First Fruits (16 page)

'He did that picture of the Golden Calf,
remember? With Moses coming down from the mountain. That's not classical,
that's from the Bible.'

And that is why we have it at home.

 But I might as well not bothered. Both
of them look blank. Lydia has never been to Sunday School, and Miss Jamieson
only cares about the Greeks. They don't know anything about false Gods and
dancing girls lining up to give their gifts, or Moses coming off the mountain
to make them pay. There's a yawning gap in their knowledge and they haven't
even noticed.

Never
mind, as Dad would say, there's always something to
look forward to. Going to stay with Lydia, at Lydia's house, for example. It's
only a question of time, after all. That's the logic of things, one of the laws
of friendship. If someone asks you to stay at their house, the next thing to
happen is that you ask them back.

Only tell that to Lydia. Who doesn't
seem to know the first thing about friendship.

Because first one week goes by, and then
another week, and Lydia doesn't say a word. Too busy concentrating on her
Greek, if you ask me, getting ready for him, for when she comes to stay the
next time. Forgetting I've got to come to her house first. It's just the law.

Besides, I want to see them at home,
Lydia's mother and Laura. And her Dad. I want to see how different he is from
mine. Natural curiosity, that's all.

But I don't know what's wrong with
Lydia. I'd swear she was getting stupider in the things that count. It must be
all that sitting next to Moira, having its effect. Because here is almost the
oddest thing of all, about Lydia, I mean. She sits by Moira every time now, out
of choice. Hilary thinks it's wonderful.

And Moira? Who knows what Moira thinks -
or if she thinks at all. Sometimes you'd swear someone else was doing her
thinking for her, turning her head, turning her eyes, using them to focus as if
through a pair of binoculars. Someone who has no eyes to call their own,
someone who is watching me. Nothing to do with Moira at all.

ONE
thing is for sure. A person can only be prepared to wait so long for an
invitation. With Lydia not up to the mark, I have to take matters into my own
hands.

I do it right at the beginning of break,
with half the classroom empty and no-one likely to interfere this time. In
other words, no Fiona McPherson.

'I know, why don't we all do something
together this weekend?'

Lydia's eyes widen and a smile spreads
over her face. She actually thinks I mean doing that
something
at my
house.

Hilary in the meantime has caught hold
of the opposite end of the stick.

'Oh
yes
,' she cries. 'Let's do
something.' And she carries on. 'I tell you what, Kate. You could stay with me.
I could ask my mother. You could sleep in the spare room, and...'

...And there she stops. Hilary has said
something rash and she knows it. It's no good her asking anyone to stay. The
carpet wouldn't stand it, a weekend of girls tramping in and out, bringing all
that dirt into the house. Hilary goes bright red, claps her hand over her mouth
and doesn't say another word. Whatever happens this weekend, it won't be
happening at her house.

But suddenly, out of the blue, comes
another voice. All unexpected, the voice of someone who wasn't even meant to be
part of the conversation.

'Kate could come to my house. We've got
room. My Gran, she likes girls.'

It's Moira MacMurray of all people, a
reminder that when she speaks, her voice is thick, somehow clotted, as if there
was too much flesh in her throat. And naturally we stare at her, speechless,
the way you might if your wardrobe suddenly started to talk.

As so often happens, Hilary is the first
to recover. 'Moira MacMurray, what are you sticking your nose in for? Mind your
own business, why don't you.'

Which would have been all very well - if
that had been the end of it. But it's not, because now, despite it being none
of her business, and despite Hilary giving all the answer that was necessary,
somehow everybody now seems to be waiting for me to add something. As if such
an offer could be serious, requiring a serious response. And then, as if that
wasn't enough, suddenly Hilary has to go and giggle, as though it's not just
Moira that's amusing, but both of us, Moira and me, together.

Amusing, but
altogether possible
.

So what do you do when people act like
that? The only thing you can do. Pretend it never happened, that Moira never
opened her mouth, that Hilary never giggled. Instead I turn to Lydia and say
quite casually - only now not as casually as I would have managed if Moira had
kept her mouth shut -  'I'm
really
surprised you're not saying anything,
Lydia. I mean it was nearly a whole week, remember.'

Lydia simply frowns. Even now, it hasn't
seemed to occur to her that - forget Hilary and Moira -
she
was the one
who should be asking.

So I have to put it another way, make
sure she understands. 'I mean, really, Lyd, if I stay with anyone, it should be
with you, I mean, surely.'

Finally, the penny drops. Lydia goes
beetroot, perhaps the reddest I've ever seen her. At long last there's a light
shining through all the clutter of her schoolgirl brain. But even now, believe
it or not, despite the blushes, not a word passes her lips.

So again it's me that has to do all the
work. 'Why don't you ask your mother? Make it for next weekend. I can meet your
Dad then, and won't that be nice?'

Which means at long last, even Lydia has
to say something. England expects. Slowly, you might almost be tempted to say
reluctantly
,
she nods. 'Oh, I see. Of course. I'll ask Mummy. I...I suppose it will be alright.'

Of course it will. Mrs. Morris is
nothing like Hilary's mother. This is the woman who went all the way to Venice,
but didn't forget to bring home a present for someone she doesn’t even like.
Not yet.

 So there we are. At long last I'm off
to stay with Lydia. And her mother. And her father. And the only question
remaining is how Moira ever got the idea that
I
would ever want to stay
with
her
. And her gran.

And Dad? He approves no
end, thinks it's a wonderful
idea. He doesn't even seem to mind that I'll be visiting a house where they
never go to Church. On the Friday morning, before we leave home, he tells me to
wait, disappears into his study. He comes out with a box of chocolates.

