Read Online First Fruits by Penelope evans - Free Book Online Page A

who's in front. It's untidy but it speeds things up nicely. A second
later, we are all inside.
    But even that isn't fast enough.
    'The cold, what are you doing letting in
all that cold?'
    The voice catches them unawares. Lydia
jumps, almost clean out of her skin, although it's not so much because of the
words, as the panic (and fury) contained in them. And because she can't see
where they've come from, not at first. I've said she was making supper.
Four bubbling saucepans are there on the stove, each one sending a fat plume of
steam towards the ceiling to join the thick blanket that is already there,
rolling like a thundercloud overhead. Now, having reached critical mass, the
whole thing has begun to sink under its own weight, making half the room
invisible. Mr. Jones, the physics teacher, should arrange a field trip to our
kitchen just to teach about convection.
    So it takes a moment for them to make
her out, standing by the stove, the reason for the steam, and the rattling of
the pans - and Lydia's panic.
    It's Gran,of course. My Gran, his mother. I had brought them in at the very moment she was adding more salt to
one of the saucepans, box tilted for the crystals to pour unimpeded. Now she is
standing, back bent, but steady as a rock, holding the box while the salt flows
like stone from the stone urn of a statue.
    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