Then, from nowhere, a sibilance like a winter wind sounded in her ear: “You got your way.”
Startled, Brigid looked up. Above her stood Isobel. Oh, where was Francis?
“You got your way,” she said again, “you monkey.” Brigid stayed silent. “Telling him what you said to that Santa in the shop. You had a lot to do, telling him.”
Brigid, stunned, still said nothing. Did Isobel mean Francis?
“Well,” said Isobel, “you’ll get what you wanted, much good may it do you. Look!” And catching Brigid roughly by the shoulder, she pulled towards her Rose’s parcel and, surprisingly easily, eased away the string, so that Brigid could not help seeing what was inside.
As she looked the world and everything in it went away, and she sat in the silence of joy. In its nest of paper sat a perfect little theatre: its pale wooden frame simple and fine; its backdrop a blue sky and silver clouds, green rounded bushes and branchy trees; delicate dowels holding magnets to attach the little figures; small boy; small girl; prince and princess; witch and fairy; a baron and an old king. There was a dragon with fiery tongue; there was a horse, proudly plumed, and on him sat an armoured knight. Everything she needed to make stories come to life sat below her, waiting for her.
“There,” said Isobel again, breaking the spell. Brigid could smell her breath, like onions. “Now are you satisfied, you selfish little –”
Brigid pulled away, scrambled to her feet, and ran from the room to the foot of the stairs. “Francis!” she called. “Francis!” She could hear the tears in her voice.
“He went outside,” called her mother from upstairs. “Don’t bring the house down!”
Behind her, Brigid heard the front door slam.
“Is Isobel away?” called her mother again. There was a sound of running water, as if from the bathroom. “I didn’t get a chance to . . . Brigid, go after her, there’s a good girl, but don’t go past the gate!”
Brigid had no intention of going after Isobel, even as far as the gate. She ran into the kitchen, calling “Francis!” Dicky, hearing Francis’ name, squawked as Brigid passed him, dancing from one clawed foot to the other. She ran out the back door into the yard, past the work on the theatre Francis was making – oh, what would happen when he found out? Up the garden steps she ran and looked about but there was no sign of Francis. She stopped, listening to the drumbeat of her heart. If Santa Claus was on his way to bring her a theatre, and Rose had already given her the one under the tree, and Francis was making her one in the back yard, where would she put them all? There was no answer but her own heartbeat, as she ran back down to the yard.
She heard a car door open and close. She ran into the passage. Was somebody else coming, or going? She was in time to see her father and Isobel getting into his car. And then, to her surprise and relief, Francis came out of the garage with something in his hand.
“Francis!” she said. “I was looking for you!”
“Well,” he said, “you’ve found me,” and whatever he held in his hand he slipped into his pocket.
With sinking heart, Brigid was suddenly certain it was something to do with making the theatre. Their father kept tools and sharp things in the garage, and Francis must have gone in to get one of them. Now was the moment to tell him. And then she realised he was speaking to her.
“Brigid, are you not listening? I said: give Daddy and Isobel a wave.”
Brigid waved. “But where are they going?”
“He’s driving her home, to save her getting the bus.”
“Oh, no, stop them, Francis! Mama wants to see Isobel.”
So then Francis raced down the passage, and Brigid saw the car stop. Francis disappeared into the house, and a few minutes later came once again into view, their mother by his side. She reached in through the car window, handed a package to Isobel and, finally, the car started again, and reversed out. Francis stood with his mother at the gate as the car drew away, and the engine sound grew loud, faint, then disappeared.
Brigid did not join them. There was too much coming and going, and she still had not told Francis about the theatre.
Disconsolate, she went back inside, past Dicky still wanting company. “Hello, Dicky,” she said, and she saw him dance at the sound of her voice, but she did not stop.
In the sitting room, the tree stood still and quiet. Underneath, Rose’s parcels sat, Brigid’s one innocently wrapped again as if they had never been disturbed. Isobel must have replaced the paper.
