The Friday Tree

by Sophia Hillan

  “Oh, no,” said Brigid, “or yes, I mean, I am!” and she scrambled away in haste down the steep hill, holding on to the slabs as she went, no longer interested in the names or the numbers of the long dead, or anything now but her lunch.

  Yet, at first, despite her hunger, Brigid found it hard to concentrate on the food before her. Uncle Conor looked at Rose all the time, as if he owned her, and Michael looked at Uncle Conor as if he did not care for him. Rose looked at neither, concentrating on the children and the serving and clearing of food. Ned and Francis addressed themselves with joy to all she had put before them and, gradually, the smells and the tastes of Rose’s preparation worked on Brigid, too, and she relished every mouthful. At the end of the meal, she was once more content.

  Michael, who had stopped looking at Cornelius, turned to Brigid. “Well,” he said, “you were hungry after all. I hope you’ve left a little room for –”

  “Michael!” said Rose, and Michael stopped.

  “I think I’ll stretch my legs,” he said, “if anyone wants to come for a walk.” Then he was on his feet, a signal that the meal was over.

  Cornelius stood up, and Rose began to collect the dishes.

  Through the window waved tiny pink blossoms from the orchard: Brigid wanted to be outside. She stood up.

  “Now,” Michael said, “who’ll walk down the lane with me?”

  “Go you on with the children,” said Rose. “I’ll clear up here. Cornelius?”

  Brigid saw her uncle stiffen where he stood, yet he said nothing.

  Cornelius looked at Michael, then back to Rose. “Well, no, I think I’ll go into the town. I have a man to see about a dog.”

  Still, thought Brigid, still that man and the dog. Rose stopped clearing. Michael stopped still. On the wall, the clock ticked through silence.

  “Into the town, here?” Rose said. “Do you mean up to the city?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Just the town here,” he said, but he did not look at her, then added, reaching for his overcoat: “I’ve a number of things to do.”

  “Just as you wish,” said Rose, her voice devoid of emotion. He got up and left, and she did not see him to the door, or wave him away in his car. Instead she turned to her brother. “I may run over later next door to Jack Polly’s and use his telephone. I’d like to know how things are in the city.”

  Home was in the city. “Is Mama coming here tonight?” asked Brigid. “And Daddy?”

  Rose tied on an apron. “I told you, Brigid. Your mama is resting at home for a day or two. And you,” she covered the remains of the apple pie, and looked towards the door, “are going for a good walk that nice day with Michael, while I prepare . . .”

  Francis, who had been silently listening said, quietly: “A surprise.”

  “That’s right,” said Rose. “Now, go, while the day is good.”

  Michael, standing, looked over at Rose, and went to the door. His eyes, deep in his head, looked almost navy blue, dark as the clothes he wore, and his long nose when he lifted it had a slight curve. His mouth, too, was long and straight, even when he smiled or laughed, and his laugh carried the sound of his pipe tobacco. “Did I say to you, Rose,” he said, “that I had a dream last night?” He reached for his coat, and lifted the latch on the door.

  “Please don’t tell me,” said Rose, brushing down the table.

  He was clean and scrubbed in his dark suit yet, despite the scent of soap and the whiteness of his shirt and handkerchief, Michael carried with him the air of the farm – of grass, and earth, and faintly, a scent like the dogs who followed him when he was outside, coming to meet him now as he came through the door. They bowed their narrow heads, black and white, sleekly padding from their house by the gate.

  “Good enough,” said Michael. “Tell Jack Polly I’ll be over later to call. Maybe I’ll tell him my dream,” and he ushered the children before him through the door.

  Now in the lane there hung the scent of early blossom, drifting from the orchard behind the house and, setting out to climb the long hill, Michael pointed out the ferns and the primroses showing new and damp; the pale fragile flowers played in the light wind, peeping and swaying as the walkers picked their way down the uneven track. Up the hill they went, growing warm, then down, cooler again. The farm was all hills, rising and falling in its own cluster of drumlins. Looking back, it seemed to Brigid the farm lay in hiding behind the hill of the Limekiln Field, with its low grey house where they were not allowed.

