First Fruits (24 page)

How did she know I needed help?

Hilary
stayed on her high horse nearly the
whole time after. Well, she's not used to having her confectionary smacked
across a room. I could have tried harder with her I suppose, come up with an explanation
that would have brought her round, but I'm so tired. I'm too tired for
anything.

It would almost be nice to be Lydia at
times like this. Look at her, she's tired too, absolutely run ragged. All that
heat and light, twenty minutes in a church, endless time with a book; now she
looks as if she hasn't had a wink of sleep since. Too much heated day dreaming
keeping her awake.

But what does she do about it?

She heads for Moira MacMurray, that's
what Lydia does. Not to talk. She and Moira never talk, not to each other. In
point of fact, they don't
do
anything at all. I have half a belief that
this is how Moira and her gran behave at home, and you could almost see how
they could be happy, how
anyone
could be happy, content just to let the
person beside them exist, never interfere. But it makes Hilary snigger watching
the two of them drift through the day, side by side.

Yet I know exactly what Lydia is doing.
She's relaxing, something that could only happen next to Moira. She's getting
her energy back. Keeping close to Moira who wants nothing, asks for nothing,
says nothing. Who is just there, like a great soft cushion. Like that giant
windbreak, protecting you from anything.

So you see, you could almost envy Lydia,
tired out, but able to disappear next to something so large, and that hardly
seems to know she's there. It nearly makes me wish I could do the same thing.
But I can't relax, not for a moment, and especially not with Moira, even if she
did help me just now. Because if she knew about the chocolate, what else might
she know about me?

And anyway, who wants to be connected
with a laughing stock? I haven't mentioned what happened at the end of today.

It was final period, geography, with the
bell about to go any moment. Everyone was busy drawing contour lines on maps,
but listening at the same time, ready to throw down her pencil the very second
it rang. Meanwhile, young Mr. Harris is at his desk, studying the topless
native girls in the
National Geographic
, trying not to breathe too hard.
We know all about him.

Then it comes - but not the bell, not
the interruption we were expecting. A different sound altogether. It begins as
a tiny, high pitched whine, as though a gnat has just this second entered the
classroom, then grows, both in pitch and volume to a peak where it could
shatter glass, stays there, shivering, for an unbelievably long space of
seconds - before finally falling away, back to the sound of the gnat's song.

And in its wake, silence. At least at
first, just for those few incredulous seconds. Then just as you'd expect,
someone begins to giggle.

'Moira MacMurray, you absolute piggy!'

And that sets off the rest of them. Next
thing you know, the entire class is in fits, row after row of girls howling as
if it's the funniest thing they have ever heard. Mr. Harris stares this way and
that, looking almost frightened. He claps his hands a few times, raises his
voice, even raps the rolled up
National Geographic
against the front of
the desk. But it's no good, he's no Miss Jamieson or Mrs. Chatto. When the bell
goes, it hardly makes any difference. Class was already dismissed; Moira had
seen to that.

Yet not everyone was laughing. Not me
for instance. What makes people think that breaking wind is a laughing matter?
It's a sign of weakness, a reminder that the body is beyond control, dragging
you down. Sometimes Gran will let out a squeak at the table, and we have to sit
in the aftermath, pretending it never happened, that she is still up there, fit
to be with the angels.

And another thing, stopping me laughing.
It reminded me of something, the small sound that grows to a crescendo and
fills a room - an entire bingo hall, even - before it dies away, leaving a
silence which in turn gives way to chaos. Just so much hot air.

It's that that makes me blush suddenly,
so hard I can feel the heat rising in my face. Some thoughts should be banished
before they have the chance to see the light of day.

And would you believe it? They are
still
at it, the entire class, laughing their heads off. Some people here have already
turned fifteen. You'd think they'd know better. But they don't. There's only
the one other person who's not laughing, and guess who that is.

Moira. She is sitting just a little way
from my desk, perfectly relaxed, perfectly comfortable - and staring at me. But
now - or is it my imagination? - it's with the faintest hint of a question in
her eyes, as if she expected me, of all people, to tell her what it's about,
why everyone is laughing. As if she doesn't even know what she's done.

EVEN
Lydia is careful to keep her distance from Moira after. Instead she tags along
with us, Hilary and me. Hilary, meanwhile, is still insisting on laughing hysterically.
But at least she's forgotten about this morning and the flying chocolate.
Something else I suppose you could thank Moira for.

So with Hilary laughing and Lydia
smiling, we look the very picture of schoolgirl fun, the three of us - not
exactly arm in arm, but close enough. Even Hilary couldn't ask for more. They
could write a book about us, call it
Schoolgirl Chums at the Abbey
, something
like that.

And as if this wasn't enough, as if fun
is the sole order of the day, there's another treat in store - if you were
Hilary or Lydia. Right outside the gate, where nobody else would dare to park
(headmistress's orders) the car is waiting. Lydia spots it first and goes
rigid, fingers pinching stiffly at my elbow. Hilary merely squeals.

He's seen us coming. I daresay he
watched us walk out of school. He's winding down the window now, and beaming.
You can see he has a special twinkle in his eye for everybody. Even me.
Especially for me. He's a great man for forgiveness, is my Dad. Later, on the
way home, he will say it's all behind us, last night I mean. Forgive and
forget. It's what he always says.

But now of course, he has to concentrate
on Lydia and Hilary. Make sure nothing slips away.

'That's a very heavy looking satchel you
have there, Lyddie love. It must be full of books.'

One book in particular, but he knows all
about that. Yet still she thinks she has to explain, blushing and stammering,
tell
him
it's his book weighing down her satchel, let him know that
she's read every word, that she'll never be parted from it, and so on and so
forth - until Hilary begins to get jealous and starts clearing her throat as if
suddenly it's full of frogs. Much more of this and she might even walk away.

