First Fruits (32 page)

Last week, Miss Jamieson told us about
the Hydra, a mythical beast, more powerful than anything that tried to take it
on. The Greeks knew all about it. You'd cut off a head, and another would grow
in its place. Nothing could measure up to it, and brave men died in the
attempt. But what is it that makes me think of that now?

A minute passes, perhaps two, then
suddenly Dad has raised his head, is looking straight at her, at Moira. And
he's smiling. And it's the smile that lets you know everything is back to
normal.

A smile that tells you who's in charge.

'Moira, love.' Suddenly I never heard him
so jaunty. 'How about stepping into my study for a few moments? We can have a
little chat, just you and me.'

Lydia's head shoots up. Already a wave
of colour has swept over her face, faster than a rip tide. Well, we know why.
This is what she's been waiting for all this time, the summons to the study,
the promise of togetherness. Now it's finally come - but it's not for her. And
it's interesting. Because look at her face. Which one is she going to be angry
with: Dad or Moira?

And what about Moira? Dad is waiting,
yet she stays exactly where she is, eyes locked onto his.

'Moira?' He calls her name again, but
quietly. 'Moira love.'

And now you would never dream there was
a battle taking place. Perhaps it's because there's only the one of them
fighting and his expression is so mild. The other continues to sit as if
nothing is happening, nothing at all.

Slowly Dad gets to his feet. Everyone
looks at Moira, expecting her to get to her feet too. And she doesn't. Again
Moira stays where she is. Now Dad's face has begun to change colour, tiny
pinpoints of blood stippling his cheeks in faint blotches. But he doesn't look
away. And he doesn't stop smiling.

Then an unexpected thing happens. Gran
gets up and taps him briskly on the shoulder.

'Leave her Keith, there's a good boy.'

And it's proof, isn't it, of how partial
Gran is to Moira. And proof of something else as well. That she recognises
something in Moira that has escaped him, something he might do better to leave
alone. But it makes no difference. Dad pays no more attention to her than he
would to a fly buzzing along his arm. Less, in fact. He'd kill the fly.

He's started heading for the door now,
but only so as to stand there, to show once more that he is waiting. Smiling
while he waits. Proving once and for all that no-one smiles like my dad.

Then, without any warning Moira looks
away, does more than simply look away, turns her gaze from him - to me. And
that's not all; a moment ago her eyes were blank. Now they are not empty any
more. Now they contain a question, so unexpected it takes a moment to
understand. Then it hits me. Moira is asking me,
me
, whether she should
go with him, is watching and waiting for an answer.

Yet there's not a thing I can say to
her. Because he is there and so is Gran. Nothing will go unrecorded. Nothing.
But saying nothing is just as bad. Because as long as my mouth stays closed,
Moira will sit where she is.

Then something stirs. Not Moira, not
Dad, not Gran even.

'Moira MacMurray, you stupid pig! Why
can't you just go when you're asked?'

 It's Lydia exploding at last, too
furious to care what she sounds like. She's telling Moira to go ahead, take her
place in my father's study, but is full of rage about it, at Moira, who is too
stupid to recognise her luck.

But it works. It breaks the spell.
Lydia's voice snips the invisible ribbons that connect us, and Moira's eyes
fall away from mine. There's a slight pause, then slowly, like an old lady, she
hauls herself out of her seat and lumbers off to join him at the door, her face
expressionless once more. Dad beams and places an arm around her shoulders,
guides her gently out of the room.

And that is the last we see of her.

YET
I could have stopped her. One word, one glance and Moira would have come back,
she would have stayed with us and never have gone with him. It's me that let
her go.

Then again, why should she
not
go
with him? It should be obvious, surely. Lydia is right, and Moira is luckier
than she could ever imagine. This is Moira's chance. The greatest prize she
could ever hope to win. Dad is going to turn things around. He is going to
change her life. He's done it before, time and time again. Alcoholics,
fishermen, idiots, thieves, they all have something different to live for now.
They all love him. The way Moira will after this.

I thought I was the reason she was here.
But I was wrong. This must have been what he had in mind from the moment he saw
her on the pavement. Now he's taking her into his study. And tomorrow will be
the day Moira begins to be like everybody else.

Moira is going to be saved from herself.

It's his job after all. A good shepherd
will bring every one into his fold, right down to the last lost sheep. In fact,
it's that last sheep which is the most important, the one that poses the
challenge. And my Dad likes a challenge. He'll rise to it any way he can, in
any way that's possible. No-one gets past Dad.

Stupid, stupid of me not to have
remembered. What could I have done but let Moira go?

Upstairs, getting ready for bed, Lydia
and Hilary are peeved at having been left out, sneaking furtive, sulky glances
at their watches. A few moments he said, yet Moira has been down there an hour
already. They are probably thinking it would almost be worth being her, just so
that they could be saved too, by him, my dad.

Then another hour goes by. Hilary and
Lydia fall asleep. Lydia is making small, grumpy noises under her breath, still
furious, even her dreams.

It must be taking him a while then,
turning Moira around, definitely longer than he's used to.

I
didn't mean to fall asleep myself, though. I wanted to be awake to see the new
Moira, the Moira he's just made, nothing like the old Moira. Witness the miracle
of what can be done with old material. A person doesn't necessarily have to
approve, but she can admire the newness, the effort that has gone into the creation.

I didn't want to miss any of it. I
wanted to stay awake. But sleep crept up on me as if it had been waiting, as if
it had something else in store.