  Something hooted, and Brigid stood behind Michael. “What was that?” she asked.

  Michael said: “Oh, there’s an old lady lives in there. She doesn’t like visitors.”

  “In the Limekiln house?” said Brigid. “But . . .”

  Ned said: “Could that noise not be a bird?”

  But Michael did not reply. He quickened his step, and walked on.

  “It could be an owl,” said Francis.

  “Do you think there’s lime still in there?” Ned asked, but Michael was still not answering. “Could we see it?”

  “Well, I think there is,” said Francis, “but you can’t see it. We’re not allowed there because the lime is in a deep pit.”

  “It burns without fire,” said Ned, gleefully. “They use it in prisons, when they hang people. I know! The little old lady is the ghost of a –”

  “Stop that,” said Michael, finally turning round. “I think you may be right about the bird. I think it’s an owl. I was mistaken about the little old lady. She’s long gone.”

  “Will the dogs know not to go into the pit, Michael?” asked Brigid.

  He turned round on the road. “Dogs have more sense,” he said, and they continued on their walk, out beyond the lane on to the road and beyond. Michael was a steady walker, and it seemed to Brigid that he might just keep going. Her feet began to drag, and she was greatly relieved, after what seemed like a long time, to find that he had looped them round, and that they were somehow back at the entrance to their own lane.

  “Michael,” said Brigid, as the farm came back into view, “do you want to tell us about your dream?” She took his hand, to encourage him.

  He laughed his smoky laugh. “Not if Rose says no. Rose thinks I dream straight, and she could be right.”

  Brigid was about to ask him what he meant, when he suddenly lifted her up in his arms and said: “Look across the fields. See the trees at the side of the house? See? The horse chestnuts are putting out their candelabra for you.”

  It was true. The trees in blossom were hung with creamy light, like the Easter candles in church.

  Brigid stayed high up in Michael’s arms as they rounded the last corner, and together they saw Rose come out with a covered pot. She motioned to Michael. He swung Brigid down, bent to go through the door, and came out a few moments later with a shovel of coal.

  “Mind now,” he said. “We want no catastrophes.” He took the pot over to the side of the haggard, to a little hollow before a big branchy tree, where Rose had made a ring of stones. The fire was laid in this and the pot, which was filled with water, put on it.

  Rose told the children to sit on stools Michael had carried out to them. “This is our Easter House,” she said. “We always did this, with your grandparents, and your mama, and Michael.”

  “And James, God rest him,” Michael added.

  The pot was beginning to bubble.

  “You have another brother?” asked Brigid. Where were they coming from, all these brothers?

  Rose shook her head. “He was our uncle. He’s dead now. He lived a while in New York.”

  “Why?” asked Brigid.

  “A farm can’t keep all that many people,” said Michael. “Some have to go out foreign.”

  Ned said: “Did you ever go out foreign, Mr Durrant?”

  Michael said: “I had no call to go anywhere. The wireless and the newspaper will tell me all I need to know. Why would I want to go running about the world?”

  “What
happened to your uncle?” said Ned.

  “He came home from America, very sick, and he died,” said Rose. “We don’t need to go into that now.”

  Michael, ignoring his sister, said: “The night he died, I was sent on my bicycle for the doctor. I cycled and then I walked the bicycle up the hill – just the way we did today – and as I walked my uncle James walked up the hill beside me.”

  Brigid could not understand. “How, Michael? How did he walk if he was sick?”

  Michael looked at her in surprise. “He didn’t. It was his spirit walked beside me. I went on and got the doctor and, when I came home with him, sure enough James had died that time.”

  Brigid, not entirely comfortably, thought back to Hallowe’en, and wished again that the dead would stay where they were put, and not go round annoying people. Yet, nobody else was troubled.

  Rose certainly was not, lifting perfect brown eggs into the blue-and-white eggcups. “Don’t heed him,” she said. “He dreams straight. You know that.”

  “Rose, did you go over to Jack Polly and telephone to the city?” said Michael, unperturbed.

