First Fruits (18 page)

Until you look at Laura, that is. Now
there's a fly in the ointment if there ever was. She hasn't taken her eyes off
me, not since that first smile. And she's hardly touched her dinner, wasting
food. Yet no-one says a word about that. Her mother just tells her she must be
tired, that she should be in bed. Says it to her twice. Time for bed. Yet Laura
doesn't move a muscle.

I never saw such a thing. A child wastes
food, is told to go to bed, yet she stays just where she is.
And nothing
happens
. No-one seems put out even. I don't understand it - unless it's the
wine they are drinking, dulling their sense of right and wrong. That's one
thing I won't be able to tell
him
when I go home, about the wine. Or the
candles either, I especially won't tell him about the candles. The only people
I know who light candles willy nilly are the Catholics and what would that say
about them?

And still Laura just sits there,
refusing to budge, making her parents look like a pair fools. Why? Then the
reason hits me. Laura's staying where she is because she's afraid something is
going to happen if she goes. Something to do with me.

In the end it's easier for me to be the
one to move. Lydia comes too, the way you'd expect.

Outside her room she turns to me.' Would
you like to come in for a chat or something?'

Or something. It would take a detective
to discover an ounce of enthusiasm in that. But who's to mind? What would I
want to talk about anyway when my room is waiting?

So I give a great big yawn, the sort
actors do on stage, that don't look remotely real. 'Sorry,' I say to her.
'Really I am. I'm just too tired. Can't stay awake another minute. I'll have to
go to bed.'

Which is a good answer because just for
a moment Lydia looks put out. After all, as we both know, real friends stay up
till all hours no matter how tired they are - unless they have school the next
morning. And tomorrow is Saturday.

Finally I get to open my door - and
close it behind me. Someone has been in and pulled the covers down the bed,
making it ready just for me. And you know who, of course.

But before I climb in, before I wash my
face and dry it with the embroidered towel, before I get undressed even, I go
and stand in front of the favourite daughter's mirror, and practise smiles.
Good smiles, not bad ones.

And last of all, after undressing, I sit
on the edge of the bed and let my feet curl into the green carpet, both of
them. One pink and smooth, the other brown and streaked with other colours,
with its own slight sheen as of something polished. I can look at it to my
heart's content. It's safe. No-one will come in. No-one will stop me.

I don't even think it's so very bad, my
leg. If I touch the skin, it may not be exactly smooth, but it is soft, softer
than anything else I know. Except perhaps her coat.

Damaged goods though. A falling away
from perfect.

WHAT
would
she
have to say if she saw it, Lydia's mother? I know the answer
to that. She would ask me how it happened. And there'd be nothing I could tell
her. You can't talk about what you don't know. But in a way I'd like her to see
it. Because I might have a question for her. If this happened to Lydia, would
she leave and never come back?

Then again, I don't have to. You only
have to look at her to know. Lydia's mother would never leave. Lydia's mother
would stay no matter what. Lydia could be twice as ugly as she is already and
her mother would still be there. You don't even need to have
It
to understand.
Lydia's mother would die before she would abandon her daughters. Either of
them.

If she had to leave, Lydia's mother
would take her with her. It would take an act of God to stop her doing that.

It must be because I'm
in someone else's house, having
its effect, making me dream. A different dream this time. It began the same
way, with the light and the heat. But then it stopped, quite suddenly, and
everything went dark - as if to begin again, become something altogether new.

Now for the first time, I was alone.
Alone and in a different part of the house. Instead of the light and the
groaning walls, there was only his room. Here was his desk, and here was the picture
of the Golden Calf and the dancing girls. I should have been frightened, seeing
them. There was only ever the one reason for being in his room.

But not this time. This time I was only
waiting, patient as could be, because, after all, Patience is my middle name. Someone
had told me to wait. Wait and not to worry. Wait and stare at my feet, count
ten rosy little toes. Wait and listen.

Listen for what? For the sound of
footsteps, what else? Footsteps would be the sign that the waiting was over,
footsteps belonging to the person I was waiting for. Footsteps that are right
there, outside the door, coming closer, and then stopping. ...

Outside, on Lydia's landing there are
real footsteps walking past my door. Nothing to do with my dream, though,
nothing to show who it was outside my father's door, or who I had been waiting
for. And nothing to explain the strangest thing of all - the feeling that comes
with waking.

I mean the feeling you have when
something lovely has been snatched away. Like dreaming it's Christmas only to
find that it's a day like any other. Disappointment, no other word for it.

Did I just say this was a new dream?
It's not. It's a very old dream. So old I had forgotten that I ever used to
dream it. I had to sleep in someone else's bed, in someone else's house, to
dream it again, as though it was something against the rules at home.

There are more sounds on the landing; a
creak of a floorboard, and the flip of someone's slippers. But no-one stops at
my door. Instead, someone makes their way downstairs as if the last thing they
want to do is wake anyone.

Minutes pass. In the room next to mine,
something goes thud. A book probably, sliding off the bed. Presently that door
opens too, and someone plods to the bathroom. It can only be Lydia. No-one else
is that flat footed. And while she's in the bathroom, other footsteps make
themselves heard, heavier, running downstairs as if in a hurry.

Everybody's up then. I'm the only person
still in her bed.

And the funny thing is, no-one comes
near me. No-one bursts into my room telling me it's late, that Time and Tide
wait for no man. The light shines on in peace, through the green curtains and
it's like watching the morning slowly filtering through a sliver of green
apple.
Yet nobody minds
. This isn't what I'm used to. Time wasted is
time thrown away. But nobody seems to care. Away in the distance, a phone
rings, muffled by doors that I would swear had been kept shut so as not to
disturb.

