First Fruits, page 6
No wonder no-one notices me. Gran seems to have turned our guests to stone themselves, like something out of Greek Myth. Something to do with the crackjaw, and the furious glare. Everything makes her glare, the world and every mortal thing in it. Lydia's mum can't take her eyes off her - unless it's not so much Gran as the salt she's watching. It's still pouring of course, a slow, constant, fascinating stream that won't stop until Gran decides it's enough.
Don't they use salt in Lydia's house, then?
Still, it gives me a chance to look at her properly, Lydia's mum. She is small and ever so slightly plump, with dark curly hair and brown eyes. And soft. I don't know that I ever saw anything as soft as her, all wrapped up in a coat so downy, so warm, she looks as if she's nestling inside it like some rare, prettily feathered bird.
Poor old Lydia then. Next to her mother, head poking out of the top of her duffle coat, she is all elbows and knees and steamed up spectacles. You'd never guess they were related, not for a moment.
And poor old Gran. She doesn't like other women at the best of times. And here's one of the worst kind, pretty and well dressed - there's no other way to describe it - standing right in the middle of her kitchen. No wonder the glare has become a concentrated beam that could burn a hole through paper.
But we can't go on like this, staring at each other. Someone has to say something. I clear my throat. Mrs. Morris gives a little start.
'Goodness me, I'm sorry. I think we may have arrived at a bad time.' Gran merely grunts. Mrs. Morris falters. 'I...I'm afraid we got ourselves so dreadfully lost. We used a map, when it's obvious now we should have just followed your directions. Poor Lyddie, so clever at everything, yet all at sea when she tries to navigate.'
Lydia opens her mouth as if to protest, then closes it again abruptly. And she's right. Her mother isn't criticising her. No-one criticises anyone in that tone of voice. It's as soft as it can be, just like the rest of her. And if you wanted further proof that no criticism is intended, there's this; suddenly Mrs. Morris turns and touches her daughter's ear, quite unnecessarily, and strokes it. 'Lyddie love, you and I. We're a terrible pair aren't we?'
And it's a shock; the gentleness. And the words that went with it. Telling everyone they were a pair. Not even trying to hide that they were connected. Suddenly you find yourself thinking the virtually impossible: maybe Lydia's mother loves her.
Well. You can't blame me for being surprised. Every day, Lydia has come to school wearing the same old look. Of someone unwanted, unloved. The one no-one would miss. That's the impression she gives, the reason she's so easy. And now here's her mother touching her ear and telling the world they are a matching pair.
No-one's ever fooled me like that. No-one. It's enough to make a person start doubting that she has It, suspecting her own judgement.
But now will someone explain Lydia to me? Her mother strokes her ear and Lydia just stands there. Worse, she begins to scowl, shrugging off the touch, pretending the only thing that matters is wiping the steam off her glasses.
Mrs. Morris sighs. Then she glances at me. 'So you're Kate.' And tries to smile.
She's not happy. But it's not because of Lydia. You only have to watch them to see she's used to her. It's Gran, who even now hasn't put away the glare - or said a word.
Still, I can put that right. A smile can make up for anything, even Gran. A special one this time, warm and bright as could possibly be - and as different from her sulky daughter as she would ever see. Smile then.
But for some reason, I get it wrong. It's too much. I smile and Mrs. Morris blinks, as if I had taken a torch and beamed it unexpectedly in her face. There's a noticeable pause.
'Well it's lovely that Lydia has managed to make such a good friend and so quickly. I'm sure she's going to have a lot of fun.'
The words are alright, but what about her eyes and the way they are drifting over Lydia and beyond, avoiding Gran, avoiding me for that matter? She's taking in the kitchen instead, with all its steam and general damp; the sodden drawers that refuse to close, and tongues of lino peeling off the floor as if to lick the walls.
All at once, It comes into play and I know exactly what she's thinking. She's asking herself if she really wants to leave her daughter here, if she shouldn't just walk out and take her beloved Lydia with her, and never mind the upset. In fact, it's going to happen, I can tell. Everything is about to go terribly wrong. And there will be only one person left to take the blame. Me.
