First Fruits (13 page)

But he'll have to hurry. By my reckoning
Dad has twenty seven and a half minutes before the phone goes.

The back door closes and we get on with
the dishes. In the middle of it, however, Lydia turns to me. And not just to
me, but Gran. It's funny how even now she hasn't noticed the difference between
Gran and other old ladies. She thinks she can say anything in front of her,
that there's not a jot of harm in her. And all because she's old, like her
Aunty Jane who wouldn't hurt a fly.

It's the only thing that could explain
how she could have done what she did next, which is to blurt out, suddenly, as
if it's been building up and she can't keep it back a moment longer: 'I love it
here. Everything's right as it is. You're so happy the three of you. You don't
even
need
a mother, Kate.'

And there, it's happened again, that
mention of
her
. Now Gran is standing stock still, staring at her, we both
are.
Why
can't Lydia understand the rules? Gran is going to have a field
day, when he gets back. When they're alone.

My leg aches. Other times, worse than
this, not remembered.

But what's this? There's something wrong
with Gran suddenly, something changing the shape of her face, making it so you
would hardly recognise her. So different from herself that if I'd walked in
now, I wouldn't know who she was.

Gran is
smiling
. Looking at Lydia
and smiling. And you know why? It's because of Lydia, telling us we're happy,
that we don't need anyone else - especially not
her
, the one who went
away. We are perfect just the way we are.

And at that very moment, the door opens.

'Oh, Mr. Carr. You're back.'

Then she stops, because even Lydia,
stupid
Lydia, can see that he's not the same man who left us earlier. Slowly he makes
his way to the table and sits down, heavily, as if he was exhausted. Doesn't
look at us. Lydia sees the weight of him and thinks he's tired, that's all, and
this is the reason he continues to sit, his hands bunched into fists, staring
at the table. But I know that look, the jutting of the lower jaw. I know when
power is concentrated in his hands and in other parts, lower down, where his
shirt meets his trousers. I know the sound even, of his breathing grown heavy.
This isn't tiredness. This is something far worse.

But still Lydia hasn't understood. 'Oh
Mr. Carr, whatever is the ...'

But a look from him silences her. Just a
single glance. Her mouth falls open, her face a picture of confusion.

Then, without a word, Dad raises one
fist from the table. Opens it. From high out of his palm falls a tiny ball of
paper which hits the table with a minuscule thud and rolls toward his other
hand.

He gives it a poke.

'I found
this
in the car, down
behind the front seat.'

And of course we recognise it straight
away, even though the words are invisible.
Iacta alea est
.

'Well?' He says to me, only me. 'What
have you got to say. Who wrote this?'

But the only sound is from Gran over by
the stove, standing with an old damp tea towel pressed against her mouth. These
are the times she lives for, but she's afraid of making too much noise in her excitement,
thereby distracting him. She shouldn't worry. He's deaf to her, the way he is
blind to her when he so chooses, and he doesn't hear a thing. There's only me
here, saying nothing. Dad and me, by ourselves.

Suddenly though, Gran makes a tutting
noise. It's then I realise that, for some reason, I'm touching my hair. She'll
see it as fiddling, frivolous. I make my hand stay still, but it's too late.
Slowly, his eyes move from my face to my head, to the light that must be
shining on my hair. Hair the colour of honey, not like his, and his eyes
narrow. All at once it is as if he is on the edge of noticing, of seeing
something that was hidden from him. Until now.

Then a voice answers. 'I wrote it.'

The voice belongs to Lydia. Speaking as
if she were surprised, as if she thinks there's been nothing more than a small
mistake. Not a thing to be upset about.

Silly Lyddie. Stupid Lyddie. She doesn't
know. Now she's brought herself into the frame. Now she's not safe, not any
more.

But he blinks. His eyes leave my hair
and move on, searching, until they find Lydia. A second later, we hear a tiny
sound. It came from Lydia, who has just discovered, for the first time in her
life, that sometimes it is better to be forgotten, best not to be thought of at
all.

She should have done what Hilary would
have done. Leave the room, leave me to it, to him. His one and only.

But attention shared is attention
halved. Now he's signalling to both of us. We've to sit down and hear what he
has to say, Lydia and me, in it together.

He picks up the ball, flattens it, then
smoothes his hands on his hanky to wipe away what can only be filth. Stranded,
the scrap of paper trembles on the table.

'
Iacta alea est
. The die is
cast.' He looks at Lydia. 'You wrote this? Why?'

He knows why, of course. But he wants to
hear her say it. That she wrote it because I didn't know, and because she
wanted him to think I did. In other words, that we both lied. Cheated and lied
to him. He wants to hear her say just that.

But sometimes folk don't always do what
you expect. Lydia stirs then sighs, and with the sigh her entire body shivers
as if, with that one breath gone, there's nothing left of her. Not even air.
But despite that, she doesn't say a word. Not a single word. And the silence
continues, all because of her, Lydia.

It's strange to be watching this. To see
it happening to someone else, to see both sides. I can even see his problem. He
says that Truth is everything, and until we hold the Truth in our mouths, and
pronounce it for all to hear, then we can never be saved. But he can't force
the Truth into her mouth. He can't act on Lydia in the way that's right. Lydia
has a mother. She would go home and tell her everything.

But this is my father, and there are
other ways. He sighs, brings his hand to cover his eyes, and lowers his head.

'I don't know what to say. As God is my
witness, I don't know what to say.'

And the bewilderment is clear. How can
Good understand Bad? A moment later though he lifts his head from his hands and
makes a movement, almost hopeful, towards Lydia. But at the last, he turns
away, as if the sight of her is more than he could bear, cries out as if in
pain. 'I thought you were a
good
girl.'

And that's all. Because what else is
necessary? Look at Lydia now.

