‘No prob.’
‘And the run?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll need help.’
‘Do it on me own.’
‘It’s very heavy.’
‘Take roof off. And nesting boxes. Be fine.’
‘And you’ll be careful? It’s very old, and we’re — fond of it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘If you’re sure, then.’
‘Sure. Do a path, too.’ Lazzo gives us a surprisingly sweet smile.
‘And what about pay?’ Eric asks him.
‘Nope. Mum says not.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you always do what your mum says?’ Silas is obviously as curious as I am.
‘Better that way.’ Lazzo laughs, and we join in. I’m beginning to warm to Lazzo. ‘Start tomorrow?’
Eric and Silas exchange glances.
‘Start tomorrow,’ they agree.
It would seem that Lazzo has got the job, and Blossom has clocked up an important victory. The Virgin of the hen house is here to stay.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Blossom is in triumphant mode. She practically dances round the house with her duster, and even comes in on her days off. She also smiles.
Surprisingly, this is neither a pretty nor a welcome sight. Blossom smiling is not like other people smiling. There is none of the open friendliness one might expect from a normal person; none of the acknowledgement by one well-intentioned human being of the common humanity and good will of another. Blossom’s smile has something sinister about it; a touch of the I-know-something-you-don’t (or perhaps in this instance, I’m-up-to-something-you’re-not-going-to-like).
‘I wish Blossom would stop smiling,’ my poor mother says. ‘I don’t like it.’
I know she feels threatened by Blossom and that her feelings are compounded by this new and terrifying smile, but there’s not a lot we can do about it. We can hardly tell Blossom to stop. As for my uncles, they have other preoccupations than the newly-smiling Blossom. Eric has just arrived at the knotty problem of insects (‘they’re small, of course, but there are so many of them’), and Silas has found a dead whippet.
‘I’ve phoned the police, and no-one knows anything about it,’ he says wistfully. ‘I’ll never get another chance like this. I need to get started on it soon.’
‘What did the police say?’ I ask him.
‘They said I’d better wait, but I can’t. They don’t understand. It’s beginning to smell. And Eric won’t let me to put it in the freezer.’
‘Is it like when you find money?’ I ask him.
‘How do you mean?’
‘If it’s not claimed within a certain period, then you can keep it.’
‘Probably, though I don’t suppose they get many people wanting to keep other people’s dead dogs.’
‘The owners might be quite grateful,’ I suggest. After all, a stuffed whippet has got to be better than a corpse. ‘You could stuff it, and then if someone claims it, drive the car over it so that it looks run over again, and let them have it back. They mightn’t notice the difference.’
‘Do you think?’ His face is so boyishly hopeful that I can’t help laughing.
‘Oh, why not?’
‘I’ll get started, then?’
‘I would. No time like the present.’
Meanwhile, Lazzo is labouring away at the task of moving the hen house. He appears to be incredibly strong, and a very hard worker once he gets going. His triceps bulge and the veins in his neck stand out as he lifts huge sections of timber, and if glimpses of buttocks and an expanse of hairy stomach are less than attractive, then we can always look the other way. I trot to and fro with mugs of strong tea and doorsteps of bread and cheese (Lazzo’s size is matched only by his enormous appetite) and Mr. Darcy watches adoringly from the sidelines. He brings Lazzo his ball and his old rubber bone, and the tattered bedsock he sleeps with at night, and even the treasured half-toothbrush. He lays them all at Lazzo’s feet, then lies down in the long grass, his chin on his paws, following Lazzo’s every move with soulful brown eyes. I’d give a lot to be adored the way Mr. Darcy adores Lazzo.
Blossom’s attitude towards her son is to ignore him.
‘Best left,’ is her only comment, when I mention his presence.
‘You must be proud of him,’ I venture. ‘He’s an amazing worker.’
‘Humph.’ Blossom shrugs.
‘Who does he work for normally?’
‘Doesn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘On benefit.’
‘Why?’
‘Special needs.’ Blossom turns on the vacuum cleaner, her chosen way of terminating a conversation, and I am left to ponder the special needs of Lazzo.
If you discount tea and sandwiches, Lazzo’s needs seem to be few, and certainly not particularly special. Is there something about Lazzo we ought to know, I wonder? Or is he — or more likely, his mother — pulling a fast one? And if so, how does Blossom reconcile that with her faith? The next time I bring Lazzo his tea, I scrutinise his face for clues, but can find none. I would have thought that someone like Lazzo would be eminently employable.
‘Do you have — another job, Lazzo?’ I ask him as he leans against a tree trunk drinking his tea.
‘Nope.’
‘Why not? You seem — very capable.’
‘Not allowed.’
‘Why not?’
‘Born premature,’ explains Lazzo, posting a fist-sized sandwich into his enormous mouth.
‘But wasn’t that rather a long time ago?’ For few people must resemble a premature baby less than Lazzo does.
‘Yeah.’ Lazzo grins. ‘But Mum says I’ve got special needs.’
‘And have you?’
‘Used to have fits,’ he says, swallowing a huge piece of sandwich. I watch in fascination as it makes its journey down a neck so thick that it could be an extension of his head. It’s a bit like watching a snake swallowing an antelope (I saw this once on a television programme).