But then, thankfully, it doesn't happen after all. Someone is here to put a stop to all that. Someone they haven't even realised is present, watching, listening to everything. It's the steam of course, clouds of it, getting in the way, keeping him from view. And not even a sound to let them know he's here.
Then again, there's no-one as quiet as Dad when he wants to be.
But finally, as they always would, the clouds part, and a voice booms clear through all the awkwardness and doubt, sending shreds of steam scurrying uselessly into the far corners where they belong.
'No need to look so serious, missus. This little girl is in for the time of her life.'
This time, it's not just Lydia who jumps. Watching their faces, eyes suddenly wider than you would have thought possible, you could believe they were mother and daughter after all. Surprise seems to have brought out the similarities in them.
'Take it from me. A few days here, and you won't know our Lydia. Isn't that right, love?'
He winks at Lydia, puts out his hand towards her mother. 'Carr,' he says. 'Keith Carr at your service.'
It's the way he always introduces himself. The same words as lots of people use. But Dad is different because Dad means them. It must be the reason that, as he takes Mrs. Morris's hand in his, she changes colour, ever so faintly. At the same time, his eyes lock onto hers, and that's the moment when you know she's lost.
Blue where you would expect them to be brown, the centres of my dad's eyes are ringed with a light all of their own. It's the light that shocks people, light where it's least expected, the same light that allows him to fix another person's gaze and hold it, as if he will never let it go. Promising the earth while the world dissolves around them. And all in a single stare. No there's not a soul alive with eyes like my dad.
Now he's looking at Lydia's mother, and here we are again, watching the same old miracle, the miracle of someone falling, never to be the same again.
Or are we? She returns the gaze for a moment, then quietly, without a word, takes her hand out of his. Even more surprising, having freed herself, she takes one, two steps back to look at him, up and down, as if she needs the distance between them in order to make up her mind.
I don't understand it. She's not behaving the way she ought. She's not falling. Oh, there's the faintest suggestion of feathers shivering, a hint of ruffling, but no falling.
And Dad, what about him? Oddly enough, he doesn't seem in the least put out. If anything, his smile grows that little bit wider as if to bridge the gap she's put between them. Not just wider, but warmer. You can feel the heat from him, reaching out to her, ready to wrap itself around her...
....And she just takes another step back, pulling her coat around her, as if all she could feel was cold.
Maybe it's the look of him, putting her off somehow. But she should remember; don't judge a book by a cover. He may not be tall, but show me a tall man with an ounce of his presence, or a thin man with anything like the power that comes with bulk. Not that he's fat. My dad would never let himself grow fat, because what would that say about him? But he fills a room, this room, as easily as he fills the tweed jacket he always likes to wear. That's what she should be impressed by, if nothing else. The way this room is full of him.
But then, she is impressed, isn't she? Why else would she have to force herself to smile the way she's doing now? It takes a moment to understand, but then it becomes as clear as daylight. It's really quite simple. She may be impressed, but she doesn't like him. Lydia's mother doesn't like my dad. Not one little bit.
So it's no surprise to see her hand stretching out to Lydia. No surprise either to see the words already forming on her lips. You can see what she has in mind, something she thinks is going to be, not exactly easy perhaps, but possible. In which case it's going to come as a shock, to Mrs. Morris, when finally she gets round to noticing Lydia.
It was the wink of his that did it. That's all it took. One eye deliberately closing. Because you know what it told Lydia, that single wink. It showed her that he would forever turn a blind eye. That when he looked at her, he would close his mind to the fact that she was small and ugly, and of absolutely no consequence, which is all that anyone else noticed in her.
Now look at her as a result. Eyes lit up, cheeks pink, Lydia is transfigured. Why, she's almost pretty. That's more like it. That's what we're used to.
Then at last, Mrs. Morris does catch sight, and it's almost comical. 'Lydia,' she murmurs. 'Lyddie love.'
But she'll have to do better than that. Lydia hasn't even heard her.
