Chapter 13: On Broadway

They whizzed above her, tiny spaceships, zinging along their lines with lightning intent. Brigid could not take her eyes from them, little steel canisters in the air. She would not move.

Isobel said: “Right,” and pulled her arm until she came into the queue for Santa Claus.

“Look at them!” cried Brigid, craning back.

Isobel, still pulling, did not reply, but Francis, a little ahead, heard her. He took his own eyes away from the flying canisters, and turned around: “You’ve seen them before. They’re for sending change and receipts to different parts of the store.”

“I still think they’re magic,” Brigid said.

Francis shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows,” he said. “Maybe they are.”

This much Brigid knew: she and Francis were here, in Robbs’ Store to travel in a spaceship and visit Santa Claus. How this could happen in a shop Brigid did not question: magic could happen anywhere. Still, looking up at Isobel, and her mouth’s unpromising set, Brigid felt faith waver. The queue was long, and hot: before long, she tired of the slow shuffling. She wanted to meet Santa Claus, now. So, when it was suddenly their turn to step into the spaceship, and they zoomed upwards, she was quite taken by surprise. Here was magic, spinning them through space to Santa’s house. Brigid’s heart filled with little fluttering birds. It was almost like being sick: in fact, she thought she would be sick if it went on any longer. It would have to stop before she . . . and then it did, just as suddenly as it had begun as, with a shuddering jolt, the spaceship wall opened to show a shining winter kingdom, glittering with bright points of light. And there he wonderfully was, in his warm red fur-tipped coat, and his white, kind, snowy face. His eyes, deep and soft, looked into her as he reached down, and she did not feel sick any more. He put his hand on her head and it was like her grandfather’s, long and cool. Then, he handed her a pink parcel, and he gave Francis a blue one. He put an arm round each of them, drawing them into the warm circle of his arms. For a second Brigid was back with her father, as his eye turned to stone. She felt herself go stiff and cold, until she came back to the winter landscape, to the kindly face of Santa Claus, and he was saying: “What would you like me to bring you for Christmas?”

Brigid took his hand in both of hers, and placed her trust in him. “Please,” she said, “may I have a theatre?”

Francis, in Santa’s other arm, looked quickly towards her, the fading scar beside his eye beating like a pulse: he seemed surprised, but Santa Claus could not be. It was true that in the letter she had written with painstaking care, and which Francis had kindly posted up the chimney for her, she had asked for a doll, but really, until Santa Claus asked her, she did not know that she had changed her mind.

Yet, Francis seemed troubled. “I didn’t know that was what you wanted, Brigid,” he said.

“I didn’t either,” said Brigid. “I just thought of it now,” which was true, and it seemed to her an inspired choice. This way, she could see the stories come alive, without the labour of writing them down.

“Hm,” said Isobel, to no one. “Trust her. Anything to give trouble.”

They had left Santa Claus’s grotto by another door, and now they were on ordinary echoing stairs, green-walled back stairs, and the magic was gone. Brigid, put out, could not think how she had given trouble by answering a question, but she shrugged her shoulders as she had seen Francis do, and was surprised to find that as she did so, her irritation fell away.

Isobel even let them open their presents: Francis had a set of Travel Draughts, Brigid Travel Ludo. There were bigger games like these at home, with stronger boards and bigger pieces: but these were special because Santa had sent them early.

Brigid was content to turn out into the evening, Christmas in the very air of the frosty street, carols in the distant darkening sky. It would not have surprised her to find a host of angels in the gloaming space above her, like the starlings she saw the day Francis was hit; and just as she thought it, Francis touched her elbow.

“See that red light up there?”

She followed his eyes. Sure enough, up above a red light made a trail across the sky.

“That could be him,” he said.

“Isn’t he in there, where we were, with the other children?”

“No,” Francis said. “We were the last. Look behind you.”

Brigid looked, and she saw that the doors of the store were closed. So he could be up there in the sky. She stretched her neck to see, then stopped. Sometimes, it was still painful.

“Does that hurt?” asked Francis. “You shouldn’t do it if it does.”

“Only sometimes,” said Brigid, “if I turn it too far.”

