The Friday Tree Read Online Free Page B

badge, a red neckerchief with a silver clasp, a hat with a band round it, little boots without feet and, best of all, a leather belt with a holster and a shiny toy revolver. Brigid wondered no more. It might not be Christmas, but this was a present and, where presents were concerned, she asked no questions.
    She pulled all of it on over her pyjamas and, despite the chill under her feet, ran straight to Francis’ room, right along the long corridor. Not even the cold following eyes of Blessed Oliver Plunkett, hanging like a reproach on the wall, could hold her back. She ran past him and pushed open Francis’ door, spreading her arms with a flourish. Nothing happened. No one was there. The only movement in the empty room came from the summer curtains, sucked in and out with a sigh. Through filmy light Brigid could see the Friday Tree, far away, spread out in its late green glory at the back of the plot. Yet, inside or out, there was no Francis. The cold of her feet spread through Brigid. Had he gone now too? She raced back past Blessed Oliver to the top of the stairs and there, looking down, she saw Francis standing quite still at the foot of the stairs, his head on one side as if he were listening for something. To her vexation, he did not seem to see her. With one hand on the newel post, he was looking without expression at the sitting-room door. When she called him he raised his eyes, yet, for a second, it was as if he did not know her, looking blankly as if she were a stranger. With some effort, she pulled out her new revolver from its stiff leather holster and, surprised by its heaviness, struggling to hold it in both hands, managed to point it at him.
    “ Bang! ” she said, and was delighted to find that the gun made a bang of its own.
    She watched his face break into a smile. He lifted his hands, and she saw he was holding a long tube, shining, with a glass window.
    “Hello!” he said. “Do you like my new telescope? You look dangerous.”
    “ Bang! ” cried Brigid, again, the gun obligingly echoing, and was satisfied to see him crumple at the waist, clasping the newel post as he fell. His falling words, “You got me!” pleased her. Brigid blew away smoke – real smoke! – from the top of the pistol, just the way the cowboys did. Then she scrambled down the stairs, only to find that Francis had, yet again, disappeared. Put out, but no longer afraid, she paused just long enough to shoot into the air, and then she noticed that the sitting-room door was ajar. Low voices floated out.
    Brigid stopped. Her heart grew loud. She knew those voices. She thought she knew those voices. Hardly daring to believe what she heard, Brigid once more blew the smoke, hard, from the top of her gun and pushed open the sitting-room door.
    And there they were. Her parents, so suddenly gone, were just as suddenly back again. Her mother and father were sitting there, as if they had never gone away. Brigid found herself unable to speak. She found herself, also, angered, which she had not been when, all those days and days ago, they had disappeared. There her mother sat, quiet and composed, one hand out to her from the table, saying as though she had not gone off and left them: “Brigid. Your hair. Come here.” Light caught the slender wedding band as her hand came towards Brigid, and danced on the bright white stones of her other ring.
    Yet, to Brigid, distracted by the sudden shining, it seemed that her mother spoke without enthusiasm, her eyes all the time on Brigid’s father. He was different, too. He looked strange.
    Into Brigid’s head from nowhere came a picture: a rainy winter Saturday when she had sat on the floor at his feet, his hand on her head. She had been held close between the rolled chair-arm and his knee. The radiogram sang quietly in the corner, and her father tapped out its rhythm on her hair. Outside it was cold, rain in grey needles beating against the window, but she was warm, watching mountains and caves in