It's lucky that he doesn't see the look
on my face. I've already said, Gran gets the sweet sherry and the fruit jellies
and whatever else the old ladies bring by way of burnt offerings. But the
chocolates he keeps. For us. They go with the study, the boxes of chocolates,
like the Trompetto and the dancing girls and the warmth
. A little taste of
Heaven and things to come
. A strawberry cream between my lips.

He knows that chocolate is the best
thing sometimes. The only thing. It sits on your tongue, sweet and solid,
before it melts, taking its sweetness to other parts, to where sweetness is
needed.

But today the chocolates are for her,
Lydia's mother. I have to take care to tell her they are from him. A way of
saying thank you for having me. Yet I wish I could say they were from me. She
would eat them, and think of me.

Now she'll eat them, and be thinking of
him instead.

AT
the end of the lesson, Miss Jamieson asks what we'll be doing this weekend.
Quick as a flash, I tell her. 'I'm staying with Lydia, Miss Jamieson. Her folks
can't wait to have me. I expect it's a way of saying thank you. They couldn't
have gone to Venice you see, not if Lydia hadn't stayed with us all that time.'

Miss Jamieson gives one of her tight
smiles, and nods. Then when she thinks I'm not looking, glances swiftly down at
Lydia. And there, I've caught them at it, Lydia and Miss Jamieson exchanging
looks, Lydia
telling
her she doesn't want me to come. It's right there
in her eyes.

Something I hadn't expected. You'd think
Lydia would be over the moon, and yet she's not. She's happy enough to come to
my house, but she doesn't want me to come to hers. She doesn't want me in her
home.

'Kate, whatever is the matter?' Miss
Jamieson is staring at me in surprise.

Something must have happened to my face.
Something I couldn't stop. It's never happened before, not that I can remember.
It's Lydia's fault, exchanging looks like that, making Jamieson think she
doesn't want me to come, giving her the wrong idea. Making her think she
doesn't like me.

Some people just don't know when they're
lucky. I was going to make sure Lydia got almost as much fun out of this
weekend as I will. But she can think again now. Silly Lyddie, stupid Lyddie,
she's gone and ruined everything.

IN
the end it's a battle just getting out of the cloakroom. That was all thanks to
Hilary, hanging on to me till the last minute, wanting to make sure she wasn't
going to be left out of a single thing. She only let go when I whispered into
her ear exactly what I have in mind for us over the weekend. Now she's gone
home with a great big smile on her face. Hilary can't wait for tomorrow.

But where is Lydia?

Not far away. Plodding across the front
court from the direction of the Lower School to be precise. But she's not
alone. Dancing ahead of her, leading the way, complete with rosy cheeks and
curly hair is someone else, a proper little Shirley Temple.

I had forgotten all about Laura,
forgotten that we would all be going home together. They stop when they see me,
though. In fact, the little one not only stops, she stares. Starts off with my
feet and keeps going till she gets to my head - then only goes and makes a
face, wrinkling up her nose as if she had smelt something gone bad. As if she
could see something Lydia couldn't.

Not very attractive in a child. I give
Lydia a look that says,
Let's ignore the kid
. But Lydia is no use at
all. She just smiles in an embarrassed kind of way, and whispers something to
Laura, which is not what I'd call ignoring anyone.

And to think that all this time I had
expected to approve of Laura! She had sounded like a person who knows how to
get what she wants. I'd thought we would have something in common, but I was
wrong. Children like her just make things difficult for everyone.

Worse is to come. When we get on the
bus, she makes sure to sit herself between us, spreads herself out, not worried
about using her elbows. You know what she's doing of course. She's trying to
keep us apart. Lydia probably hasn't even noticed, but I do. With people like
Laura, it's important not to miss a thing.

Nasty child, acting as if she could see
right through me. Trying to get between her sister and the only friend she's
likely to have.

But she's not the one who counts. That
person is in the garden when we arrive, hanging over the gate, half way into
the street, as if on the lookout. Lydia's mother is waiting for us. All three
of us.

And the first thing she does is run out
on to the pavement and hug them, the other two, Laura and Lydia. For a moment I
even thought she might be about to hug me too. But no. There's none of that.
Not for me.

'Kate,' she says instead. 'How nice to
see you,' and gives a smile meant for no-one else but me, a really lovely smile
- and it's like a slap across the face. You see, this isn't how she smiled at
Lydia. This is a smile to keep you at arm's length. Milkmen, travelling
salesmen, even bank managers would all be perfectly happy to be smiled at like
that. But they don't have
It
. They don't have to know when they are
being held at bay, like something nasty, barely allowed to come in.

Just for a second I feel like doing
something about it. Something to make her regret that smile. Then I remember
the horse, still prancing away in its tiny box, hobbled a little now, but safe
enough, and believe it or not, the feeling melts away.

'This way Kate.' And she smiles again.

I follow her up a path and somehow it's
no surprise to see roses growing on either side, even at this time of year with
Winter already upon us. Roses all the way to the house. The door is standing
open.

'Are you alright, Kate?'

Again this is her mother speaking, but
now she's sounding half anxious. It must be the look on my face. I felt it
arrive the moment I stepped inside, and looked around me for the first time.
The roses were no surprise, but this is too much; Lydia's house is light. Late
afternoon in early winter, and somehow the house is chock full of light. And
not only is it light, but warm.

Her mother's doing I suppose. In fact, I
know
it's her doing. It's like having her all around you just in the
colour and the shape of things. Curtains the colour of her lipstick, walls the
exact shade of her skin. Wooden floors shiny as expensive shoes. Of course,
Gran would want to know why there aren't more carpets, instead of all these
rugs, thick and warm looking as her coat, never quite meeting the wall. Carpets
are a sign of something with Gran. But she should realise. You don't need
carpets if a house is already warm. Where even the floor is warm.