“Don’t then,” said Isobel, not unkindly, taking her hand. “And watch where you’re going.”

There was too much to see to watch where she was going. She stayed craned up towards the sky, until finally, crossly, Isobel tugged her back.

“Brigid,” she said, “in the name of God would you –” and then she stopped, and her voice changed. “Why, hello,” she said, quite softly, and Brigid, looked up and saw Uncle Conor, that crooked tooth gleaming.

“Well, well,” he said and, dropping down to squat before Brigid, he put an arm round her, and drew her to him.

She could not pull away; she did not lean towards him.

“Christmas shopping?” he said, one finger on the pink parcel, loosely rewrapped.

“We’ve been to see Santa Claus, Uncle Conor,” said Francis, but he did not sound happy any more.

“Indeed?” said Uncle Conor. “And am I allowed to know what you asked for?”

Brigid looked at Francis, and both looked at Isobel.

“Oh, you can tell Mr Todd,” said Isobel, in her suddenly girlish voice. Her face was as pink as Brigid’s parcel.

“I asked for a theatre,” said Brigid. “I changed my mind from before.”

Uncle Conor whistled. “Oh?” he said, and his eyebrows went up. “Is that not a bit risky, so close to Christmas?”

Brigid did not understand him.

Francis stepped closer, filling the space next to her. “Well, we know it’s up to Santa Claus to decide what we are given,” he said, very slowly, looking straight at Uncle Conor. “We know he decides.”

Brigid, who knew nothing of the kind, opened her mouth to protest, but Francis’ elbow pressed hers, and she understood. “We know that,” she said.

“Well,” said Uncle Conor, unfolding himself to his great height, “you can never tell what Santa Claus will decide,” and he tipped his hand in salute. “I would see you all home,” he said, “but I have to see a man about a dog.” He turned to Isobel. “I’ll leave them in your good hands, Bella,” he said.

Brigid and Francis, taken aback, exchanged glances and, before anyone stopped her, Brigid said: “Uncle Conor, however did you know that? Nobody calls her that but Francis.”

He looked down at her, one eyebrow far above the other. “Why . . . I must have heard Francis say it, then. My apologies, Miss, to you, and to your brother and – most of all,” here he turned again to Isobel, “to you, Isobel.”

To Brigid’s surprise, Isobel’s smile widened, and her cheeks turned a deeper pink, but she said nothing at all.

With a final, dismissive wave, Uncle Conor turned away, and was quickly swallowed in the evening crowd. The children said their puzzled goodbyes to his back, and followed Isobel’s newly jaunty step through the cold streets to their own bus, scarcely stopping until they sank down, with one sigh, on the dark, hard leather bench. The bus pulled away, the glass of the windows misting beside them.

Brigid, puzzling over something, breathed warm circles on the glass. “Is Uncle Conor getting a dog?” she said, but Francis did not answer, and Isobel did not seem to hear. Her face was soft, her eyes far away. Brigid let it go: she would find out some time if he got the dog. Tired, she leaned towards Francis, watching the evening darken on the hill as they climbed past Broadway, and was almost asleep when her comfortable pillow suddenly jerked itself upright.

“There’s Uncle Conor!” cried Francis.

“Where?” said Isobel, and she twisted in her seat. Brigid, rudely awakened, opened her eyes, pressed with Isobel against the window, and saw that Francis was right. Walking purposefully up Broadway was Uncle Conor, just as he had said, but he was not alone.

“And, Francis, look – Rose!” said Brigid, for Rose was walking with him. Uncle Conor had his hand under her elbow, the way her father took her mother’s arm as they crossed the road. “Rose is with him,” she said, tugging at her brother. “Francis, Rose is with him!” but Francis, staring out, said nothing, and Isobel, silent, seemed suddenly heavy against her. Brigid rapped the window, calling “Rose!”, and Isobel did not stop her, but neither Rose nor Uncle Conor heard her. His hair stood up, brown, springy as heather. Rose’s face wore a smile, her small teeth wide and white, and her eyes were bright. Then, Francis knocked the window, quite sharply. Still, nothing happened. No one turned towards them. The bus moved on, slowly, inexorably and the figures of Rose and Cornelius Todd, close together, like dancers just taking the floor, grew smaller and more distant until they were just a speck in the dimming light. With one instinct, the children turned for explanation to Isobel: but Isobel said nothing. Her face was not pink any more, but white. She was white as Miss Chalk. The children looked at each other, and kept quiet.