SLEEP
put me back where it has always put me, night after night, locked in my
father's arms, as he carries me through a house, with the light shining out
around us. But more than ever now, the light is coming from him, streaming from
his arm as he strides between creaking walls that are beginning to fall like
trees. He is singing, at the very top his voice, a hymn to the power of the
Lord. It looks like a rescue. But it feels like...

...It feels like I don't know what. And
there's no chance to find out, because then, without warning, the dream
falters, turns back on itself. Suddenly the light and the din fade away, and so
does my father. The dream has shifted, time has shifted.

Now everything is peaceful. I am in his
room, by myself. No more light, no more heat. And no more Dad. Now there's
nothing to worry about.

All I have to do is wait.

And it's easy, because I'm used to
waiting, used to keeping the silence.
Pretend we're mice
, she would say.
Pretend it's a game
. So very important never to disturb. Noise is what
he can't stand. If we remember to keep small and quiet, he'll be pleased with
the both of us.

So it's not hard to remember now, to
keep quiet while I wait. Especially here, in his room. Look instead of talk,
isn't that what I'm used to doing?

Look at my feet then, ten rosy little
toes. And look at the picture, at the Golden Calf gleaming like polished
spoons.
Wait
, she had said. In the meantime, count the teeny tiny
dancing girls with their trays of fruits and smoky offerings, their flimsy
skirts lifting in transparent swirls about their legs. They look ready to dance
all night, until they drop, till there is nothing of them left when the morning
comes. Same girls, same moonstruck faces.

Except for one. Suddenly in the middle
of all that arrested movement, is a girl I have never noticed before - larger,
older than the rest, almost matronly. And it's as I'm staring at her, trying to
remember if I've seen her before, that she turns and looks straight at me. For
a moment we stare at one another, then slowly, she raises a finger to her lips.

Hush
, that's what she's saying. Not a
word to be spoken. Really I should ask her what she's doing, how something
that's only painted can come to life. But there's no time, not now. I can hear
the footsteps outside the door.
She's
coming, just like she said she
would.

So you see, it's time to go. The waiting
is over and nothing is going to be the same.

The handle on the door begins to move. I
can ask
her
about the dancing girls. Ask her what everything means, the
waiting and the watching and the need for hush. Why it's so important never to
disturb. Never to speak aloud. I can ask her where we are going after this. All
I have to do is wait for the door to open. I can hear her breath on the other
side. In a moment I will feel it on my face...

...And again I wake up.

SOMEONE
is crying. Is it Lydia? No, not Lydia. Someone else.

It takes a moment to realise. It's me,
crying the way I used to cry before I grew up, before I learned all sorts of
lessons. In the beginning, crying because I'd lost something. Then later, crying
because I couldn't even remember what it was I'd lost. And after that, finally,
no more crying.

Now it's started all over again, after
all these years. Crying with the disappointment that comes with waking. Crying
because I came so close. Tonight I almost touched her. Another moment and I
would have seen her face. It's been so long since I cried, I didn't even know
it was me.

This isn't a dream I want to have, not
if waking has to be like this. Better not to dream.

Better to sleep the way he sleeps,
silent, dreamless. Safe amongst the righteous men.

 Better still not to cry. Because what
is it he says about tears? That there are good tears but there are also bad.
Crying for the wrong reason is almost the worst sin, he says, because tears
signify a protest against His will and the way things are meant to be.

Find a way to stop crying then. Look on
the bright side, Kate. Try. Try hard. Think of every lesson he's ever taught
you. All these years of learning how to see the world the right way. But it’s
hard. If it were easy there would have been no need for him to keep teaching. I
would be the daughter he always intended me to be. Take the blind intelligence
of Lydia, the blind faith of Hilary. The silence of Moira - and there I would
be: perfection. The daughter of his dreams. The child he can trust to carry on.

Instead he has me, still dreaming the
wrong dreams. No wonder I’m a disappointment. No wonder I wake up crying. What
would he say if he knew I was crying even now?

Maybe it’s time to try harder. Time to
think the way his daughter would think. I could start by looking for the bright
side.
His daughter
, remember, so there is always a bright side. Try,
Kate, try hard…

…And there, it’s not so difficult after
all. Because he’s right. There always is a bright side.

Listen to the sounds of breathing in the
room. There are only two other people here. You wanted to see the new Moira as
she arrived, but she's not here. Which means she is still downstairs. The
bright side is that you're awake to see the miracle after all.

And anyway, who needs to dream? Or to
cry for that matter?

It's only children who cry, thinking
dreams are better than the real thing. I bet you there's no end of tears when
Lydia's little sister wakes up after dreams of flying or being a princess, when
she discovers she's just plain old Laura. Tears and tantrums all round.

Dreams are wicked. They fool you into
thinking that things can be different.

Maybe it's time to stop dreaming.

I could do it. I'm his daughter. There
is a way to make sure I never dream again. But it would mean committing murder.

You see, I know where the dreams have
been coming from. There is only one place. A little part of me that never came
from him. I'm talking about another Kate, a different Kate, no bigger than a
baby eel, curled up in a place he has never touched, deep inside. A Kate he
never even knew was there. That's where the dreams are coming from, causing all
the trouble.

All this time, and I've never told him.
I wouldn't have known how. But it's not right, is it? Keeping it a secret, letting
it stay alive, asking its questions, dreaming its dreams, and all of them about
her
. Letting it cause all kinds of problems. But it's time he knew. It's
the last precious thing I have. Now it's time to let it go. Hand the secret
over. Let him put it where it belongs, in safe keeping.