First Fruits, page 14
IN the middle of dinner Lydia's mother asks again if I want to give Dad a ring. I shake my head, then explain that Saturday is his busiest night. A fork supper with the Friends in the City, followed by work on his sermon for the next day.
The result is exactly what you would want. Lydia's mother stretches right across the table to touch my hand. 'Poor Kate. Such a busy person, your father.'
It's almost comical. Lydia's mother thinks I'm not getting enough attention. It's so difficult keeping the smile off my face that in the end I give up, and let her see it - see how brave I can be.
'I don't mind, Mrs. Morris. He can't help it. And there's always Gran.'
At the mention of Gran, she frowns and bites her lip. Well, she's met her, hasn't she. Which means there's nothing she can say. For the moment, there's a silence as we all consider Gran. Silence except from Lydia, that is.
'Oh Kate, she's such a wonderful person.'
That's the book talking. But she sounds wistful, because as he says, they broke the mould when they made his mother. Mrs. Morris though gives my hand another squeeze. And you can see what she is thinking. What a shame it is, having a grandmother like mine, and a father who...
A father who does what? This is where I don't understand Lydia's mother. Why doesn't she like my father? Why doesn't she see him the way others see him? It's almost enough to make you worry about her, ask yourself if there may not be something wrong with her.
Then I catch her looking at her husband, and any worry I might have had on her behalf just disappears. She's smiling at him, Mr. Morris, bending towards him and the wine I had almost forgotten she was drinking. And you can see what is happening. She has stopped thinking about me. She's only got eyes for him, Lydia's father. She doesn't care about anything at all.
Serve her right then when it slips away from me, a little flash of It. As she goes to sip her wine, I turn and catch his eye - and smile, just the way I did yesterday. For a second he stares back at me, mouth half open, sleepy eyes waking. Wouldn't it be interesting to know what is going through his mind right now? Then again, there's no need to guess. He's just like Mark, only older. They all are if you ask me, except for him. My dad.
Finding that she's lost him suddenly, Lydia's mother turns to look down the table, mystified. But there's nothing there for her to see. And he's hardly going to tell her, not after what's been passing through his mind, coming to him from out of the blue, as he would say. As he would like to say. So she's none the wiser, and already I'm almost sorry it happened.
Still, it's taught Laura a lesson. Seven year olds should be in bed at this time of night. That way she wouldn't be sitting there, staring first at him and then at me as if she had seen something infinitely more shocking than a simple smile.
At nine o' clock precisely I yawn. Golly, I say to everyone. Golly, having so much fun has tired me out. I'll have to go to bed.
Suddenly it seems that everyone is looking relieved - except for Lydia who hasn't even heard me, who has a head full of pit disasters.
You'd almost think they didn't want me around. But I don't mind. It means I can go to the room that is all mine, the room I would never have left if had it been up to me. Given half a chance, I would have stayed here all day, and let them muddle through the best they could.
But now I'm back, I can lie on the bed and let it all open up around me; wardrobe, curtains, greens and lemons. Tree above the fireplace, green painted table. Play a little game with myself, planning what I would change and what I would keep the same if it all belonged to me.
The fact is, if this room were ever to become mine, I wouldn't change a thing. It's perfect just the way it is.
Chapter Thirteen
NEXT MORNING AND I'M OUT of bed the moment I wake up, before the phone can even think of ringing. It's Sunday, remember. No-one sleeps through a Sunday.
At least that's what I thought. But downstairs their newspapers are lying untouched on the mat under the front door and the curtains are still drawn. The kitchen is warm, but empty. Lydia's family haven't even begun to get out of bed. And it's Sunday.
I knew they didn't go to church in this house, but somehow I never thought they would begin the day like this, by doing nothing. Just sleeping. As if they had all the time in the world.
Let's hope he doesn't phone now, for their sake. He'd never let me come again. Because I'd have to tell him; how they are all in bed on a Sunday, how even she hasn't appeared yet.
Although of course, she'll be the first one to do just that. Mothers generally are. The day can't start without them. Not unless you have Gran instead, ruining it all before it's begun. So Lydia's mother will be the one to come down, yawning and rubbing her eyes. A little ruffled perhaps, not quite herself, not yet.
What a surprise for her, then, if she walks into her kitchen and finds someone is already up, happy to keep her company. While the rest of her family stay wallowing in their beds.
It will be just the two of us, the way it was the first night, like mother and daughter. And this time, no-one to interrupt.
I wonder where she keeps the teapot?
****
FIVE minutes later, and it's all ready. Plates, cups, saucers, a table set for two. Bowls and spoons. Jam and marmalade and honey. Milk in a jug. Everything she could possibly want. A treat for someone everyone else seems to take for granted. And all I have to do is wait.
And then at long last, here it comes, the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The very lightest of sounds. That will be her bedroom slippers. I noticed them yesterday, fluffy things with kitten heels that go tap tap tap like a dancer's on the polished floors. You'd almost think it was a child walking.
What is she going to say when she sees breakfast all ready and waiting? That Lydia has never done this for her. That Lydia would never dream. Not Lydia.
