan to do something special.

True to her word, Rose came in next morning before Brigid was properly awake. She pinched Brigid’s toe beneath the bedclothes, and shook it. “All right, Miss,” she said. “Up you get – or I’ll have to visit your granda without you.”

Brigid was out of bed, in and out of the bathroom, and dressed in record time – in a way that satisfied her if no one else – and, after Rose had made some adjustments to the outfit, she was pronounced ready to go, just as soon as breakfast was over. Through it all, her mother sat still, leaving Brigid entirely to Rose.

“Are you sure this is all right, Grace?” said Rose. “You don’t want me to come over with you?”

Brigid’s mother shook her head. “No. It’s the first day of their holidays. Take them out for the day. It’ll be a while before he comes round. I don’t want them waiting and wondering.”

“But, company, Grace. Maybe Francis . . .?”

Francis had just come in through the door.

“No. Take Francis, too. Yes, you, Francis,” she said, as his face expressed surprise. “I’d like you to go with Rose and Brigid. You had a long day yesterday, and I want you to get out in the air.”

“I’ll stay with you, Mama,” said Francis.

“Francis,” said his mother, and her eyes, though tired, brooked no argument, “Did you not hear me? I want you to go with Rose and Brigid.”

Brigid thought: I want you to, as well.

Francis met his mother’s eyes, held them for a moment, then dropped his own. “If you say so, Mama,” he said, but he did not look happy.

Rose got to her feet. “That’s settled then. We’ll go. I’ll contact you, Grace. Isn’t there a telephone box near the Arthurs’?”

“Just beside,” said Francis. “I’ll show you.”

In the car, as they settled themselves Brigid noticed two things. Rose, always slender, was now very thin, nearly as thin as their mother. The bones round her neck and shoulders formed ridges and hollows beneath the skin. The second thing was that when Francis got into the front seat, the set of his head was very still, as if he were waiting, or displeased.