‘And do you still — have fits?’ I know I’m being impertinent, but Lazzo intrigues me.
‘Nah. Well, little ones.’
‘What kind of fits?’
In reply, Lazzo rolls his eyes and slobbers a bit, shaking his massive frame like a tree in a gale. I try to stand my ground.
‘Epileptic, then?’ I suggest, after a moment. I have an epileptic friend who manages to hold down a very high-powered job with no apparent difficulty.
Lazzo nods, and loads his mouth up with another sandwich.
‘Can’t you have tablets?’
‘Forget to take ’em.’ As he speaks, I can see clumps of bread revolving in his mouth like cement in a mixer.
‘What about your mother? Couldn’t she remind you?’
‘She’d be cross. Thinks I take ’em.’
‘So what do you do with them?’
‘Sell ’em.’
‘Sell them?’
‘Yeah. Got a mate gets high on my tablets.’ Lazzo laughs. ‘Do him more good than me.’
‘And — the benefit people. Won’t they catch up with you?’
‘Haven’t yet. Do a little fit for ’em when they come round. Soon gets rid of ’em. People don’t like fits.’
‘I can imagine.’ If I were a benefit person, I’d soon make myself scarce if I had the misfortune to witness Lazzo doing his special needs act.
‘So you just — stay at home?’
‘S’right.’
‘How do you get on with your mother?’ I’ve been dying to ask him this.
Lazzo laughs. ‘No-one gets on with Mum.’
So it’s not just us, then. Well, I suppose that’s something.
‘That must be difficult. How do you manage?’
‘Just take no notice.’
‘And — Kaz?’
‘She’s all right. Never in, though. Pole dancer.’
‘Really?’ I’ve never met any
one who’s related to a pole dancer. Though I’m not sure why Blossom disapproves of her daughter. After all, pole dancing is perfectly above board, isn’t it?
‘Good money,’ Lazzo explains, picking his teeth with a piece of straw.
‘I’ll bet.’
Lazzo looks me up and down appraisingly. ‘Should give it a go,’ he suggests with a grin.
I make a mental note to try not to become over-familiar with Lazzo. He has a certain charm even though he may be a little odd, but no doubt he’s equipped with the usual complement of hormones and urges, and if there were to be any sort of struggle (perish the thought) there’s no doubt as to who would — literally — come out on top.
As though to drive the point home, half an hour after this conversation, the baby takes the opportunity to remind me of my responsibilities by delivering its first unmistakeable kick. I’ve been told to expect ‘flutterings’ or feelings I might mistake for indigestion, but this is a proper kick; faint, to be sure, but almost certainly delivered by a tiny foetal foot. It may be that there have been other movements, and in my state of semi-denial I have failed to notice them. I shall never know. Whatever may or may not have happened, I now have unequivocal proof that the baby is, quite literally, alive and kicking.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘I can go with her. I’d like to go with her. And she said after last time she didn’t want us both again, so only one of us can go.’
‘What about me? It was my idea.’
‘But I know more about this sort of thing than you do. I promise I’ll bring back a full report.’
‘Anyone can bring back a full report. Ruth can do that.’
‘True. But it makes sense for it to be me. I’ve read all the books, and I know what questions to ask.’
‘Lend me the books, and I’ll know what to ask, too. Anyway, the hospital staff are the people in the know. We don’t have to know anything at all. And I’m sure they’ll be delighted to explain.’
I listen in fascination as Eric and Silas argue over the lunch table as to which of them is to accompany me to my twenty-week scan. I’ve never heard them argue before, and while this is a relatively amicable discussion, there is an undertone of stiff-necked determination on both sides.
‘May I say something?’ I ask at last.
‘Of course. Go ahead, Ruth,’ Eric says.
‘This is my scan, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘And I’m insured to drive the Land Rover now?’
‘You know you are.’
‘Then I can go to the scan on my own. And I can bring back — how did you put it? — a full report myself. That way, no-one needs to feel left out, and you can both stop this silly argument.’
Their faces fall into identical expressions of surprise and disappointment, and I can’t help laughing.
‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ Eric says, after a moment. ‘I suppose we just forgot, well, forgot...’
‘That I was here?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing I am here. And presumably I have the casting vote.’
‘But it seems such a waste,’ mourns Silas. ‘It’s so interesting, and you’re allowed to take someone. I’ll never get an opportunity like this again.’ He makes it sound like a wasted theatre ticket.
‘Yes. But I can hardly choose between the two of you, can I? So it’s fairer to have neither of you. No-one will be pleased, but no-one will be disappointed.’
‘We could toss up for it,’ Silas suggests.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Ruth?’ I’d forgotten my mother was there.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘I’d love — I’d really love to come with you. If you’ll let me.’
‘Oh, Mum! Of course I’ll let you. I’d love to have you with me. You’re the obvious person. And we can go for lunch afterwards.’
Eric and Silas stand down gracefully (after all, they can hardly take issue with my mother accompanying me to the hospital), and after extracting promises of photos and answers to the list of questions Silas has compiled, they go out to do something unpleasant to a goat.
