The Friday Tree (8 page)

“Daddy was going to have tea with us,” she said, “and then he didn’t. I had nothing to do.”

“Ah,” he said, “so you found something. Well, maybe you’d better give me those scissors before you do damage, and we’ll give them to whoever lost them – and maybe we’ll try to get you tidied up before your mammy sees you. Or,” and his voice changed, “perhaps you’re here with Aunt Rose?”

Brigid thought, she is not your aunt, but all she said was: “Rose is gone,” and then she heard Francis’ voice, and looked round to
see his eyes, oddly wide under the newly shortened fringe of hair, looking with anxiety first at her, then at Uncle Conor.

“Oh, Brigid,” said Francis, reaching down and picking up one plait, like a little dead creature and, as he turned it over in his hand, Brigid felt a first pang of sorrow. Then, with the plait still in his hand, and his voice a little more guarded, he said: “Our Aunt Rose has gone back home, Uncle Conor. We’re here with Isobel.”

“And there she is,” said Uncle Conor, looking over their heads at Isobel, gazing back at him with pink cheeks, eyes wide, smiling as Brigid rarely saw her do.

“I’m afraid we’ve had a little protest here,” said Uncle Conor, and Brigid, seeing Isobel’s face darken, stepped instinctively nearer to Uncle Conor. His eyes flicked rapidly from Isobel to Brigid and back again. He put one hand on Brigid’s head, placed the other firmly on Isobel’s forearm, and still looking at Isobel, said, “We can fix that, and no one need be annoyed.”

Meeting his gaze, she somehow stopped looking cross, and to Brigid’s surprise seemed almost pretty.

“Children,” she said, “you can’t watch them, can you?” and then she laughed, as if she was happy.

Conor said nothing but, raising his hand from Brigid’s head, gestured to the barber. The barber instantly looked up, clicked his tongue, came quickly across to them, took the scissors from Conor’s hand and looked down at Brigid.

“A rebel,” he said. He had a face like wood, and smelled like Christmas trifle.

“Yes, indeed,” said Conor, evenly, leading Brigid to the barber’s chairs. “Desi will tidy you up, my little spitfire,” he said, “while Sam does something with mine,” and he ran his hand through his hair so that it stood up on end.

This took Brigid’s attention, until the moment she noticed Isobel and Francis move towards the door, without her. Uncle Conor touched the top of her head.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Isobel is going to go with Francis and get ice cream for us all. And do you know what? We’re going to eat it on the street.”

Brigid drew in her breath: “But Mama doesn’t allow . . .”

“Mama isn’t here,” said Conor, lifting her with a swift movement of his arms into one seat, and settling back, his eyes closed, in the other. “Just tidy up this little renegade, Desi, before its parents die of shock. Temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”

Desi said: “Come on, young man,” which Brigid rather liked. Making clucking noises, Desi tied a white cloth round her and began to work on what was left of her hair. It was such a pleasant feeling, a melting buzzing along her neck, the glittering snip of the scissors, his hand gently pushing her head forward and back, forward and to the side, that Brigid almost fell asleep. In what seemed like a short time, she felt him pull away the white sheet. Without it, she was oddly cold, and put her hand up to her neck, to find nothing at all. In her nostrils was a scent, and she thought suddenly of her father.

“That’s us,” she heard Desi say to Cornelius, “and I’ve put plenty
of Bay Rum on too. What’d he do, take the hedge clippers to it?”

Cornelius, opening his eyes, sat upright and laughed out loud. “My God, man, you’ve shorn her!”

“Her?” said Desi. “Well, you never told me. I thought that was a wee fellow, in his short trousers.”

“Ah, Desi,” said Conor, shaking his head, reaching in his pocket, and handing coins to the wooden-faced man, “there’s no harm done.”

Yet, as Desi walked away, shaking his head, saying, “I’d have sworn that was a wee fellow,” Conor’s face changed. His eyes narrowed as he turned to the barber who had cut his hair: “Desi’s at it a bit early today, isn’t he? You might want to watch that,” and, with a quick movement of one hand, he snapped the cloth away from himself, and stepped down from the chair. He paid his bill, watching Brigid through half-closed eyes. Then he reached down and took her elbow.

