Chapter 14: Truce

Brigid woke, knowing it was Christmas Eve. Even in the warmth of her bed she could see expectation in her own frosty breath. The sunlight, pale, almost white, was trying to drift through the yellow of the blind. She made the chilly hop from bed to window, and snapped the blind, sharply, sending it speeding to a quivering, abrupt halt. There it was: the winter sun, pale as the moon through the empty branches of the Friday Tree. Spreading coldly from it, the plot lay bare, brown furrows almost grey. For no reason, Brigid remembered, with a suddenness that was almost painful, the summer sun on her head, birds soaring above, bees busily circling nearby. She shook her head. Then she shook it again: her hair had grown long enough to make a curtain round her face in the morning and, until someone clipped it back, Brigid looked out from the safety of a dark, soft screen.

“Hold on, Veronica Lake,” said her mother, catching her as she went into the kitchen. “Come here and see who’s arrived.”

Brigid pushed back her hair, and looked, and her heart lifted. “Rose!” she cried, then with an immediate tightening in her stomach looked to see who else might be there. No one. No one stood behind her. No Uncle Conor. Not even Isobel. Perhaps Isobel had gone for her own Christmas somewhere. Brigid could only hope.

“Yes,” said her mother. “Rose arrived out of the blue last night, and she’s going to help us finish the tree before she has to go home, aren’t you, Rose?”

“I am,” said Rose, “and before I go, I may put something under that tree, too.”

Brigid caught her breath.

“But not,” said Rose, “unless I see porridge eaten this morning.”

Brigid felt her happiness deflate. “Will Francis have to, too?”

Francis, rubbing his eyes, covered a yawn as he walked through the door: “Do what?” he said, then: “Morning.”

“Eat porridge,” said Brigid. “I have to.”

“All right,” said Francis, and ran his hand through his own hair.

“Good morning to you,” said his mother. “What time did you stop rooting around last night?”

Francis let his hand drop. “Did I keep people up? I’m sorry. I was . . . looking for something.”

“They’re like two longhorns under that hair,” said Rose. “It’s a wonder they can see at all. Good morning, Francis.”

With a glance at one another, the sisters left the children at the table, and left the kitchen. They did not say where they were going or what they were going to do.

Brigid was sure that what occupied them was to do with Christmas – smells and spices and rustlings that could only come to good. She tried to eat the porridge. She did not relish it, but she persevered. Something extra might go under the tree if she did.

“Francis,” said Brigid, swallowing, “am I still not allowed to say we saw Rose and Uncle Conor yesterday?”

Francis, moving his spoon round and round the bowl, thought for some moments, then looked up. “Yes,” he said. “If Rose wants to tell us, she will. If she doesn’t, it’s not our business.”

“Do you think it was about the dog?”

“Dog?”

“The dog. Uncle Conor said he had to see a man about a dog.”

Francis reached for the milk, and poured it in a slow spiral round his bowl. “I wish I could like porridge,” he said. “I don’t know what it was about, Brigid. It’s not our business. I told you. Can you finish that?”

“I hate it,” said Brigid.

He shrugged. “Better try. It’s not bad, really.”

Brigid sighed, and swallowed three more spoonfuls, the graininess catching in her throat.

“Well done,” said Francis. “Now, here’s something for you to do. I’m supposed to finish doing the tree, and you can give me advice and encouragement. Come on,” and he was up and away from the table, her bowl and his rinsed and left to drain before Brigid was properly out of her chair.

The sitting room was filled with a bright smell: sharp, like a forest. Brigid could not touch the lights: if one bulb got damaged, Francis said, the whole thing would go. All she could do was gaze in wonder at the string of lights as they came out from their box with a slow clinking, like little china cups. They were coloured bells, the size of Brigid’s palm, pale blue and green and red and yellow. Here was Cinderella in rags on one, there was the plump Fairy Godmother bibbidi-bobbing in her blue cape, there was the star-shining ball gown, and, best of all for Brigid, was the bright green bell with the pumpkin-coach and the mouse-horses.

It took forever until the lights were in place, and Francis said: “Now, Brigid. Your turn,” and held out his hand.