The door opens, and in walks...
....Laura.
Laura, carrying a doll that is almost as big as she is, so big it's a struggle just getting it through the door. It's the reason she doesn't see me, not at first. When she does, she stops, looking suddenly quite drawn. For a moment I thought that she might turn right around and go back the way she came. But the moment passes and she looks away, carries on past me, into the kitchen, as if to pretend I wasn't there. Before I realise what she is up to, she is putting the doll in one seat and taking the other seat herself. Then she fills both the bowls with cereal and begins to eat.
You know what's happened of course. She's put herself in my place. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she's made sure there are two of them, that it's like seeing double.
And there's nothing I can do. Because now there are other footsteps, heavier, and this time, unmistakeable. Lydia's mother appears, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Soft in her dressing gown, a little ruffled. The way I knew she would be.
But she doesn't notice me. Seeing Laura and her doll, both with their bowls of cereal, she begins to smile, goes positively misty eyed.
'Having a quiet breakfast with Angelina, darling?'
And would you believe it, she kisses Laura, and kisses the doll.
Only then does she look up and give a start. 'Why Kate,' she says. 'Kate, you're up too.' But she isn't pleased to see me, not the way she was pleased to see Laura. She doesn't even ask who laid the table. And you know why. She thinks her precious Laura did it. With the help of a doll no doubt.
I really wasn't going to do this. I was going to let Lydia decide what to do today. But that was before her mother came downstairs and didn't even notice I was there. So now I'm going to do it anyway.
Lydia looks suspicious when I tell her I have an idea for this morning. She's remembering yesterday. So just in case she has it in her mind to say no, I ask her where she has got to in the book, and that draws her up short. Then, just to clinch it, I say:
'I was thinking we might go to church,' and sit back to watch her face light up. It's the book again, isn't it, having its effect.
FOR a second time, Lydia's mother doesn't ask us where we are going. Another sign that she's different. He'd want to know where we were going, so he could be with us, every step of the way - in spirit, that is. Some people care about their children.
But it's just as well she doesn't ask. Lydia's mother wouldn't like it if she knew, not one little bit. Yesterday I wouldn't have done this. But I'm going to do it now.
ON the bus, Lydia keeps spotting churches, and every time thinks this must be where we get off. But I stay put, don't even bother looking out of the window. After a while, I can feel her becoming suspicious again, wondering if religion is really what I had in mind. Silly Lyddie, all too quick to think there's only one kind of church.
So, when finally I do stand up and ring the bell, she's not ready and almost gets left on the bus. It would have served her right too, letting her suspicious mind run away with her like that. I told her we were going to church, didn't I? Why think otherwise?
The trouble is, standing on the pavement and staring round her, she just can't see it, not a church, or anything remotely like one. She doesn't even know where we are. And why should she? You can't see her mother ever bringing her to this part of town. There's nothing here they could possibly want. Over there is the harbour, and the wind is blowing straight in from the sea, leaving traces of salt and dead fish on lips, pushing old bits of paper against our knees. The street itself is empty, the shops not just closed, but boarded up - except for the bingo hall behind us. I could mention to Lydia that her good friend Moira lives with her gran only a street or so away from here. But I won't. We're not here to think about Moira MacMurray. Or her gran.
'Come on,' I say, and push open one of the big swing doors to the Bingo hall. For several moments she's too surprised to follow, with the result that the door swings right back behind me. When I turn around Lydia is still outside, face up against the glass, like a baby owl looking in.
Poor Lyddie, silly Lyddie, thinking there's only one kind of church.
Yet all she had to do was take a look at the posters on the doors. It's there in big letters, unmissable. A meeting for Friends in the City. And in even bigger letters, his name, my Dad's. She should learn to notice things better, should Lydia. That way she would be more prepared.
'Come on,' I say again, forgetting she can't hear me through the glass. It's a forgivable mistake. Bingo halls are my second home, but I have to remember this is all new to her. Lydia still thinks that God lives in those churches that we passed, like something kept in a museum you have to visit specially. Something that never sees the light of day. But she should know by now. She's read his book after all. God gets about. And for some reason He really seems to like bingo halls.
With Lydia safely behind me now, I push on another door, the one that used to lead to the big screen when the bingo hall was still a cinema. 'Stick close,' I say. Well, I wouldn't want to lose her, would I? I'd never find her again, not in this crowd.
Because behind the door is a solid wall of people. It's standing room only. But then, it always is.
And still Lydia doesn't understand. She doesn't know where all these people have come from, or what they are doing here. Or even why the smell of the harbour seems to have followed us indoors with its tastes of fish and salt. Lydia's parents don't move in these sort of circles. Lydia's parents don't even go to church.
She should have read the posters, though. Because most of all, she doesn't understand the silence. The silence of the led. Lydia hears it and stops, then looks at me, wide eyed with alarm. Some people can't take silence. They expect crowds to be noisy, not quiet like this, making you think that anything could happen. She begins to edge back towards the door, making it clear she wants to leave. But we can't do that. We've only just arrived. There's no escape now.
And anyway, who said anything about the silence lasting?