“Come on, Tommy-Go-My,” he said, giving the rocking horse a friendly pat as he walked her out of the shop, “and we’ll get this ice cream.”

Francis, standing patiently outside, handed her a cone, soft at the top where the ice cream had melted into the wafer. “I had to lick it a bit,” he said, “so that it didn’t – you know – run over the edges.”

Isobel fell into step with Conor and the children trailed behind.

“Who is Tommy-Go-My?” asked Brigid, as she took the ice cream.

“Who said that to you?” he asked, but he did not smile. “Uncle Conor, I’ll bet. It’s Irish.
Tá mé go maith
. ‘I am well.’ He meant it as a joke, you looking like a boy.”

“Oh,” said Brigid, still puzzled. “Irish. Like Ireland, that he and Daddy talk about. Is that
funny, Francis? I didn’t think Ireland was supposed to be funny.”

“I know what you mean,” said Francis, with feeling. “Not much about Ireland is. But I suppose he means it to be funny. Your hair isn’t, though,” he added. “I should have minded you better. I don’t know what’ll happen when we get home.”

They walked to the bus stop with their ice creams, and made their farewells to Uncle Conor. Isobel asked him if he would like to come to the house and have tea with them, but he said he could not: he had to see a man about a dog. He tipped the brim of his hat, said goodbye, and began to thread his way through the crowd. When Brigid looked out from the bus, he was swallowed up among them. Isobel seemed far away, not thinking of the children at all and Francis, too, was very quiet. Brigid asked him if Uncle Conor was going to buy a new dog, but he did not seem to hear, and she had to content herself with looking out at the grey church, and the houses, and the convent, and the shops, and the park, until they got off near home. She saw the blank eyes of the house from the bus stop, and felt its emptiness as soon as they entered it. No one was there.

Brigid was almost relieved that her parents were not yet home: it gave her a breathing space. She went into the sitting room and watched Francis put in the plug of the television. He switched it on then, and got up, just turning at the door to say, “I’ll be back in a moment, Brigid – just want to see to Dicky,” and then he left her alone. She watched the picture grow large from a tiny point, and the grey spinning world fill the screen. Then a voice announced: “
The following is suitable for older children only
,” and a play began, about a teacher named Miss Chalk. She was not kind to her pupils, and so she was turned into a large piece of chalk, shaped like a woman, thin and white. There were no eyes in her head, just emptiness. Her mouth was a rigid line, chalk teeth grinning. Miss Chalk was to be locked inside this body, forever. Brigid, unable to stop watching the terrible story, was transfixed. She could not speak. She could think only of the day her father showed her his blank and sightless eye, and the dream that followed it, where her family had been turned to stone.

Yet, she sat on. Her limbs would not take her from her father’s chair, even when she heard voices outside, and the key of the front door was turned, even when she heard Francis run down the hall, and heard her mother’s surprise: “Francis! What is the matter with you?”

Words tumbling from Francis carried through the air: “Brigid’s had her hair cut. We met Uncle Conor. She didn’t mean to cut it. It wasn’t her fault.” His voice trailed away. “Where were you? Where did you go?”

Brigid could not get up, could not stop watching the bleak white head on the screen. She could hear her mother’s voice, but she could not go out to her. “At the hospital,” her mother said. “Daddy’s head was very sore, and we needed to check it because of, you know, the bother he had with his eyes. No, it’s all right. He’s all right. Just let him get upstairs and rest, and for heaven’s sake let me through the door, like a good boy. What did you say Brigid had done? And where is she?”

Isobel called from the kitchen door: “Stuck in front of the television! I’ll attend to her. Go you on and see to the invalid.”

Brigid heard the word “invalid”. She thought: that is what Daddy said he did not want to be, and now he is, and it is his eyes, he will be blind again, and he will look like that again, and we will be turned to stone. She waited for her mother to come, but she did not come. Brigid heard her voice and her father’s voice, as they went slowly, heavily up the stairs, but only Francis came in, his face darkened with worry.

Isobel followed him, brisk and busy. She said: “Well, you chose a day and a half to throw your tantrum. Your poor daddy in the hospital and you giving everybody gip, cutting off your hair.”

Brigid, miserable, could say nothing.