'Darling...' Mrs. Morris tries again. That faint colour in her own cheeks is deepening rapidly to a becoming pink, prettier even than her daughter's. 'Darling, I know this is absurd - but I've been thinking how very upset Aunty Jane is going to be, about you going somewhere else to stay. I don't know if she'll ever get over it. But it isn't too late, and I'm sure Mr. Carr and everyone would understand if...'
If... what? If she dragged her daughter away from us now, after it's all been arranged? I don't think Lydia will be going anywhere, not this time. Dad has put his arm around Lydia's shoulders. She's shrinking into the space he's made for her, growing small enough to put into his pocket if he so minded. As for her mother, I don't believe Lydia has listened to a word she's said even now.
In fact no-one has. Not so it counts. Dad's talking to Lydia. At least, she thinks he's talking to her, but it's her mother he wants to hear him. So she knows how it's going to be. He's caught Lydia round the waist, tickling her a little so she wriggles and giggles, though not too much. 'What's this?' he's saying. 'There's nothing of you, Lyddie-love. What do they feed you on at home? String beans? We'll have to do something about that, won't we, mother? Fatten the old kid up a little.'
Here he winks at Gran, who stands unsmiling. She has picked up the ladle with one hand and has a saucepan lid in the other, in readiness, Mrs Morris or no Mrs. Morris. She looks as if she could batter someone as easily as feed them.
All the same she's ready to do exactly as he says. We all are, Lydia included. Especially Lydia.
So you see, there's nothing for Lydia's mother to do now but go. She brought her daughter here, and now she's going to have to leave her. It's what everyone wants. Even Gran. It only took her a moment to understand that Lydia was no threat. No-one was going to miss any meals because of Lydia.
LYDIA,' Mrs. Morris tries one last time, emphasising the full breadth of her daughter's name - for others to take note, no doubt. She hadn't reckoned on my Dad, had she, picking up on that 'Lyddie' the way he did.
But all she wins by it is a brief colliding of heads as Lydia allows herself to be kissed goodbye. A moment later Mrs. Morris has found herself standing by the door, probably wondering how she got there. Still she hangs on, though, refusing to leave, hoping that Lydia will change her mind.
But it doesn't happen. Instead, my father sends Mrs. Morris another one of his special smiles, the sort that could pacify nations, and send old ladies fluttering like pigeons back to their own homes. But, for all those strange reasons that I can't fathom, it has no effect on her. Mrs. Morris doesn't move. In the end it has to be Lydia, suddenly looking across at her from under his arm and frowning, mouthing that one little word.
Go.
SO what can she do except just that?
What's more, she'll probably end up lost again. She doesn't even have Lydia now to help look for signs. Lydia is staying with us.
Chapter Six
NOW IT'S JUST THE FOUR of us, the way it was meant to be, the way it would appear to someone on the outside - a mother, say - stealing a glance through the window, to see what has happened to the daughter she has given up.
We know exactly how it would look on the outside. Dad and me, it's a knack we both have - of knowing - a God-given talent you might say.
But now here's Gran, elbowing her way between us with a steaming saucepan which she bangs upon the table with a thump. But even then, wonderful things continue to happen - wonderful if you were Lydia. Dad leads her to a chair and, with infinite pains, sits her down, right next to him - where normally I would sit. And still Lydia can't take her eyes off him, watching from behind the dazed sheen of her spectacles as if afraid he might disappear.
It's all that attention of course, going to her head, putting her in a spin. Don't they pay her any attention at home, then? This morning, I'd have said, of course not. But I'm not sure now.
Unless it's Laura, always getting more, no matter what Lydia does. Curly little Laura who will never need a brace, the apple of her daddy's eye.
Well there's no question of Lydia having to share the attention here. Dad hasn't so much as looked at me in fifteen minutes. Well, he's been busy, naturally. But it's the strangest feeling in the world. It's like...it's like being invisible.
Is this what Lydia complains about at home? Having people look away, forget she's there? If that's the case, then all I can say is silly Lyddie, stupid old Lyddie-love.