One by one she picked out the decorations: she handed him the baker boy who had come from a threepenny lucky bag, the tiny basket full of bright coloured balls, the home-sewn Santa Claus, soft as a cushion, glass baubles of emerald and ruby, delicate, ready to shatter in a grip too tight, and the glittering tinsel, catching every colour it came near. Last of all, Brigid handed Francis the angel in her paper gown. He pushed the back of their father’s armchair against the wall, steadied it, climbed up to stand on the arm, wobbled a little, righted himself, reached up, and placed the little angel at the top of the tree. Then he leapt down from the chair, knees bent. “Call me Errol Flynn!” he said, landing like a cat.

“Why?” said Brigid, but he did not explain.

He stood back, moved forward and made some adjustments: a loop of tinsel, a coloured ball too near the edge of the branch, Santa Claus in danger of plummeting through the fir branches. Finally, he said, “That should do”, pushed the chair back to its place, went to the window, pulled the heavy curtains and quickly, surprisingly, shut out the morning. Bending, he unfurled the twisted trailing flex, pushed the plug into the wall socket, and flicked the switch. Sharply, Brigid drew in breath. They were in their own fairy tale. For an endless moment, they stood together in stillness. Then Francis switched off again.

“Oh, Francis,” said Brigid, “don’t put it away.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Don’t worry. Wait till it’s dark, and we’ll put them on, and it’ll be magic all the time till Santa Claus comes.”

Brigid sighed. “All right,” she said. “Maybe you’d better do the curtains, too, before they catch us.”

“Good thinking,” said Francis, and swished aside the curtain.

In that moment, two things happened. The doorbell rang and, just as she heard her mother say from the top of the stairs, “Somebody see who that is, will you?”, Brigid’s eyes were filled with a terrible image at the window: a face squashed, a red, raw tongue plastered against the glass. She heard a low, groaning sound, and was just about to dive behind her father’s chair when Francis said: “Oh, boy. The gang’s all here.” He rapped the window, hard, against the flattened face. It sprang back, startled, and Brigid saw who it was.

“Francis,” she cried, “that was Ned Silver!”

“Was,” he said, drawing back the rest of the curtain sharply, “and is. And – don’t ask me why – he’s with Uncle Conor. Remember what I told you. Not a word about yesterday unless someone mentions it first. Maybe not even then.”

Brigid, her head full of lights and colours, could not think at first what had happened yesterday: it was already a long time ago. Still, she nodded, then shook her head. “Not a word,” she said. Then it came back: “Uncle Conor?” she said. “But, why, why is he with Ned?”

“I don’t know, any more than you,” said Francis, exasperated. “But stay put, stay quiet and we may just find out.”

Out in the hall there was a commotion, sounds of surprise and greeting: men’s voices as Brigid’s father arrived home early from the office, surprised and pleased to see his friend – softer, higher voices as Rose and her sister brought in the unexpected visitors. There was another surprise, less pleasant: Isobel’s voice was among them. She had not gone yet, after all.

It looked for a mad moment as if everybody was about to spill into the sitting room on top of Brigid and Francis, until a voice, taking charge, put a stop to that. “Isobel,” called their mother, skilfully guiding Ned Silver into the sitting room to the children. “Would you mind putting down the groceries and checking that oven for me? Then, would you set two more places in the dining-room? You children can stay in here for the moment, and,” she said, with a glance that in one sweep included, encouraged and warned, “I am trusting you” – she looked for a moment at Ned – “all of you, to behave. This is a big occasion.”

Well, of course it is, thought Brigid: it’s Christmas Eve, and something’s being baked in the kitchen, and up in the North Pole Santa must be getting ready . . .

For better or worse, the three children were left together.

No one said anything, until Ned, looking at Brigid, put out his tongue. “Got you at the window,” he said. “Again.”

“I knew it was you,” said Brigid, and Ned snorted.

“Ha,” he said.

“I did,” said Brigid, “because it was so ugly.”

“Stop it, the two of you,” Francis cut across, sharply. “Just stop, will you?”

Ned and Brigid looked at each other from under their eyelashes, but said nothing.

Ned wandered over to the tree. “Nice,” he said. “You do this, Francis?”

“Yes,” said Francis, without any of his earlier enthusiasm. “I always do it.”

“Nice,” said Ned again, and he pushed one of the Cinderella bells, idly. It made a tiny noise, the tinsel shimmered, and the tree trembled, as though it still stood in the forest, shaking off frost and snow. Ned was still, then, for a moment, and his face was quiet.