‘Did they really both go with you to your last scan?’ asks Mum over the washing-up.
‘Yes. They were an absolute pain.’
‘I’m sure they were. But Ruth — was it appropriate for them to, well to see you like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘With no clothes — down there.’
‘It was a knickers-on affair; all perfectly dignified,’ I assure her. ‘Down there was all covered up, and just the tummy showing. But in any case, I don’t think I’d want them again, and certainly not both together. They were very sweet, but they wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. And they did their double act in the waiting room and made an exhibition of all of us. I’m not going through that again.’
‘They used to do that as little boys.’
‘Well, it’s probably all very sweet with little boys, but with elderly men, it’s excruciating.’
‘I can imagine.’ Mum folds her tea towel and hangs it up. ‘Ruth?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m — I’m so glad I came. Not glad about leaving Dad, of course, but glad I’m here now, seeing you like this. Being — well, being with you.’
‘I’m glad too.’
‘But I’m worried about your father.’
‘Why? He’s okay, isn’t he?’
‘Up to a point.’ She sighs, twisting her wedding ring round on her finger. ‘But he’s not used to looking after himself, and — well, it is my job. I know that’s an unfashionable view, but it’s all I’ve ever done since we married. Looked after the house and Dad, and you of course, when you were at home. Dad worked hard before he retired, and I saw it as my role to support him. I still do.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Enjoy what?’
‘Being — well, a housewife, I suppose.’
‘Yes. On the whole, I did. But that’s another thing. I’d like to do something else as well; I’d like to be good at something else. Something different. Before it’s too late. Does that sound odd?’
‘Not odd at all. Isn’t that what most of us want? To do something really well? That’s certainly how I feel about my violin, and although I’ll never be as good as I’d like to be, at least I’ve given it my best shot. What sort of thing would you like to do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not creative, or musical, or anything like that, but there must be something I could do. Something new. Something different.’ Mum sits down at the table, and rests her chin in her hand. ‘I may have been quite a good wife, but I wasn’t really a very good mother, was I?’ she says after a moment.
‘Well, you looked after me beautifully. I had a — good childhood,’ I say carefully.
‘But I never tried to understand you. I thought I did, but now, when I see you with Eric and Silas, so relaxed, so easy — I feel I must have got something wrong. And the violin.’ She sighs, and pulls at a strand of her neatly permed hair. ‘I knew it meant a lot to you, but I didn’t understand why. When I hear you playing now, and see how much Eric and Silas enjoy it, and the encouragement they give you...’ her voice tails away. ‘I should have been the one to encourage you, even if I don’t know much about music. It was as much a part of my job as looking after you. But I didn’t know. I never really understood. And now I suppose it’s too late.’
‘I don’t think it’s ever too late in relationships,’ I tell her. ‘Provided both people want things to change. I don’t think I’m really the daughter you wanted, am I? And it’s not your fault I’m the way I am. Take the music. In some ways, I’d prefer not to want to be a musician. It leads to so much heartache and disappointment. Life would have been so much easier if I’d wanted to be — a chartered accountant, for instance. A nice safe profession, with far less scope for failure and a good income. And Dad would have been thrilled.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ We
both laugh.
And of course, all this is true, provided that in the fullness of time Dad was able to walk me down the aisle in my white frock and hand me and my virginity over to a suitable young man (maybe another chartered accountant. Why not?), after which I would “settle down” and keep house for him and any offspring we might have. And the whole cycle would begin again. A little dull and predictable, but safe, and oh, so respectable.
‘And I’m to blame, too,’ I say now. ‘Instead of ranting and slamming doors, I could have sat down with you and explained things properly. I could have tried to understand you, as well as the other way around.’
‘You did get pretty angry,’ Mum says. ‘But we were the adults.’
‘Well, now I’m an adult too, and we — well, you and I, anyway — can start to understand each other.’
‘Don’t make the same mistakes with — with your baby,’ Mum says now. ‘You’ve got the chance to make a better job of it than I did, and a clean slate, even though you’ve got no — there’s no —’
‘Father?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitates. ‘Who was he, Ruth? What was he like?’
I recognise that she’s been working up to this question, and I admire her courage, for it can’t have been easy. Mum and I have never really confided in each other, and this is uncharted territory.
‘Well, he’s nice,’ I begin lamely. ‘A musician. A very good one. Much better than I’ll ever be.’
‘And — oh, Ruth, I really need to ask you this. Is he — is he married?’
I shake my head. ‘He was, but his wife found someone else and he’s now divorced.’
I note the little intake of breath at the D word, but Mum doesn’t comment.
‘Do you still see him?’ she asks me.
‘No. We’ve lost touch.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is. It’s funny, really. We’ve never played a big part in each other’s lives, and yet now I really miss him. I haven’t even had the chance to tell him about the baby, and he ought at least to know that. Then it would be up to him what he did about it. If anything. And before you ask —’ for I can see the question trembling on Mum’s lips, almost begging to be let out — ‘I might even marry him, if he’d have me. Not just because of the baby, but because he’s a good man, we’ve lots in common, and I think we’d be good together. But we’d have to see about that.’
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