  “Not yet,” said Rose. “I will after this.”

  “Did you put onion skins in the pot, by the way?” asked Michael.

  “No need. Those need nothing but fresh air and the hot water.”

  “Grandma always put them in,” said Michael, and he knocked his pipe against the stone beside him. “I’ll telephone, if you like, when I go over later to see Jack.”

  “Well, maybe you would, when you’re over there, and I’ll stay with the children,” said Rose. “Eat up now, you three, eat your Easter eggs.”

  Brigid, warm in the shade of the haggard and the sheltering trees, saw why she had been told to leave some room: she wished she had. The house sat low and content, and the dogs snoozed in a patch of light. High up, the rooks were calling that it was time to make a nest, and the apple trees, tinged with pale pink, sat like young girls in spring dresses. Tea, and eggs and wheaten bread left the children sleepily content, yet when, from somewhere on her person, Rose produced little sugar eggs, pink and white, they found even more room. Michael lit his pipe, and lay back against the tree, and one of the dogs curled in beside his feet. Everything grew still, and time stopped.

  A voice above them broke the peace. Between them and the sun came a cold shadow. The shadow moved, the heat came back, and Cornelius Todd stood above them. Brigid thought: he always stands in our light. Yet, he was smiling, his glinting crooked tooth showing at the side of his mouth. His hands were behind his back, and then they swung round, holding three boxes: two were pirate ships, in jewelled paper, and one was a basket of card, painted with primroses and violets. He handed them to the children, and they saw with delight that each one held a chocolate egg.

  Michael got up, buttoning his waistcoat. He did not seem pleased. Neither did Rose, her face pink, a little flushed. Michael said nothing, but Rose, unsmiling, spoke: “That’s too much sweet stuff, Cornelius. They’ve been eating all day. It was good of you, but really, they . . .”

  “It’s from . . . Grace sent them. I saw her.”

  Here was silence. The Easter House and its glowing embers seemed to fade, and the air grew cold. Brigid felt a shiver run through her.

  “My sister? You went to the city?” said Rose.

  Cornelius looked at the children. Michael, his pipe between his teeth, walked towards the house.

  “Go and play, children,” said Rose.

  No one argued.

  Rose and Cornelius stood silently looking at each other.

  “Bags first on the swing,” said Ned.

  “No, you don’t,” cried Brigid, and she scrambled to her feet – but Francis was ahead of her.

  “On you go,” said Michael. “I’m going to bring in the cows. Don’t fall off.”

  “The cows! Can I come?” asked Francis at once, and when Michael nodded he swung into step with him.

  Brigid was left with Ned, already on the swing.

  “Push,” he said. “I’ll give you a turn in a minute.”

  Brigid, angry and frustrated, pushed.

  “If you want a turn, you’d better push harder,” said Ned.

  She pushed until her arms hurt, then she stopped.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Ned.

  “You push,” she said, and folded her arms.

  “Oh, Brigid,” said Ned, sliding off the seat. “I do love it when you’re bossy. Get on the swing.”

  She pulled the swing to a halt, and hitched herself into the seat. Ned immediately sent her flying into the air with a mighty push, nearly unseating her, and the swing spun in the air.

  As she swung drunkenly back towards him, she heard him say: “I know what’s happening.”

  She swung away. “What?” she said, flying higher and higher out over the wall. “Don’t spin me,” but each time she came back, Ned pushed harder. “What is it you know?” she asked, breathless, the world reeling.

  “It’s simple,” said Ned. “Your mother’s having a . . .”

  Brigid swung away and did not hear the rest.

  She did not see Rose walk towards the swing until she was almost upon them. Rose put out a hand, gradually slowing the swing, and the crazy hills and spinning trees came quietly back into order. Brigid sat, out of breath, her head still running in circles. Far away by the dying Easter House, Uncle Conor stood alone, one foot kicking at the ring of stones.

  “Down from there,” said Rose, her voice sharp. “That was too high. There could have been an accident, and then what would I have told your mother? Come inside.”