Despite herself, Brigid felt sorry for fighting with him. “Is your tree up, Ned?” she said.

Ned turned away from the tree. “No,” he said. “My father doesn’t any more . . . and, anyway, he isn’t there.”

“Who is there?” asked Francis, and his voice had lost its irritation.

“Probably nobody.” said Ned, and he turned his back on both of them. He looked out the window, as if something were going on.

Brigid looked, but there was nothing to see.

“Mulvey goes to her own family at Christmas,” said Ned.

“But then, where do you go?” asked Brigid, and prayed every prayer she knew that he would not say he was going to be with them.

He smiled, in an instant his unpleasant self again.

He raised one eyebrow, and Brigid thought: now he’s copying Uncle Conor.

“Don’t you know?” he asked.

“Of course I do,” said Brigid, immediately.

“Good,” said Ned. “Then I don’t have the bother of telling you.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Francis. “So you can tell me. Where are you going, Ned, and why doesn’t your father ever come home? We never see him.”

Ned, to Brigid’s annoyance, turned immediately to Francis and said, quite simply: “He can’t. His work in Egypt is too important . . . to do with the government,” and he paused, lifting up his chin, letting the information sink in. “It takes him away a lot. He keeps the house pretty much for me, for holidays. I think he was going to sell it when . . . one time. Then he didn’t. Mulvey says it was because of me.” He tossed his head, and his hair shone like a chestnut in the light of the fire. “I don’t think he would keep it if it weren’t for me.”

Francis’ voice was quiet. “I’m sure he’d rather be here with you, now, at Christmas.”

Ned’s ears, turned away from Brigid, grew first pink, then red.

Brigid thought: he’s going to tell a lie.

“He does,” said Ned. “He does want to be here with me. He’s just busy, that’s all, all the time, and Mulvey can’t always be there. That’s why I was going to stay at school over Christmas.”

“At school!” cried Brigid. She could think of nothing worse.

“It would have been fun,” shot back Ned, his ears redder even than before, his eyes bright in the firelight. “I wanted to. I was looking forward to it. I was going to get in all the places we’re not allowed. Really good ones, secret places.” He breathed in, his mouth a pale straight line. “Secret as the plot,” he said, and he shot them both a glance that was a warning, just short of a threat.

There was silence. Brigid listened to her own breathing, while Francis sat down on the arm of the chair.

“So, Ned,” he said, his voice still quiet, “where will you be spending Christmas?”

Ned looked straight at him. His eyes were calm now, a clear dark blue. “With your Aunt Rose. She asked me when Mr Todd told her I had to stay in school.”

Francis sat still.

Brigid puzzled, said: “But how did he know?”

Ned pushed the Cinderella bell again, harder: “Don’t you know already?” he said. “I thought you said you did.”

“How, Ned?” said Francis, and his voice was very steady, but not so quiet.

Ned shrugged. “Because he came to see me, that’s how.”

“At your school?” said Brigid and Francis together.

“But isn’t that in England?” added Francis. “He went to see you in England?”

Ned, though he opened his mouth to reply, closed it again as the door opened, and Rose herself put her head round its edge.

“My goodness,” she said, “it’s quiet in here. What’s going on? Are you colloguing?”

Francis stood up. “No, Rose. Ned was telling us he’s going to spend Christmas with you,” he said, his voice now quite flat.

“Yes,” said Rose, her smile a little apologetic. “I was going to tell you about that, but everyone arriving together, and I –”

“Children,” called their mother’s voice. “Come in here to the dining room, will you, please?”

Rose reached across to the tree to straighten the bell Ned had disturbed and, as she did so, Brigid glimpsed, nestled at her throat, peeping out from underneath the collar of her blouse, something shining, bright as a star.

“On you go,” said Rose, giving Brigid a gentle push. “I was sent to get you.”

Francis and Brigid looked at each other.

“Go on,” said Rose, with her wide, warm smile. “All will be revealed!”

Ned at their heels, Rose behind, Brigid and Francis did as they were told.

“It is good news, all the same, Cornelius,” their mother was saying. “When did you last read such a hopeful headline? What a Christmas present for the world!”

Standing at the door of the dining room, Brigid felt her spirits sink. Not the world again. Not the news. The next thing, it would be Ireland.