At first it's just a groan. Lydia hears it and stares sharply round, looking for who's making it, for where it comes from - only to find the sound is coming from everywhere. Then look at her face when she realises that, instead of dying away, the sound is growing, gathering strength like something with a life of its own, filling all the spaces of the hall, above and below her. Inside her even. Oh yes, look at Lydia now. A case of pure terror. And all because of a noise. Suddenly it becomes too much, she starts into action, begins to make a dash for the door. Fortunately I'm too fast, and grab her by the arm.
Wait, I say.
Because the noise has reached its peak. And now, little by little, it is falling away, gathering itself in, coiling round itself, to come back to nothing, to the silence that gave birth to it.
Silence again.
For a long moment nothing stirs. Then somewhere in the crowd a woman begins to cry, sobbing as if in fear or grief.
Lydia's body has begun to pulsate.
Perhaps I'd better put her in the picture. So I pinch her arm and point, making sure she looks. First at the giant speakers above our heads, responsible for turning a simple groan into an ear shattering event. Then at the crowd who are, after all, no more than ordinary, just a little over-excited, including the woman crying. There's always one. By the end, they'll all be at it, all the usual suspects, heaving and sobbing. You'd be surprised at the number of folk who believe they can speak in tongues, who believe they have something to say.
But there's only one person really, only one man who has something that needs to be heard. But before I can point to him, the speakers come to life again, not just with a groan this time, but with actual words. Lydia yelps and grabs my arm. Then she recognises the voice, magnified a hundred times, and her hand goes limp.
Well, it's his voice, isn't it? Didn't I say folk come from miles around? In churches and chapels all through the land there are empty pews and empty collection bags. He's stolen them away, all these people with their fifty pence pieces. Although, of course, stolen is the wrong word. No-one forced them to come. They simply prefer to be here, the fishermen and their wives, listening to the things they want to hear. That God is definitely with them, in wind and high weather, in squalls and in shifting cargoes of ice and fish, in the rusty hulks they call their boats. A word in their ear before they motor away from shore and safe harbour. Something to keep them going - and something else besides for the wives who get left behind.
That's what the other churches aren't giving them. The personal touch. That's why they come to Dad. He knows what they like. He tells them God is everywhere, and they don't seem to notice what he leaves out, the most important bit of all. That God may be with them, but he's not necessarily going to do anything about it. Only if they are Chosen.
Although really, it's something they should understand better than most. What do they do with all the fish that the fish monger won't touch?
Anyway, now Lydia is one of them. Look at her. She can't even see him, not with so many folk standing in the way. But she can hear him. The silence was just a pause, an invitation to consider. We've come in half way through his The Love of God is a Flaming Spear sermon. That always gets them. The way it's getting Lydia now. She'll never listen to anything as closely as she is listening at this moment.
'....For my friends, how can a man - a man - describe the love of God? The length, the breadth, the depth of it. The sweetness and the pain of it. How can a man put into words a thing that is beyond the power of speech?'
Only a special man. And long last, Lydia, spectacles flashing, leaning and listening with her entire body, is learning just how special he is.
'....For the love of God is a hot desire, burning in your belly, melting the most inward, the most tender parts. Feel the heat, my friends, feel the flames of God's desire as they consume you, making you hollow and filling you with His warmth. Feel the fire as it licks the flesh from your bones, sucks the marrow from the very centre. Feel it my friends, my sisters, my brothers. The sweetness and the pain of it....'
And so on in the usual way. Rise and fall, rise and fall, his voice reminds me of the engine of our car, cutting back then driving forward, changing tempo, changing tone as the road requires. The sermon itself is like a journey we've made so often that I could close my eyes and know, just from the sound of the engine exactly where we are...
But Lydia doesn't hear it that way. And quite right too. She is beginning to feel the heat, what God wants her to feel. After the confusion, and then the panic, there is this. Already his voice has brought her out in a hot flush, sweat forming in a fine line below the rim of her spectacles. She looks as if the flames of God are busy even now, licking the soul right out of her. In fact, Lydia is beginning to look like every other person here.
And it's him, his voice, making everyone the same. My Dad, talking about fire, as usual.
Well, she'd better make the most of it. He's about to reach the end.
'Oh my friends. The love of God is indeed a hungry flame. It tempers, it consumes. It destroys the evil in your soul leaving the pure metal to shine through, proclaiming a faith as bright as gold. His love will make you suffer. His desire will make you burn. For the love of God is a flaming spear, piercing the softest parts and melting every thing....every mortal thing it touches...'
His voice breaks, tips over into a whisper. Lydia looks as if she may be about to faint. People often do. An old woman broke her hip last year she hit the ground so hard. Her relatives sent a letter threatening to sue. She sent a letter with a cheque, saying that the pain had cleansed her soul. She's probably here now, somewhere, ready for another cleansing. Let's hope there's someone to catch her this time.
But Lydia, oh Lydia. You've fallen straight away. Somehow I'd thought you might have stood a while to consider. All that education, teaching you to think. You work out maths problems by thinking. The same with Greek. You're a thinker. You're supposed to be clever. It's the reason you do so well.
