Free First Fruits by Penelope evans

never to be the same again.
    Or are we? She returns the gaze for a
moment, then quietly, without a word, takes her hand out of his. Even more
surprising, having freed herself, she takes one, two steps back to look at him,
up and down, as if she needs the distance between them in order to make up her
mind.
    I don't understand it. She's not
behaving the way she ought. She's not falling. Oh, there's the faintest
suggestion of feathers shivering, a hint of ruffling, but no falling.
    And Dad, what about him? Oddly enough,
he doesn't seem in the least put out. If anything, his smile grows that little
bit wider as if to bridge the gap she's put between them. Not just wider, but
warmer. You can feel the heat from him, reaching out to her, ready to wrap
itself around her...
    ....And she just takes another step
back, pulling her coat around her, as if all she could feel was cold.
    Maybe it's the look of him, putting her
off somehow. But she should remember; don't judge a book by a cover. He may not
be tall, but show me a tall man with an ounce of his presence, or a thin man
with anything like the power that comes with bulk. Not that he's fat. My dad
would never let himself grow fat, because what would that say about him? But he
fills a room, this room, as easily as he fills the tweed jacket he always likes
to wear. That's what she should be impressed by, if nothing else. The way this
room is full of him.
    But then, she is impressed, isn't
she? Why else would she have to force herself to smile the way she's doing now?
It takes a moment to understand, but then it becomes as clear as daylight. It's
really quite simple. She may be impressed, but she doesn't like him. Lydia's
mother doesn't like my dad. Not one little bit.
    So it's no surprise to see her hand
stretching out to Lydia. No surprise either to see the words already forming on
her lips. You can see what she has in mind, something she thinks is going to
be, not exactly easy perhaps, but possible. In which case it's going to come as
a shock, to Mrs. Morris, when finally she gets round to noticing Lydia.       
    It was the wink of his that did it.
That's all it took. One eye deliberately closing. Because you know what it told
Lydia, that single wink. It showed her that he would forever turn a blind eye.
That when he looked at her, he would close his mind to the fact that she was
small and ugly, and of absolutely no consequence, which is all that anyone else
noticed in her.
    Now look at her as a result. Eyes lit
up, cheeks pink, Lydia is transfigured. Why, she's almost pretty. That's more
like it. That's what we're used to.
    Then at last, Mrs. Morris does catch
sight, and it's almost comical. 'Lydia,' she murmurs. 'Lyddie love.'
    But she'll have to do better than that.
Lydia hasn't even heard her.
    'Darling...' Mrs. Morris tries again.
That faint colour in her own cheeks is deepening rapidly to a becoming pink,
prettier even than her daughter's. 'Darling, I know this is absurd - but I've
been thinking how very upset Aunty Jane is going to be, about you going
somewhere else to stay. I don't know if she'll ever get over it. But it isn't
too late, and I'm sure Mr. Carr and everyone would understand if...'
    If... what? If she dragged her daughter
away from us now, after it's all been arranged? I don't think Lydia will be
going anywhere, not this time. Dad has put his arm around Lydia's shoulders.
She's shrinking into the space he's made for her, growing small enough to put
into his pocket if he so minded. As for her mother, I don't believe Lydia has
listened to a word she's said even now.
    In fact no-one has. Not so it counts.
Dad's talking to Lydia. At least, she thinks he's talking to her, but
it's her mother he wants to hear him. So she knows how it's going to be. He's
caught Lydia round the waist, tickling her a little so she wriggles and
giggles, though not too much. 'What's this?' he's saying. 'There's nothing of
you, Lyddie-love. What do they feed you on at home? String