“All it means, Grace,” said their father, “and I think this is Conor’s point, is that they have stopped their fighting for the moment. Look at it. Yes, the headline says: ‘Guns are silent in Bethlehem,’ and yes, that’s good. But read on: ‘Israel and Jordan laid aside their guns today and opened the border to hundreds of Christmas pilgrims.’ It doesn’t say they have settled their differences.”

“It’s a truce, Grace,” said Cornelius. “Maurice is right. All it is, is a temporary gesture of goodwill – like the business of letting prisoners out of the gaol here for Christmas, a cheap . . .”

Here it comes, Brigid thought. Here comes Ireland; but instead, to her relief, he saw the children, and stopped. He got to his feet, pulling out Rose’s chair for her. She sat down, her wide dress spreading its flowers and its perfume round her. He seated himself beside her and, as she smiled at him, the bright shining at her neck caught the light, flamed like fire, then settled white against her skin. The children took their places at the table.

“Well,” said their father, “are we all met? Children, there is some news!”

The children sat down, looking from one to another, apprehensive.

“We know Ned is going to spend Christmas at the farm with Rose,” Brigid said.

“Well, yes,” said Uncle Conor. “That is part of it. I’m driving your Aunt Rose down today, and Ned’s going, too. I don’t think school would be the best place at Christmas, do you?”

Brigid looked at her parents. Her father was smiling, her mother not. She seemed preoccupied, absently twisting on her left hand the thin gold wedding band. Probably, Brigid thought, Isobel had forgotten to get something she needs. As if to confirm this, Isobel came in, unsmiling, unfriendly, with a pot of tea.

“But how . . . ?” started Brigid.

Cornelius looked at Rose, who nodded and gestured with her hand. “You go on,” she said.

“Well, look,” said Cornelius, “that’s not the news we were going to tell you, but that can wait a moment or two more. Ned: well, something your Aunt Rose said a few months ago made me aware that I knew of Ned’s . . . family, some time ago. And, I happened to be in England a little while back, and I tracked down this young man and found he was going to be spending his holidays at school. Then your Aunt Rose,” and he stopped and smiled at her again, “said she and her brother would be happy to have Ned as their guest. So, we . . . well, Rose, really, obtained the necessary permission from his father and the school, and here he is, and he’s going to have a very nice Christmas with your aunt and your uncle.”

Brigid was silent. She could not bear to think of Ned having Christmas with anyone in her family. She wished he had stayed in school for Christmas. She could not see why he did not just go to Egypt. It could not be much further away than England, and he would be with his own family, not hers.

Francis, who had been listening quietly, said: “What was the news you were going to tell us, Uncle Conor?”

“Ah yes,” he said, “our news.” He drew his napkin from his lap, dabbed at his mouth, and replaced the napkin beside his plate. “The news is,” and here, to their surprise, he reached over and took Rose’s hand, “that your Aunt Rose has agreed to be my wife and, just as soon as we have told your Uncle Michael – because, you know,” and he laughed, and Rose laughed too, “I must inform the man of the house, if not quite ask his permission, we will make it formal.”

Rose looked down, and the shining something swung forward. Brigid saw that it was a ring, like her mother’s engagement ring, of glittering white stones, hanging on a chain round her neck. Brigid looked at her mother, whose eyes were still cast down. She was not smiling.

Her father, heartier than she had seen him since the summer, said: “Now, isn’t that good news, children?”

Ned glanced sideways at Brigid, and raised his eyebrow. He is copying Uncle Conor, Brigid thought, and she was put out, though precisely why she could not have said. Yet, the feeling that her day had been stolen persisted as the visitors stayed, and stayed, so that Isobel had to stay on too, and Brigid could see her mother’s face grow pinched and tired. Yet, Rose, who always noticed everything, seemed not to notice this. She spent her time gazing at Uncle Conor, and he smiled and kept smiling until the crooked tooth Brigid had come to dislike seemed to have developed a life of its own.

Eventually, after a very long lunch, the visitors set off in Rose’s little car. Francis and their father saw them off at the gate, but Brigid did not go with them. She did not want to have to look at Ned Silver sitting gloating in the back. It pleased her to think that Uncle Conor would have to fold himself up to fit into the front seat. She hoped he would be uncomfortable. She was not sorry they were gone, yet the quiet of the house washing back to her was now empty, drained of the morning’s promise. They had taken that with them.