She heard her mother and Francis come back in to the house, and then Francis put his head round the door. “Where did you get to?” he said. “I thought you were looking for me . . . That’s funny.”
“What?” asked Brigid, looking guiltily at the parcels.
“Did you move the Santa from the middle of the tree?”
“No,” said Brigid. She thought back. She had not touched the tree. Ned had, and Isobel had, but she had not.
“Oh. It’s probably further down underneath.” He shrugged. “It’ll turn up. Anyway, I’ve – I’ve – things to do. But I’ll put the television on for you now, if you like, because,” and he smiled widely, “I know there’s something on you’ll want to see. And – it’s time to light the tree!”
Brigid clapped her hands.
“You can watch television by the fire. All right?”
Brigid nodded. That was all right.
“Was that what you wanted me for?”
Brigid nodded again. It was not a lie, because really, secretly, she did want to sit down now and watch something on television.
“And then, in a little while, I’ll come in and watch with you. Okay?”
“Okay, Francis,” said Brigid, and sheer happiness overtook her as he pressed the switch, and the Christmas tree came alive, the lights deep, like jewels, mirrored, shining back through the window.
“Look! It might even snow. It’s nearly Christmas, Brigid!”
“I know,” said Brigid, and she hugged her knees to herself. “I know.”
The television warmed up, and the picture began to come clear. Francis got up to go, and Brigid felt sudden compunction. Should she tell him? “Francis . . .” she said. “Stay a minute? I want to . . . Rose . . . Iso . . .”
“Later,” Francis, halfway out the door. “Watch this, and I’ll be back very soon,” and then he was gone.
Brigid slid down to the floor, easing her back against the arm of her father’s chair, and wished with a pang that he were with
her now, sitting in it, his hand on her head. He would know what to do about telling Francis, or not telling Francis . . . or, would he? She remembered he was taking Isobel somewhere, but she dismissed that. No Isobel, not now. But Francis . . . Francis . . . what to do? Brigid leaned back, the hiss and leap of the fire at her side, behind her the lights of the glowing tree, all around her voices from the television, in front of her the pictures on the . . .
Suddenly she stopped still. Someone she knew well was in front of her on the screen. He was standing on a bridge, a great curved metal bridge, and it was snowing hard on his eyes and his hair and his tweed coat, and he was telling another man he wanted to live again. His mouth was bleeding, but he did not care. He saw that it was bleeding, but he was happy. He took out from a pocket at his belt some little flower petals. He cried: “Zuzu’s petals!” Then he ran through the town, calling “Merry Christmas”, and he burst through the door into his own house and his children were there, and his wife came in, and she ran up the stairs to him, and they all came down the stairs together in a great laughing rush to stand below their Christmas tree. Brigid’s heart filled. It was George Bailey, in the film she remembered. It was her own George Bailey, who had brought her home the day her father left her alone at the school. All the people in the town stood gathered about him now and gave him money to make up for money somebody had lost, and he did not have to go to prison, and they sang Christmas carols, all standing in George’s sitting room.
Brigid stood up. She would bring Francis back and, with George Bailey behind her, she would tell him about Rose, and the parcel Isobel had opened. She would do it now. Moments took her through the kitchen, and out to the yard, out to where she found him, his Stanley knife glinting in his hand, working head down in the cold, in his winter coat and his school cap. “Francis,” she said, and then she stopped. Francis, cutting into the cardboard, turned round and saw her. He stood up in front of the cardboard, pushed it with his foot into the coalhouse behind him, and said: “What is it?” but Brigid could not do it. She could not tell him about the theatre.
“George,” was all she said, “George Bailey.”
“Didn’t I tell you there was something good on?” he said, and steered her in front of him into the house. “Let’s see him,” he said.
Brigid pulled him by the hand, through the house, fast as the wind, until they stood in front of the television.