  There was no point in telling her it was Ned’s fault. She did not sound like Rose, and her face was white, and Brigid did not think she would listen if she did tell her.

  “Ned, you pig,” said Brigid. “What’s my mother having?”

  As if she had not spoken Ned stood still, his eyes on Rose, stooping as she bent below the lintel. He said nothing, his eyes swivelling to Cornelius, still standing by the dying embers of the Easter House.

  The air had cooled: the day was ending. Brigid, irrationally disappointed in something, trailed with Ned into the house.

  From somewhere came the sound of the cows coming home: she could see Francis with Michael, back in his working clothes. Their shoulders were touching, their heads together, over by the byre, and Brigid wished she had gone with them rather than stayed with Ned. They would probably go on and visit kind Jack Polly in the next farm, and she would be left out.

  “Ned,” she said again, “what is my mother having?”

  Ned, looking away from Cornelius, seemed not to understand the question at first. Then he shrugged. “How do I know? A rest, probably – a good rest from you,” and he slid away before Brigid could reach him.

  She sat alone at the window, wondering how it was that all the good had gone out of their Easter day.

  Brigid was glad to get to bed that night. She curled beneath the eiderdown, waiting for Rose. Drifting towards sleep she thought, or dreamed, that she heard Rose’s voice: “Because you lied. You lied. I cannot trust you to tell me the truth.” She dreamed she heard Uncle Conor: “I didn’t lie. I changed my plans – and I brought you news of your sister,” and Rose’s reply: “You did. There are places in the world where they kill the bringer of bad news. Did you know?” Brigid, falling towards sleep, thought she heard Uncle Conor’s engine starting, widening out into the night, leaving the air empty but for the sound, distant but distinct, of a woman’s weeping.

  Chapter 20: Dreaming Straight

  That night, Brigid dreamed that she wakened in the yard and the house was a ruin. It stood blackened and eyeless, the orchard in bloom but overgrown, choked with nettles and docken leaves. No hens pecked across the yard, no dogs lay in the sunshine, no cattle brayed from the byre, and from the chimney there rose no smoke. In her dream the farm was silent, and everyone was gone. The only noise she heard was the ragged cawing of rooks, circling the orchard,
the chestnut tree and all the unheeded blossom. In her dream she knew she was alone, her parents gone from her, her grandfather, Rose and Michael. Worst of all, in her dream, Francis was gone. She would never see him again. Brigid came out of sleep as she had gone in, to the sound of weeping, and found that it was now herself, the pillow wet when she woke.

  She threw back the covers, got out and pulled open the door and, suddenly, in the ticking quiet of the morning, everything became itself again. In the kitchen, Francis stood by the window watching Michael outside, and Rose, stretched on her tiptoes, was lifting down a suitcase from a high shelf. So: they were to go back home. That was all right. Brigid suddenly longed for the smell of her own house, for the faded red of the carpet on the stairs, the light through the blinds in the morning; the black and white tiles of the hall; Dicky complaining in his cage; Isobel truculent by the sink; Daddy reading the news; Mama, thoughtful in the kitchen; the Friday Tree, steady as a sentinel at the back of the plot.

  With an effort, she brought herself back to Tullybroughan. The front door was open. Standing there, just sheltered from the soft drizzle, she could see where their Easter House had been, the ring of blackened stones cold, stained and dampened by a fall of rain in the night. A blackbird sang in the hedge. Michael, outside the door, was hefting a milk churn to be taken to the road, the hens were clucking and a proud cockerel crew. Michael straightened. The rooster, picking his way across the stones, crew again.

  “Good morning, lazybones,” Michael said. “I thought you were going to stay in bed all day.”

  Brigid looked down at her pyjamas. She shook her head, tumbling its untidy hair all about her face. “No,” she said. “I’m getting up, now. Why does she do that?”

  “Why does who do what?”

  “That hen.” Brigid indicated the rooster. “The big one. Why does she make that noise?”

  “That’s a rooster,” he said. “That’s no hen. ‘A whistling woman and a crowing hen, good for neither beasts nor men’,” and without further comment he began to move on to his work.