Lydia has stopped breathing because of
him, because of his disappointment. Yet she should breathe. Lydia should
breathe. She should tell him the truth about the note, how she wrote it for me.
She could turn all this around. For herself anyway.

But she doesn't say a word. Not a single
word.

'Kate?' Dad looks at me. It's a
dangerous moment, the one I've been waiting for. But attention shared is
attention halved, and the danger is nothing like it could be.

'Kate,' he says again. 'Take...take
Lydia with you upstairs. And tomorrow...'  But he can't find it in him to say
another word. Besides, he doesn't have to. 'Tomorrow....'

'Mr. Carr,' Lydia whispers,
interrupting. 'Oh Mr. Carr, I...'

But no matter what she has to say, it's
too late, because there goes the phone.      

Which is a mite surprising, because even
now, I can't seem to stop myself glancing at the clock, and it's only twenty
seven and a half minutes past eight.

But he hasn't noticed the difference.
Another sigh and he heaves himself up from the table. And that's when suddenly
we see him reel, as if he's lost all sense of balance. He steadies himself, but
it shows what we have done to him. Or, to be exact, what Lydia has done to him.

Out in the hall the ringing stops. Not
that Lydia cares. She is staring at the table, at the little scrap of paper
that started all this. She seems to be in a state of shock, lips moving as if
she were reciting a prayer, one that is forbidden to be said out loud.

But then, the unexpected. The door opens
and here is Dad again. He looks at Lydia, and says simply, 'It's for you.'

At the same time, he looks at me. Go
with her, he's saying. Not in words of course. It must be clear enough by now.
We don't need words half the time, Dad and me.

So when at first I don't move, it's not
because I haven't understood him. It's because of the shock. Why is Lydia
having to take Dad's phone call? Gran has to dig me in the ribs to make me do
as I've been told.

In the hall, Lydia has already picked up
the phone, but even though she has it cradled in both hands, she can't stop it
shaking as she brings it to her ear. There's a pause as she listens, then from
high in her throat, one little word escapes.

'
Daddy!
'

It must be a terrible sound to hear,
that word, all the way down the other end of the line, across the sea and under
the Alps to the farthest side of Italy. One little word. How would they ever
know it came from their daughter? Maybe they are not sure even now. It sounded
more like a bird than anything else, something fallen out of the nest.

And then of course, she begins to cry.
But even this must be better than that one word escaping the way it did. Huge
great sobs, but all the better because there's no mistaking who they belong to.
Not making an iota of sense, though. Whatever  must they be thinking?

The answer is, whatever they think, it's
not bad enough. Not unless they remember the sound of that
Daddy
.

But just when I think I'm going to have
to put an end to it, take the phone off her, Dad arrives from the kitchen,
steps quietly up from behind to touch Lydia lightly on the shoulder. To me, it
seems impossible that she will feel it, not with the force of her sobs shaking
her entire body.

But I was wrong, the moment he touches
her, she whirls around, very nearly drops the phone. But he steadies her,
reaches out to brush her cheek - oh so gently - with one hand, then takes the
phone away.

After that, it's all him. The words he
murmurs into the phone are quiet, but clear enough to carry across the miles,
regardless of mountains and seas. After what Lydia has just put them through,
they must sound like the still small voice of calm.

And what is he saying?

He's telling them everything is fine.
That there's been a misunderstanding. That girls will be girls, but no great
damage has been done. That there may be something they might need to discuss
with Lydia when they return, something that can only help her. But not to
worry. Lydia is in good hands. Lydia is safe.

I'm curious to know exactly who is
holding the phone at the other end. I have a feeling it must be her father.
Because of the silence, because no-one is arguing with him, I have a feeling
that it cannot be her mother.

But his words have had the desired
effect - on Lydia at least. She is staring up at him, listening, eyes damp,
spectacles hopelessly steamed up. But she's not crying any more. Soon it's safe
to hand the phone back to her.

Not that the conversation is what you
could call normal, even now. She sounds wooden, almost surly, telling them
everything is fine, that nothing at all is wrong. But then, I don't suppose
Lydia has ever been any great shakes on the telephone. The important thing is
what comes at the close. She is having difficulty convincing them, you see. Or
one of them. I'd say it was her mother talking to her now, not willing to let
it lie, going on and on till finally, Lydia says - or rather shouts, 'Look, I'm
telling you once and for all, it was all my fault.'

And slams down the phone. Just like
that.

Did I say a while ago that she was a
fast learner? Maybe that's not putting it strongly enough. If you ask me, Lydia
is learning as if she is forgetting everything else she ever knew.

But will it make any difference?
Everything is quiet now. Dad is staring down at her, and you know what he is
doing; he's wondering whether to give her a second chance, trying to make up
his mind, trying to decide what is best. No good trying to hurry him. And no
good trying to hope. All we can do is wait. Meanwhile, behind us, the kitchen
door has opened, and here's Gran. So now we're all here, waiting, and not one
of us knowing what is going to happen.

Then suddenly it's all over. Dad is
smiling, beaming at us, filling the hall with such warmth and light it's never
seen the like. He opens up his arms.

'Come here, both of you.' And we go to
him.

No-one,
no-one
, knows how to hug
so well as him. Lydia must feel as if she's been taken up into heaven. Look at
her, snuffling happily against his waistcoat, breathing in the same scent of
wool and sweetness that I've known for years. It's a moment to savour,
something for her to remember for ever.

Still with his arms around us, we are
turning to go back to the kitchen, when the phone goes once more. The sound
makes Lydia jump, and begin to look anxious all over again. But she doesn't
have to worry. It's not for her, not this time. Gran and I, we know exactly who
it is, trying again after failing before. Dad looks at us, rolls his eyes, then
pulls his arms away to answer it.