Francis shifted his seat, closer to Brigid, and the bus moved down the hill towards home. When they were at the depot, he nudged Brigid. “Look,” he said. “The buses have had a hard day. Probably nod off in a minute.”

Brigid looked, and laughed, and agreed. Trolleybuses had a sleepy air even in the mornings, but now, in the winter evening, even the fierce petrol buses had a mellow look as if, though vigilant still behind their black eyepatches, they had dropped off standing up, like horses in a field.

“And, look!” said Francis. “There’s the boy who lights the lamps.”

Brigid looked out and saw a thin boy at the top of the tall lamp-post outside their house. When they got off the bus and crossed the road he was standing by it, on the pavement looking up. Francis stopped beside him, and Brigid stopped too.

“Excuse me,” Francis said. “Can I ask you, do you climb up all of them?”

“No, not all of them,” said the boy pleasantly. “Only when I have to check the pilot light.”

“The pilot light?” said Francis.

Isobel stood holding the open gate, but Francis did not move, and Brigid stood her ground.

“If it goes out,” said the boy, “in a high wind, say, I have to get up and relight it. But I’m only checking today. It was wavering, that’s all.”

“I’d love to be you,” said Francis. “I’m Francis.” They shook hands. “This is Brigid, my sister and . . .” he turned to introduce Isobel, but she had turned her back.

“I’m Bobby,” said the boy, and he laughed. “You wouldn’t love to be me when there’s a storm.”

“You climb up there in storms?” Brigid was impressed.

“Oh yes,” said the boy, hunkering down beside her. “I climbed up every lamp-post between here and the Ormeau Road the night the Princess Victoria went down.”

“Our sort of uncle was lost on that,” said Brigid.

“Was he?” said the lamplighter. “What’s a ‘sort of uncle’?”

“And no one has gone to –” began Brigid, but Isobel’s voice cut across.

“Brigid! Francis! Come on! Now!” Isobel was taking no more.

Francis and Brigid said goodbye, hurriedly, shamefacedly to the young lamplighter.

“She’s getting worse since she came back,” said Brigid to Francis, beneath her breath, but Isobel heard her.

“Who’s ‘she’? The cat’s mother?” she said. “And it’s your mother I came back for, not you, Miss.”

Brigid said nothing, because at least Isobel no longer slept in the house, which was something.

When they got inside, their mother was standing in the sitting room, her arms full of colours, and rustling silver strings. A little strand of silver dangled from one wave of her hair. Brigid thought she looked beautiful. The newly lit fire was leaping in the grate, its flames still white, not yet mellowed to its orange and red, and she was hanging a string of lights on a fir tree which was neatly standing in a wooden bucket.

Turning to them, she said: “Ah, the wanderers have returned! What’s strange in the town? Did you see anybody on your travels?”

Isobel said nothing, and went straight into the kitchen.

Their mother paused, looking after her. “Has something upset Isobel?” she said. “Was anyone bold?” and to Brigid’s irritation, she looked over Brigid’s head at Francis.

Brigid opened her mouth to speak, but Francis pressed her back, warningly. “I think Isobel is just tired, Mama. The town was busy.”

“Well, that would do it,” agreed his mother, nodding her head. “But I don’t want her upset. She’s needed here. Come on, you two, now, and get something to eat. Daddy will be in any minute . . .”

A key turned in the front door, and a voice called “Hello?” from the hall.

“There he is – and nothing ready,” said their mother, running her hands through her hair. “Go on, children, into the kitchen and get some tea, at least, with Isobel.”

“Francis,” said Brigid, as she followed him out the door, “why do you keep nudging me and telling me to be quiet?”

“Say nothing,” he said.

“About what?”

“About anything.”

Brigid sighed: it was the summer and the plot all over again.