The Friday Tree Read Free

arm which was extended, and allowed himself to be covered, lightly and gently, in the cupped shade of Francis’ hand. Brigid, afraid to breathe, watched their slow descent, Francis’ softly cupped hand, Dicky’s twitching dark tail, the leaves and the branches folding and releasing them as they slid towards the earth.
    Halfway down Francis stopped, frowning, looking down.
    Brigid, who could see nothing but a dark space below him, called softly: “What’s wrong?”
    Francis did not answer. He was still looking down, all the time holding Dicky in his cupped hand. After some moments, beginning once more to move, he said thoughtfully: “Someone’s been here.”
    “Mr Doughty or Mr Steele?” said Brigid, alarmed. Quickly, she looked about her. Mr Doughty might not mind; she was not sure of Mr Steele.
    Francis shook his head. “No. Someone’s been sleeping here. Come and see.”
    Brigid did not move at first. “But Mr Doughty and Mr St–” she began, then stopped.
    Francis was not listening. He was looking fixedly at something, and Brigid was curious to see what it was. She stepped over the roots and tangle of brambly shoots and there, at the foot of the Friday Tree, Brigid saw what looked like a nest, a small pile of possessions in a little branchy hut. Someone had made a place to stay here. Brigid thought: why not? A person might well want to live beneath the Friday Tree. It would be an obvious thing to want to do.
    She shrugged her shoulders, took Francis’ hand and, while he minded Dicky against his shirt, she led the way back through the plot. She felt strangely content. Their parents were gone without explanation, they would probably be in trouble with Isobel, but they had Dicky back, they had been to the end of the plot, they had walked right up to the Friday Tree and, best of all, they had a secret.

Chapter 2: Rose

    When they were as far as the house, Francis paused uncertainly at the back door. He turned to Brigid and, dropping his eyes, said: “Strict truth. We were just outside in the back. Where were we?”
    “Just outside in the back,” said Brigid.
    Francis nodded.
    “In the plot,” added Brigid.
    Francis, who had turned away, stopped. His shoulders fell. He sighed, shook his head, turned back to her once more and, taking her shoulders, held her eyes: “That’s not necessary, Brigid,” he said. “Outside in the back will do.”
    Brigid, meeting his gaze, repeated: “Outside in the back,” and made to follow him into the empty kitchen, until he stopped her.
    “Stay out here for a bit,” he said, “till I settle Dicky.”
    Brigid, about to protest, stayed quiet. Francis did not move.
    “Please, Brigid,” he said. “I do know what I’m doing.”
    Disconsolate, Brigid turned and went back out to the garden without him, the whole day suddenly darker and smaller. She thought: he only wants me with him when he has nothing better to do. She was pulling some leaves from the blackcurrant bush, shredding them, rolling them into green paint in the heart of her hand, when she heard a voice on the other side of the fence.
    “Saw you,” it said.
    “Go away, Ned,” said Brigid. “I told you I hate you.”
    “You can’t hate me,” said Ned. “I know too much.”
    Brigid stopped rolling the leaves. “Know too much what?”
    “Saw you,” said Ned again.
    Despite the summer sun, Brigid felt suddenly cold. “Saw me what? This is our bush. It’s our garden. You just stay in yours.”
    “It’s not your plot,” said Ned, his voice like honey on a spoon, a golden sticky drip.
    Brigid felt her breath tighten. “We were getting our budgie,” she said and she felt her voice shake.
    “It’s not your plot. I could tell the police. I could just run down now to the barracks and tell them.”
    Brigid spun round, but she still could not see him. “Ned!” she said, and suddenly, maddeningly, his face appeared, smiling and insolent, from behind the hollyhock.
    “Unless,” he said.
    “Unless