First Fruits (11 page)

What did she know? Absolutely everything
it seems. And that must have been the culprit - Wagner, every morning all these
years. Dad seems to have the only wireless that is tuned to nothing else.

But I should have been concentrating
more. Dad has turned to me.

'What do you think of that Kate? Our
Lyddie recognises Wagner. And you've never even asked.'

Here Lydia blushes still further and
grins. It's like that mention of Greek, all over again. She really does think
it's a game, her doing better than me.

Yet I'd tell him if I thought it would
help, how I never needed to ask about the music for the simple reason that it's
always there. You might as well ask who made the air you breathe.

Now look at him, smiling at Lydia again.
But it's me he's thinking about. You can tell just from the way he snaps off
the wireless, snaps off the smile, and marches out of the room.

I should have gone and let her freeze in
the night. That way she wouldn't have been able to open her mouth in the
morning.

GRAN
bangs bowls of porridge down on the table, then pretends to ignore us to carry on
with the sausages and bacon she's getting ready for Dad. But she hisses in my
ear while she's about it and that's how I know. How it's only half past seven
in the morning, but already I've ruined his day.

 The only bright spot is Lydia, and
watching her with her first spoonful of Gran's porridge. Now she's sitting
there, rigid, lips puckered up with salt, incapable of swallowing.

'I...I,' she stammers. 'I 'm sorry, I
can't...'

What was the name of Lot's wife? The one
who should never have looked back?

But she needn't worry. Gran doesn't
care. The sausages are nearly ready. All she's worried about now is that
they'll be too brown when he comes downstairs, not quite the way he likes them.

IN
the car, Dad knocks a tape into the ancient cassette player. Music blasts -
Wagner again - guaranteed to shake the rust off our poor old car. You wouldn't
think anyone could drive like that, with music bursting out of his ears. But
Dad can, straight into the sun. He's making sure I don't forget next time. That
if anyone asks, I'll be the one who answers. Wagner, every time.

And Lydia, she thinks it's wonderful,
driving into the rising sun with a full orchestra for accompaniment.

LATER
she watches the car pull away. Only when it has completely disappeared does she
turn to me. 'Kate,' she says on a ragged breath. 'Oh Kate!' We walk into school
and she never stops talking about him, how wonderful he is, how lucky I am. As
if I didn't already know.

She was still at it when we arrived in
the cloakroom. Hilary, who was busy hanging up her dufflecoat and had her back
to us, stiffened. I'll say this for her, however, she turned round almost
straight away, to give a fairly good impression of a smile.            'Having
a nice time, then?'

And it's almost touching, the look of
surprise and delight when, as Lydia turns to hang up her coat, I grab Hilary's
arm. By the time Lydia has turned back again, we've already fled the cloakroom
and are racing along the corridor.

 But even then, it doesn't sink in, not
with Lydia. A moment later we hear her, calling out happily that we have to
slow down, that we are leaving her behind. Which of course, just makes us go
faster still. By the time she arrives at the classroom, Hilary and I are
already sitting at our desks.

'Hey,' says Lydia huffing and puffing,
on the very edge of being upset. 'Hey.'

But we are busy, aren't we? Hilary and I
have things to discuss, things that no-one else is allowed to hear. There's no
room for her today, not with us. She'll have to go and sit next to Moira
MacMurray.

And discuss Wagner with her.

You'd think she'd have got the message
then, but you'd be wrong. It was almost sad, the first few hours, the way she
kept watching us, expecting that any moment it was all going to change, that we
were going to have time for her.

But by lunchtime, even she can tell it's
not going to happen. Hilary and I have better things to do. And anyway, she has
Moira. If it's attention she wants, she can try getting it from her.

Oh but almost I forgot. Moira is busy.
Moira is watching me, the way she always does. As if she has nothing else to
do. As if it is the only reason she is here. One day, that girl's eyes are
going to fall right out of her head from staring too much.

'Oh Kate, whatever's the matter with
you?' This is Hilary talking, and there's a strange look on her face. It must
be because I've gone very still suddenly.

Because it's a horrible thought, the
idea of Moira's eyes, falling out from all that staring. Now I have a vision of
them on the desk, rolling around like two fat marbles, free of Moira, but still
watching me.

The thing to do, then, is to watch
Lydia, just to take my mind off things, the way you watch kittens at play, to
pass the time. Lydia's easy. Half a day at school and she's so miserable she's
almost forgotten about him. Now she's just wishes she was going home - to her
home, that is.

That's the benefit in having
It
.
People are more transparent than plate glass windows. You can watch them to
your heart's content. See every little thing that's going on behind.

At the end of the afternoon, when the
bell goes, she doesn't know what to do with herself. Hilary and I are busier
than ever. Hilary is making me promise to phone her tonight as soon as we get
home, and I'm agreeing, naturally. And naturally I'll do no such thing. You
have to leave the phone free in our house. Otherwise how would people ever get
through when they want him? I mean the truly needy, the ones who really know
they can't do without him.

Anyway, Lydia can see it's no use and
starts to make her own way outside - at the exact moment that every other
person in the school does the same. Yet haven't I said already? That's the way
to become invisible. One little ant among five hundred. And this time the
effect is instantaneous. I never saw a person disappear so fast. Even the other
girls can't see her, jostling past her as if she wasn't there.

In fact, it's impressive, how very
invisible Lydia has become. Just inside the school gate, Mrs. Chatto ploughs
right into her and draws back startled.
Gracious child, I never even saw
you...
Then carries on as if it never happened. Ask her later and I bet
she'll have no memory of ever meeting Lydia there, let alone nearly grinding
the poor girl into the school gravel.

