“Hello! What’s this: do-it-yourself?”
She looked up and up and was surprised to see Uncle Conor, looking, from her new low perspective, bigger and wider than ever.
“What have you been up to?” he said as he stretched out his hand to raise her. “That’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” His voice was unexpectedly gentle, and it made Brigid want to cry.
“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 t
hrough 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.
There was a sharp report. The large person clapped her hands, not loudly, but firmly, and said: “Infants! Over here.”
They were the infants. Brigid had just time to take in this indignity before the large person began to move them, all the bewildered children, into a straggling line. Bigger girls, nearly women themselves, took them by the shoulders. Some were gentle, some pushed the children. Somehow, they were herded inside the dark building, instructed to hang up their coats on hooks, which a number could not reach, then taken into a square room with high windows and green walls. They were told to sit at wooden desks, set out in rows. The room smelled of pencils and paper, of dust that caught in the throat, and drains. It was at once too warm and too cold.
In the endless time that followed, Brigid learned that the large person was their teacher. She was “Miss”. Some girls cried, but no one came. Then they were given small glass bottles of milk and paper straws and told to drink. The milk was warm and unpleasant, and the straws felt like candle wax. There were more puddles on the floor. All the children were lined up and brought to the huts outside, but Brigid held back and managed not to go in. They were herded back, and instructed to put their heads on their desks and go to sleep. Brigid could not sleep. It was daytime.
When they were allowed to sit up, the door opened and there entered a lady, immensely tall, in a long, bunched skirt. Perhaps she was a queen. Wooden beads dangled from her broad belt, and a vast hat like a white butterfly shadowed her face. Perhaps she came from long ago. Perhaps Brigid had wandered into a story, or was dreaming: all this might end any second.
Then Miss said: “Children, stand up, in silence.”
The butterfly lady said she was the Principal. They were to call her “Sister”. Sister said they were welcome to the school, and that, above all else, they must work hard and learn to be good, honest and useful girls. She told them to sit
down, and then she went away.
All that morning, Brigid believed she would never be allowed to escape. She had been left there forever. Her parents must have found out about Miss Chalk, who was not suitable: this, on top of cutting her hair, her unwillingness to read, and the many transgressions of her life so far had proved too much. She had been sent away. Ned Silver had been sent away to a school where he had to stay except for holidays. Perhaps this was one of those schools, and they had not told her. Perhaps her father’s illness meant children could be sent away. Perhaps Francis had been sent away too, and she would not see him in the evening, or ever again. This, more than anything else that was happening, brought Brigid close, but not quite, to the point of tears, but still she would not cry. It had not worked well for those already weeping in despair, and she had no wish for the kind of attention it appeared to bring. All she hoped was that her teacher was not like Miss Chalk. Maybe this was not the real teacher, but someone sent to prepare them, before Miss Chalk appeared.
Yet, the morning went on, and no Miss Chalk came. The large person stayed with them and, gradually the children learned to call her “Miss”. She was not unkind. She called their names and they learned to answer. She handed out books and told them they must back them at home. Brigid didn’t understand what that meant. Miss read a story. She led them out to the yard and told them to run about, and then she brought them back in again. Yet some still cried throughout the morning, even when Miss told them to put their heads down on their arms and close their eyes. The crying had still not stopped when a thin wailing began outside, growing terrible, like the sound of an animal in pain. Some girls started crying more loudly when they heard it, but Miss explained that that was the call to the mill workers to leave their machines and have their lunch, and that it meant the children could soon go home. Brigid was not sure she believed this, but a bell was rung through the school, and they were, at last, allowed to leave the airless room. As she reached up on her toes for her coat, Brigid saw that the corridor was policed by more of the people with butterfly hats. One had glasses that glinted sharply, another a soft face but a thin mouth, yet another had a face cut from stone. They were all extremely tall: on instinct Brigid resolved to stay away from all of them, especially the stone-faced one. That could be Sister Chalk. As soon as she was allowed to leave the line, she ran out of the building, determined to reach the gates and run away, with whoever came for her or, if there was no one, then by herself.
The Friday Tree Page 6
