The Fruit of the Tree Read Online Free Page A

with dark curls, blue-green eyes and a dimple in one cheek. It was a period in his life I later looked back on with nostalgia, for his personality had developed, but he was not yet old enough or accomplished enough to be mischievous. He would speed from room to room on all fours, but his agility had not yet become a source of danger. Sometimes he rode on Michael’s shoulders, sitting proudly, his back erect like a young horseman, surveying the scene around him. But he was happy to sit in the pram too, watching traffic and people passing by. Indeed, because of his shrieks of joy when he recognised a familiar face, he made more friends than I had amongst the local people. Both my elderly neighbours were to be seen talking to him from time to time, and in fact, he created a small feeling of warmth between them and me, which had not previously existed.
    Our neighbours on one side had never had any children, whilst the elderly couple, the Birds, on the other side, had a handicapped son of around forty. Like Robert, he was always outside watching the world on fine days, and was tanned and as fit as he could be in the circumstances. Once, the Queen went through our street on her way to the Queen Elizabeth Barracks not far away and gave Gerald a special wave.
    We were sad to hear one day that he had died. Michael and one of the plumbers, Reg, who lived two doors away, went to the funeral, and I, with trepidation in my heart, felt it was incumbent upon me to visit the mourners very soon afterwards. They had devoted their lives to him and the reason for my reluctance was because I imagined I would have to face some sort of emotional scene. Perhaps I recognised even then the poignancy of the death of a child during the lifetime of its parents.
    Despite my lack of rapport with my neighbours and my fears of embarrassment, I could not let the occasion pass without acknowledging Gerald’s death. This would set up a barrier between us, and my embarrassment at any later meeting would have been all the greater.
    I knocked on the kitchen door (it was not usual for neighbours to use the front doors) and was welcomed in. I was surprised at how glad they were to see me. They gave me a sherry and showed me letters and talked about Gerald. They were relaxed, and even happy, perhaps, because he had not outlived them, and would never have to spend his days in a place where he was not loved. Far from being hysterical, they were very glad to talk about him. I recognised with satisfaction that I had made the right decision.
    By this time, we had lived in our so-called temporary home for well over a year. I wasted little time now on worrying about how I would adjust to living in the country, for I really wondered whether the dream bungalow would ever be completed.
    The laying of foundations had appeared to be a slow process, for much work was carried out under the ground. Twelve courses of bricks were laid and drain pipes put in place, followed by hardcore and a waterproof layer, but at the end of the first year’s work, all that could be seen was a rectangular slab covered in concrete.
    Then came a much more exciting era when the bricklayer, Mr. Dean, arrived and laid brick on brick with speed and skill, and within a few weeks there were walls and window frames, and we could walk giggling through the various holes which would become doorways, and point to the kitchen and bedrooms.
    All our visiting friends and relations were taken on a tour of the site until it became quite a bore, and still, as far as I was concerned, totally divorced from reality. The reality was our bare little semi, with its dusty corners, second-hand armchairs and uncarpeted bedrooms. The luxuries we would enjoy in our future home were a pipe dream—in which I did not really believe.
    Whenever we had visitors, the drabness of our present abode was accentuated, and despite the usual frenzied burst of tidying and polishing, at the end of the activity, I could always see it clearly