“Leave her alone, Bella,” said Francis, sitting on the arm of the chair. “Brigid, what is this thing you’re watching?” He picked up the
Radio Times
. “Oh, no,” he said, and he moved across to the switch on the television. It clicked, and the picture began to disappear, slowly vanishing.

It made no difference to Brigid. To her, Miss Chalk’s blind eyes and grimacing mouth were still on the screen long after it was blank and dully grey. “I didn’t like it,” she said, in a whisper. “She gets turned into chalk, with no eyes, and she can’t get out.”

Isobel straightened the furniture and moved Brigid out of her father’s chair. “Well,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened to you, after the bother you’ve given this day.”

Francis turned quickly round from the television. “Don’t, Bella,” he said, and his voice was sharp. “Leave her alone.”

Isobel left her alone. The trouble was, everyone, even Francis, left her alone for the rest of the day, because of her father. Confusion and worry and hasty meals brought her too quickly to the time when it was decided that she needed to go to bed. Bed was the last thing Brigid needed. She knew for certain what would happen when she went to bed. That night, she did not hear the reassuring voices of the men. They were silent when Miss Chalk, with her rigid mouth and her sightless eyes, came down the chimney and stood, grinning, at the foot of Brigid’s bed.

Chapter 6: George

Brigid could not tell anyone, even Francis, how frightened she was by Miss Chalk. She knew that if Francis had heard it announced that the programme was not suitable, he would not have let her watch it. If she told her parents, they would both be in trouble. It was obvious that Miss Chalk was her intimate, secret punishment, crouched inside the bedroom fireplace, waiting to come out at night, eyeless and grinning. It was the same fireplace, pale and tiled, which Brigid had watched with such hope on Christmas Eve, after she had seen her film about George Bailey. Now, as the evenings grew ever shorter and the nights colder, she watched the fireplace with dread, knowing Miss Chalk would wait in there until she was at the edge of sleep before sliding out to terrify her.

If she had feared going to school before Miss Chalk came to haunt her, it was worse afterwards. On the first Monday morning in September, serge and wool heavy on her limbs, she walked beside her mother up the small, hilly street near the mills, and stood in line in a great grey yard. Behind her were dark gates, a chain hanging loosely from them; all around her towered high brick walls, blackened and stained. Everything smelled of soot. Other girls stood in front and behind, some with mothers, some with bigger girls, one or two alone. No one spoke. Her feet wanted the smooth comfort of their sandals. Her legs wanted to run in the garden with Francis, or even with Ned Silver, but Ned was gone far away to school and Francis, too, was gone. Even now he would be standing in the yard of his new school, at the other side of the town. She would not see him until nearly night-time. Everywhere she looked she saw only the scarred walls, topped with broken glass, and hazily, in the distance, a long row of windowless huts and wooden doors. Brigid saw a girl beside her make a puddle at her feet, and watched as she was brought to the huts, soaking and shamed. As her eyes followed, wondering uneasily if the same thing might not just happen to her any moment, she felt her mother’s hand begin to loosen in hers and, hard though she tried to hold on, the hand eased away, and she was left empty.

Over her head other hands, bigger, not gentle, placed something about her neck. Brigid, startled, looked down. From her there hung, suspended on a green ribbon, a square pink card. She turned it round so that she could see it. Black letters spelled her own name, just as she had learned to write it with her mother:
Brigid Arthur
. Then her mother, reaching cooler, kinder hands to the back of Brigid’s neck, adjusted the card so that it felt comfortable. She did not know why it was hung around her neck. She was a dog, with a collar. Then, a wide shadow covered her, and a large person said: “I’ll take her now, Mrs Arthur,” and, unbelievably, Brigid was handed over to the stranger and led away to join other children standing by the wall. Some of them were crying. Brigid, frozen, was unable to cry. All her effort was concentrated in the hope that something would happen to prevent her being left here. Incredulous, she watched her mother walk slowly away, as if she had forgotten something but could not remember what. She herself must be what had been forgotten. Then, Brigid saw her turn round at the gate and, heart leaping, made ready to run from the line. Instead, with one brief salute of her gloved hand, her mother, back straight, head high, walked away. Still, Brigid did not cry. Instead, she watched the empty place where she had last seen her, listening for the clicking of her heels on the pavement, until there was no more sound.