But help is at hand. Just as Lydia steps
out onto the pavement, a car door opens. Lydia judders to a halt. Watching her
from a distance, the shape of her, skinny arms, skinny legs flailing, is like
watching all the letters of the alphabet, spelling out a series of words.
Surprise, disbelief, realisation. And finally, relief.

It's Dad in the car. It will all be
coming back to her, everything she's forgotten.

A moment later, I'm right there beside
her. Well, we don't want him thinking I haven't been taking care of her. And
then it's smiles and hugs all round. Yet only for the three of us. Hilary has
to stay where she is. Wait until she's invited to step into the magic circle.

But it doesn't happen. Even though she's
standing not three feet away, Dad is acting as if  he doesn't see her. Hilary
might as well not be there. He is well and truly ignoring her.

I don't know how he does it. Somehow he
always knows. He knows about all the work Hilary has put in to today, making
sure Lydia is ignored, making Lydia miserable. Now she's getting what she deserves.

And so we leave her, still standing on
the pavement, forgotten and not that far away from tears. It's Hilary's turn to
disappear. And as if to prove the point, here's Mrs. Chatto again, striding
along the same pavement, giving every impression of looking where she's going -
and yet a moment later, ploughing straight into
her
, Hilary. Resounding
clash of bodies. But read Chatto's lips an instant later.
Gracious child, I 
never even saw you...

AS
we drive off, the music starts up again in the cassette machine, the same as
this morning's. Ignoring the traffic, he turns round to look at me.
Well?
he's saying, though not out loud. Dad and me, we don't need words.

I bawl the answer right back at him.

'Wagner.'

And he beams. As a result the car is
full of sunshine, even though it's growing dark outside, and the light from
people's headlamps as they flash us seems unfriendly and lacking in warmth, as
if with a little care, there wasn't enough road for everybody. It doesn't
matter though, because there's all the warmth you could want right here in this
car.

       Eventually, though, even Lydia
begins to notice, the way the other cars keep wanting to flash at us. Which
doesn't happen, I bet, when
her
father drives. Her father is probably
content just to go with the flow. But then my Dad is different. He drives in accordance
with his beliefs; whilst her father, unless I am very much mistaken, has no beliefs
to drive in accordance with.

And talking of beliefs, the interesting
thing now is to watch Lydia. In other words, what does she believe? And it's
not just me wondering, either. In fact, you'd almost think it was a test, the
way, just occasionally, he glances at her before the brow of a hill or
approaching car.

If it is a test, I would say she passes.
As we slide into yet another bend, or clip the rim of a kerb, as lightly as an
angel might graze your bedroom window with its wing, Lydia doesn't turn a hair.
Not even once. She believes in
him
, in my Dad.

Who after a while turns round to her and
says: 'Lydia, love, did you have a good time with our Kate today? Is she looking
after you the way she should?'

Now comes a silence that even the music
can't fill, not straight away. Lydia looks out of the window, at the
countryside sinking so quickly into darkness. If she says a wrong word now, the
warmth in our car will vanish and it will be colder than if we were outside.

And yet Lydia understands. I believe she
actually has been learning. 'She's been wonderful, Mr. Carr. The best friend a
girl could ever have.'

Not a word about Hilary or Moira
MacMurray, or having to sit all day long ignored, invisible. As a result, the
temperature in the car rises by yet another degree. Dad turns the music down,
and begins to tell us about
his
day. About the cups of tea drunk, dogs
stroked and problems solved. Lydia listens and knows that thanks to him the
world has become a better place. She shakes her head and forgets every minute
of her day.

She's a touch unsteady getting out of
the car. In fact, she's beginning to remind me of the old ladies at the close
of Service, teetering from the threshold, unable to keep a straight line. All
those stories, all that goodness, it's gone to her head.

Inside the house, the kitchen is dark
for once, the gas rings shut down. No sign of Gran. Fortunately, it never
occurs to Lydia to ask where she might be, otherwise I might be tempted to tell
her. Blame it on the old ladies, forever bringing tokens of their goodwill -
chocolates, tins of biscuits, bottles of brown sherry. Generous to a fault, he
lets her have the sherry, and that's the last we'll see of her for the day.

Yet he never complains. Perhaps it's
because he doesn't have any use for sherry. It's the chocolates he keeps, for
the study. He finds a use for the chocolates almost every day. Education, it
all comes down to education. Sticks and carrots - isn't that what people say?
Bitter and sweet.

But with no Gran, we have to fend for
ourselves. Tinned ham, tinned salmon, tinned pears. Lydia who for some reason
had no appetite at lunch time, gobbles everything up as if she has never seen
food before. Dad winks and smiles, and promises that she'll get so fat no man
will ever want to marry her. He says it won't matter, though, so long as she's
quiet with it, because a woman's silence is better than beauty anyway. And she
thinks that is funny, the idea of being fat and suitably silent. Oh yes, Lydia
just laughs and laughs. Almost chokes on her tinned salmon sandwich.

Twenty eight minutes past eight, and the
telephone rings, catches her by surprise.

'Oh Mr. Carr, don't go,' she says as he
gets up, which you might think was terribly forward of her. But he's made her
feel so at home, so happy she never thinks of watching her tongue. Not yet.

It took my breath away, though. The
recklessness of it. The idea that she could
order
him to do something
else. But my Dad, all he does is smile. He's letting her get away with
everything. Because she's special, I suppose, and because she's new. And
because he doesn't want her running home to her mother, telling all sorts of
stories, ruffling feathers he wants to keep smooth.

It's funny that she doesn't ask, though,
about the phone calls.
I'd
ask if I were her, if everything about him
interested me, the way she's making it out to be. I'd want to know who was on
the phone every evening at precisely twenty eight minutes past eight.