Free The Friday Tree by Sophia Hillan

heard her voice and her father’s voice, as they went slowly, heavily up the stairs, but only Francis came in, his face darkened with worry.
    Isobel followed him, brisk and busy. She said: “Well, you chose a day and a half to throw your tantrum. Your poor daddy in the hospital and you giving everybody gip, cutting off your hair.”
    Brigid, miserable, could say nothing.
    “Leave her alone, Bella,” said Francis, sitting on the arm of the chair. “Brigid, what is this thing you’re watching?” He picked up the Radio Times . “Oh, no,” he said, and he moved across to the switch on the television. It clicked, and the picture began to disappear, slowly vanishing.
    It made no difference to Brigid. To her, Miss Chalk’s blind eyes and grimacing mouth were still on the screen long after it was blank and dully grey. “I didn’t like it,” she said, in a whisper. “She gets turned into chalk, with no eyes, and she can’t get out.”
    Isobel straightened the furniture and moved Brigid out of her father’s chair. “Well,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened to you, after the bother you’ve given this day.”
    Francis turned quickly round from the television. “Don’t, Bella,” he said, and his voice was sharp. “Leave her alone.”
    Isobel left her alone. The trouble was, everyone, even Francis, left her alone for the rest of the day, because of her father. Confusion and worry and hasty meals brought her too quickly to the time when it was decided that she needed to go to bed. Bed was the last thing Brigid needed. She knew for certain what would happen when she went to bed. That night, she did not hear the reassuring voices of the men. They were silent when Miss Chalk, with her rigid mouth and her sightless eyes, came down the chimney and stood, grinning, at the foot of Brigid’s bed.

Chapter 6: George

    Brigid could not tell anyone, even Francis, how frightened she was by Miss Chalk. She knew that if Francis had heard it announced that the programme was not suitable, he would not have let her watch it. If she told her parents, they would both be in trouble. It was obvious that Miss Chalk was her intimate, secret punishment, crouched inside the bedroom fireplace, waiting to come out at night, eyeless and grinning. It was the same fireplace, pale and tiled, which Brigid had watched with such hope on Christmas Eve, after she had seen her film about George Bailey. Now, as the evenings grew ever shorter and the nights colder, she watched the fireplace with dread, knowing Miss Chalk would wait in there until she was at the edge of sleep before sliding out to terrify her.
    If she had feared going to school before Miss Chalk came to haunt her, it was worse afterwards. On the first Monday morning in September, serge and wool heavy on her limbs, she walked beside her mother up the small, hilly street near the mills, and stood in line in a great grey yard. Behind her were dark gates, a chain hanging loosely from them; all around her towered high brick walls, blackened and stained. Everything smelled of soot. Other girls stood in front and behind, some with mothers, some with bigger girls, one or two alone. No one spoke. Her feet wanted the smooth comfort of their sandals. Her legs wanted to run in the garden with Francis, or even with Ned Silver, but Ned was gone far away to school and Francis, too, was gone. Even now he would be standing in the yard of his new school, at the other side of the town. She would not see him until nearly night-time. Everywhere she looked she saw only the scarred walls, topped with broken glass, and hazily, in the distance, a long row of windowless huts and wooden doors. Brigid saw a girl beside her make a puddle at her feet, and watched as she was brought to the huts, soaking and shamed. As her eyes followed, wondering uneasily if the same thing might not just happen to her any moment, she felt her mother’s hand begin to loosen in hers and, hard though she tried to