If
he
ever found out I had stayed
in bed, I would have to say I was only lying here to test them, seeing how long
it would be before anyone came to get me. In a way, that's just what I am doing.

But it doesn't happen. No-one comes. I
only get up when I remember there are things I have to do.

THE
kitchen is empty except for Lydia who looks up from the book she has propped 
against a milk jug.

'Your father phoned.'

Next thing, she's looking astonished
because she can't understand why I have to sit down so suddenly, as if she had
kicked the backs of my knees, the way we do to the girls in front of us during
assembly.

Stupid, stupid of me. They don't care,
but
he
does. I should have remembered. Time wasted is time thrown away.
He'll have rung to check, and now he knows.

Mrs. Morris walks into the room, Laura
right behind her.

'Kate, you're up. Did you sleep well?
Lyddie love, pop some toast in for her.'

She has her back to me now, pouring
water from the kettle into a coffee cup. 'Oh I nearly forgot, Kate, your father
phoned. He wanted to know if you were up yet. I spoke to him and I'm afraid...'
suddenly her voice sounds careful '...I'm afraid I gave him the idea we'd
all
been up since the crack of dawn. Totally wrong of course. You can phone him
back, if you like.'

And then she turns, cup of coffee in her
hand. Her eyes meet mine. And it's a shock. She knows. About time wasted. Time
I'll have to pay for.

Except I won't have to pay for it, not
this time, thanks to Mrs. Morris who doesn't seem to care that we should hold
only the truth in our mouths.

'It's alright,' I say. 'I won't phone.'
Lydia looks disappointed. She was probably hoping to speak to him.

'Well,' she says. 'We've missed going to
the gallery with Daddy. You shouldn't have slept so late. He went ages ago.'

Oh. Then someone else did mind, after
all, about me staying in bed. But it
would
be her. It would be Lydia.
But listen to her mother.

'Lydia!' She cries. 'You weren't going
to drag poor Kate off to one of Daddy's lectures. Tell me you weren't.'

Lydia stares at her book, face leaden.
She's not willing to answer even a simple question. Mrs. Morris sighs.
Sometimes she must wonder, surely, what it would be like having an elder daughter
who wasn't difficult. A daughter who knew how to behave the way a daughter
should.

Maybe that's why she has to leave the
room.

'We're late,' I say, jumping to my feet.

Lydia scowls. 'That's what
I
said.'

She thinks I'm talking about the art
gallery and a load of old slides. Silly Lyddie, stupid Lyddie. Did she really
think I was going to leave it to her to make sure we had fun this weekend? Now
it will all have to come as a surprise.

WE
are terribly late in getting there, but Hilary doesn't mind. When we arrive at
the Dairy Maid she is sitting bolt upright on one of the red plastic seats.
Cheeks almost the same colour. She's staring straight ahead of her, doesn't
move her head even when we walk in. Judging by the depth of skin on her coffee,
she's been here for ages.

But we won't hear her complaining.
Hilary is keeping very very still, as if any sudden movement might make her
explode. Well, she has company, hasn't she. Sitting in the seat right next to
her, is Mark's friend, also staring straight ahead. And he hasn't touched his
coffee either.

The only person to show relief is Mark,
who has it written all over his face. He must have begun to think I wasn't
coming, that he was sitting here for nothing.

It's a magic moment really. What you
could call a major triumph. He's not supposed to be here, you see. Somewhere,
miles away from here - is it Kirkcaldy this week? - there are a bunch of people
shivering on a rugby pitch, asking what could have happened to their star
player.

He deserves the best smile I can
deliver, the one that promises more than he could dare to imagine. Besides Mark
likes the colour of my hair. Honey coloured - he said so. Hair no-one else
seems to have noticed, not even...

...Not even Dad.

It must be why, when I sit down in the
seat next to him, I let my hand fall along the top of his leg - just for a
second. Just long enough for him to feel it, and for it to have an effect.Then
I take it away again.

'Oh poor Lyd,' I say, looking up.
'That's all four seats taken. You'll have to find somewhere else to sit.'

It's true, but there's no need for her
to look so tragic. There's a place just across the way, opposite two old ladies
in felt hats. She won't be able to hear half of what we have to say, but then I
don't suppose we'll be talking much.

She goes bright red, but a moment later
she turns and walks over to the old ladies. And even they don't want her. It
seems whatever they are talking about is not for young ears. They scowl as she
sits down, then bang their heads together and carry on in whispers. Good grief,
it's just like school.

But what's this? Without even looking at
me, Mark has taken my hand, put it back on the very top of his leg, where
his...I can't say it, not me. Call it his you-know-what. Yet it makes for an
interesting problem. Namely, what I should do next.

Maybe I don't actually have to
do
anything. He is staring at the table as if formica has become a special
interest of his, whilst I, I can sit here and wait for matters to take their
course, cool as something straight off the cold counter. The difficulties are
all his.

In the meantime, I can always consider
Hilary and Owl Boy - his name's Nicholas, by the way - wedged in beside her,
and no hope of escape. I never saw anyone look as miserable as he does now,
pinned there by the sheer force of her will. Of course, you know who would make
him more cheerful, willing to stay put. Someone almost identical to him.
Someone like Lydia.

Talking of which. A quick glance just to
check.

And would you believe it, she's gone.
Lydia has gone. The old ladies are still sitting there, but talking out loud
again now, because Lydia has disappeared. And it must have been the shock,
making me jump, making my hand contract, because next to me, Mark who has been
sitting absolutely still, suddenly jerks and goes rigid, then slumps down in
his seat, with a peculiar (and I have to say, not very attractive) groaning
sound.