They were too late. George Bailey had gone. Now on the screen there was a woman dressed like a fish, singing “Climb Up the Wall,” and their father stood in front of it. He had taken off his hat but his coat was still on, and all the cold air from outside seemed to have come into the room with him. Brigid thought: his coat is like George’s coat. Unlike George, he was far from happy.
“What is this tripe?” he asked. “On the very eve of Christmas!” and he leaned over and turned the switch, and the picture diminished and disappeared. Suddenly there was no sound but the crackle of the fire.
“He was there, Francis,” Brigid said, as quietly as she could. “I wanted to show him to you.”
“It’s all right, Brigid,” said Francis, and he squeezed the hand still placed in his. “I know he was.”
Her father called their mother and she came, slowly, her hand on the small of her back, wearing again the dotted smock Brigid did not like. “What is it, Maurice?” she said, her voice tired. “I’ve still things to do for tomorrow,” and she inclined her head toward the children.
“Is it not time this lassie was in bed? The stuff they’re showing on Christmas Eve is not fit for children.”
“I’m not tired at all,” said Brigid. “I want to stay up. Please!”
Her mother sighed. “Well,” she said, and she looked at Brigid thoughtfully, “I need to get everybody something to eat before I do anything. I’ll tell you what. If Brigid is still awake, she can go with you two to Midnight Mass.”
“Midnight Mass?” said Brigid. “Stay up till midnight? Can I?”
“If you can stay awake,” said her mother.
“Yes, you can,” said her father, and Brigid immediately began to feel tired.
She was determined, however, to stay awake. After teatime she went in and sat down again in her favourite place, watching the fire and turning now and again to look at the tree. Her eyes began to feel smoky, and once or twice her head dropped heavily on her chest, but she would not sleep. Never in her life had she stayed up until midnight and, even if it meant going to Mass, she was going to stay awake. She simply closed her eyes, now and again, and once she heard her mother say, “I don’t know what I was thinking about. She’s not fit to . . .” and her father said, “You may be right,” and then Brigid felt herself drift and suddenly she was in the monastery or, rather, she was above it, travelling in the sky. She was wearing her pyjamas and her slippers, not her Sunday clothes, but it did not seem to matter. Below her the monastery looked up, graceful and slender against the dark blue Christmas sky. Light flooded from it, and from inside floated angel voices, and the lights of Bethlehem were far away, and she thought of her own house, under the Black Mountain, under the trees. The singing was softer now, and the lights very dim; there was a smell like perfume, like her mother’s faint scent, and Brigid felt herself soften and drift, gently, peacefully, until to her surprise she started awake, hearing a small sound. She found that she was in her own bed, in her own room, that beside her on the chair was a little pile of presents, and on the end of the bed her school stocking, which she had hopefully hung up early on the morning of Christmas Eve, was filled to the brim with bright things.
Half awake, she saw something, like the tail of a robe, disappearing through the door and her first thought was that it must be Santa Claus. Then, she saw that the tail of the robe was blue, but there was no time to wonder.
She knelt up on the eiderdown, going to the pile on the chair, then to the stocking, not knowing where to begin. There was a book, with a picture on the front of the Sleeping Beauty, and all around her were Puss in Boots, and Jack looking down from the top of the beanstalk, and Aladdin with his wonderful lamp. It said
Four . . . Nursery Stories
, with a long word in the middle. She tried again. She put the sounds together. The long word was ‘favo-our-ite’.
Four Favourite Nursery Stories
.
There was a little sewing set, like her mother’s, with tiny reels of thread and red quilting on the inside of the box. There was a card game:
Happy Families
. And there was a doll. He had brought her the doll. Indeed, she was exquisite, brown eyes and hair so pale it was almost silver, delicate eyebrows permanently raised. Brigid smelled her newness, and watched her close her eyes full of secrets. Her mouth looked as though it might be about to smile, or might not, and her dress was dark, and ruched, and soft. She wore white buckled shoes and socks. She was not a doll: she was a princess.