And that's when I catch Gran's eye. I'm not invisible after all. There's always Gran, isn't there? Gran and her nose, forever sniffing in my direction. Gran is there to keep an eye on me. Gran never forgets. She's his mother, so she's bound to have talents too.
But for once I'm not doing a thing wrong. There'll be nothing for her to report. She won't even be able to say I was jealous, watching the two of them, Lydia and him, getting on like a house on fire. She's talking nineteen to the dozen about Greek, and he's making her a promise that one day soon they will go to his study, just the two of them, and read Greek together. The New Testament to be exact. The very thing he had in mind for me.
Oh, this is better than I ever dreamed. Gran may be watching me, but he's not. Lydia's there, taking up all his time, chattering away about Greek verbs, about Miss Jamieson, about the books she likes to read. Books you would never catch me reading. In the meantime, Gran has turned off the gas, and the steam clouds are vanishing like mist on a summer's day. Lydia must feel as if she's sitting in purest sunshine. Everybody's happy. Even him.
But then, all good things have to come to an end. Slowly his head turns, and the light that's bathed us all fades - just a little. Suddenly I know what's coming.
'Kate, love. I've never heard you talk about Greek once, not even once.'
See? I was right. But no need to panic. There's a correct answer to everything. All I have to do is take a moment to think.
But then, before I know what's happening, there's Lydia, suddenly answering for me. 'Oh I don't believe Kate likes Greek, Mr. Carr. I think she'd rather be doing something quite different.'
What? What? Doesn't she realise what she's just said? Apparently not. She's smiling at me, thinking everything is the same as it was five seconds ago. She doesn't know. She can't see Dad's eyes, for a start. And if she could, she wouldn't understand. All she'll see is the smile. But I know. While Lydia beams, the light in Dad's eyes is telling me that we will be talking about this later, when we're by ourselves. He thinks that I've forgotten what's expected, that I have to be reminded. His daughter, you see.
He doesn't even have to use words. Dad and me, we're that close.
And it's all her fault, Lydia's that is. So you won't catch me feeling sorry for what happens next. In the gap she's made in the conversation, Lydia decides it must be time to eat. She scoops up a forkful of Gran's dinner and pops it in her mouth. And then it happens. Her face changes, as it must when her tongue shrivels and the salt seeps into her cheeks. The only sound is what comes from the back her throat, tiny, like a bat's squeak.
'Something the matter, love?' says Dad. He has begun to frown. Ingratitude, the worst sin. Then he gives an exclamation, and hits his forehead with the ball of his hand. The frown has disappeared.
'Of course, Lydia, love. What a girl you are. And too polite to say a word.'
'What is it, Keith?' Already Gran is halfway to her feet, all that skin and bone bunched for action. If it's something to do with her food, then she would gather up every bit and throw it away without another word. Start all over again. That's the way she is. Not for anyone else though. Only for him, only for Dad.
'The Blessing, mother. I clean forgot the Blessing. And here's young Lydia, reminding me.'
And he grins at Lydia who, still shaken, uncomprehending, does her best to smile back. The food stays sitting in her cheeks, scorching her.
And even now she doesn't understand, even when he closes his eyes and clasps his hands together. I have to push her head down for her. Show a bit of respect.
'Dear Father, bless this food which you have set before us....' At this point, Gran mutters into her fists, as she always does '....Bless the people who eat of it. And Father...' here he stops '...Bless the new child in our midst. Help us to love her and keep her as one of our own. Help her to love us and become part of your Family of Love.'
And with the Amen, he raises his head - and winks at Lydia, one last time. But look, he's done it again, caused Lydia to stare back at him, incapable of speech. Surely nothing compares to this, not if you're Lydia. No-one has ever prayed for her before, you can tell. I don't suppose God gets so much as a mention in her house, not from one week's end to the next.
The consequence is, there's not a peep out of her after that, not about Greek or anything. Cheeks burning, she concentrates on swallowing Gran's food instead. After all, she's seen us doing it. Maybe knowing it has been blessed makes all the difference.