But he's not going to let that happen,
not my Dad.  'And Hilary, my
lovely
girl. How are you?'

Hilary goes bright red, snickers and
stares at the floor, tells him she's fine, all the better for seeing him. And
waits for him to ask more questions, the way he did with Lydia. Yet nothing happens.
Dad doesn't say another word. Hilary's smile begins to dim. But she shouldn't
fret. It's just that, suddenly, he's busy thinking. Dad is planning something,
I can tell...

A moment later, he bangs both hands down
on the steering wheel, making them jump.

'I've got it. You know what should
happen, don't you. Why didn't I think of it before? We need to have the three
of you to stay, first possible opportunity. You can be all girls together,
having a whale of a time. Making a mess, clattering about, keeping old Keith
Carr from his beauty sleep, chattering the whole night long. What do you think,
eh? What do you think?'

What do they think? Hilary and Lydia are
speechless, hardly daring to believe their ears.

And of course he hasn't finished,
running pictures through their minds no-one could resist '....Midnight feasts,
secret gossips, no end of fun. Terrible girls the lot of you, fit to turn a
man's hair grey...'

Oh he's a wonder to watch. Something to
be proud of.  No-one can hear him and feel the same. Hilary and Lydia were
happy enough before. Now they are fit to burst. All they can do is smile, smile
so hard you'd think their faces are going to break into little pieces.

So I smile too. What else is there to
do? Attention shared is attention halved. And besides, he is watching me.

Then something goes wrong. I can feel it
before I even know what's happened. Suddenly Dad's eyes dart past us, attracted
by something moving behind our backs, claiming his attention. And somehow I
know, before I have even turned round, what that Something is.

Moira is standing behind us, filling up
the pavement with the combined bulk of her, her old lady's coat, and the
carrier bag which passes for a satchel. But the first thing I notice about her
is this: I'm standing here but, for once, it's not me she's looking at.

Dad blinks, so quickly you would hardly
notice. But I did. Time slows when I'm watching Dad. I see a hundred expressions
come and go in the time it takes others simply to spot the smile. He's felt the
gaze, Moira's gaze.

And this time, it's turned on him.

'Moira, love. I didn't see you standing
there.'

Moira says nothing, merely shifts
whatever's bulging in one cheek into the other cheek. But she continues to
stare at Dad -
exactly the way she stares at me
. Except it doesn't seem
to matter. If he notices, it doesn't show. Dad smiles at her again, before
turning back to Hilary and Lydia.

But moment later, almost reluctantly,
his eyes return to Moira. Who continues to stare at him.

And suddenly, it hits me. Like a bolt of
lightning, like a flash from heaven, like a message from above it hits me. I
thought I'd picked the right person to bring home, but I hadn't. I'd picked the
wrong
person. Lydia seemed to be just up his street, but she's too easy,
isn't she. There's no real challenge in Lydia. All those brains have just made
her stupid. In a little while, there'll be nothing else about her to hold him.
Not even the Greek.

No, the person to hold his attention,
really hold it, is someone completely different. Someone altogether unexpected.
Someone he can't forget is there.

Because look at him now. We're all
standing here, but who is he staring at? Moira. He's trying to look away, but
he can't. In fact, he's worse than I am. I can turn my back on her any time I
like. I can forget Moira if I really put my mind to it. But I'm not sure that
he could.

Though I'd like to see him try. I would.

Is that why, before I even know what it's
going to say, I can hear my own voice speak up, clear as a bell, so that not
even a crowd of fifth formers suddenly spilling out of the gates behind us can
drown me out?

'Moira has to come too. Moira's got to
come and stay. It wouldn't be the same without Moira.'

And you should see the look on
everyone's face. Hilary is practically pop-eyed, staring at me as if I have
lost my mind. Even Lydia looks taken aback.

But Dad is the one to watch. He's trying
out expressions, one after the other, faster than even I can follow - until he
hits on the final one, the one that seems to have escaped him for just these
few split seconds.

A smile.

But what a smile it is. Tender and
understanding. A smile that tells you words are quite unnecessary, that he sees
everything, knows everything. 'Kate love,' he murmurs. 'That's a lovely idea, a
really fine idea. But I'd say that Moira here has better things to do.'

He is talking to me, but looking at her.
Letting that smile rest on her. It must feel as if the sun is shining, for her
and no-one else.

'You're forgetting an important thing,
you see. Moira lives with her grandmother. And old ladies need their young
folk. Last thing they want is for the apple of their eyes to be gallivanting
off without them for nights on end. Isn't that right, Moira love?'

By way of reply, Hilary, who is standing
next to Moira, nods her head. She's listening so hard, she probably thinks she
is
Moira. The same thing has happened to Lydia who is also nodding. That's what he
does to people; he makes them forget who they are. He makes them all the same,
breaks down the barriers, reducing them to one happy blob of feeling centred
only on him. It's a miracle to see, really. It's what he does so well.

And now we know. Moira won't be going
anywhere, because it's impossible, something that was never meant to be, for
reasons I've already begun to forget. It's only his smile I remember. The
singlemost surprise is how the question cropped up in the first place.

And Moira? She says nothing. Well,
no-one would expect her to, would they, not after that. But it's strange, I
feel almost let down. I had nearly begun to believe the impossible there; that
there was something about Moira, something working through her, almost separate
from her. Something to explain the way she stares, the things she knows.
Something bigger than Dad even. I had, I had nearly begun to believe all that.
But now I know. She's just Moira. And nothing is bigger than Dad.