B07F6HL2NB

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I know nothing about either.

  ‘Not at all. We don’t touch the clients, and they’re not allowed to touch us. Sex is strictly off limits. But I’m in demand, and I get good tips.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’ I would imagine that most men would give a great deal to spend an evening watching Kaz. ‘How — I mean, what do you actually do?’

  Kaz slips off her shoes, and grasping the edge of the door, shimmies effortlessly up and down it.

  ‘Bit like that, but with a pole,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t really work with a door.’

  ‘Goodness!’ I’m impressed.

  ‘What’s your feller do?’ Kaz asks, picking a splinter out of her hand.

  ‘I don’t really have a — feller,’ I tell her.

  ‘You must have once.’

  ‘He’s — disappeared.’

  ‘Buggered off, has he? Typical.’ Kaz fumbles in the top of her boot and brings out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Go ahead. No, he didn’t bugger off exactly. We just — lost touch.’

  And I find myself telling Kaz all about Amos. She’s a surprisingly good listener, and it’s a luxury for me to have someone to confide in. Eric and Silas are very sweet, and Mum does her best, but Kaz is nearer my own age, and has no personal involvement in either me or my baby.

  ‘Tricky,’ she says, when I’ve finished.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you really want the baby?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it a lot, and while I’m certainly not desperate for a baby, I don’t not want it.’

  ‘And you don’t fancy being a single mum.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me neither,’ says Kaz with feeling. ‘But then I don’t really fancy being a mum of any kind. Not after seeing the mess Mum made of me and Laz.’

  Actually, I think Blossom’s children have turned out remarkably well, but maybe they have arrived where they are through their own merits rather than because of anything their mother did.

  ‘Ok. Let’s get to work.’ Kaz stubs out her cigarette on the heel of her boot. ‘Where’s this hen house of yours?’

  In the course of the afternoon, eleven people come to pay their respects to the Virgin.

  ‘All barmy,’ says Kaz, when the last of them have said their farewells and driven off into the dusk. ‘Quite barmy.’

  ‘You don’t believe in any of this, then?’ I ask her.

  ‘Good lord, no. Do you?’

  ‘Well, I’m not a Catholic.’

  ‘And you think I am?’

  ‘I suppose I assumed you must be a Catholic of sorts.’

  ‘According to Mum, I’m beyond the pale. No pearly gates for me,’ says Kaz cheerfully.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Kaz lights up another cigarette. ‘I think I believe in God, or something like God. But not this miracle stuff.’

  ‘But you must admit it looks very convincing.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Kaz says. ‘But it would have to be all-singing all-dancing and glorious technicolour to convince me.’

  We walk back towards the house together.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ I ask her, as we arrive in the kitchen.

  ‘Got anything stronger?’

  ‘We’ve got nettle wine or —’ I examine a smudged label — ‘parsnip brandy.’ These are the only bottles which are open. I hesitate to broach a new one, even for Kaz.

  ‘Blimey.’ Kaz looks impressed. ‘Let’s have a go at the parsnip stuff, shall we?’

  ‘Why not?’ I know I shouldn’t be drinking, but surely one little glass won’t hurt the baby?

  The parsnip brandy nearly takes the skin off the back of my throat, and even Kaz has a brief choking fit.

  ‘Wow!’ she says, when she can speak again. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘I think Eric made it. He likes experimenting.’

  ‘It’s the kind of drink,’ Kaz says, after a few minutes, ‘where you have to have more in order to appreciate it.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ I say, as the kitchen revolves slowly round us (I’m not used to alcohol). ‘You sort of get used to it, don’t you?’

  ‘Certainly do. Bloody, hell! What’s that?’ Kaz has caught sight of the whippet.

  ‘It’s a stuffed whippet,’ I tell her.

  ‘Get away! What is it really?’

  ‘It really is a stuffed whippet.’

  ‘A stuffed whippet! Now I really have seen everything.’ Kaz begins to laugh. ‘A stuffed whippet!’

  Kaz’s laughter is so infectious that I begin to laugh too. Within a few minutes, we’re both helpless.

  ‘Stuffed Whippet ... whipped stuffit ...’ By now, Kaz is crying with laughter. ‘Oh my goodness!’

  It is at this moment that my mother decides to put in an appearance.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asks.

  ‘Stiff whuppet,’ Kaz explains.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dog thingy.’ Kaz waves a hand in the direction of the unfortunate whippet, and collapses in another fit of giggles.

  ‘This is Kaz,’ I say trying to affect an introduction through my tears. ‘We’ve — we’ve had a little drink.’

  ‘So I see.’ Mum is not amused. ‘And what about the baby?’

  ‘He’s had a little drink too,’ says Kaz.

  For a briefly sober moment, I realise that I may have made a mistake.

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Ruth,’ Mum continues. ‘Look at the state of you!’

  ‘My fault,’ says Kaz cheerily. ‘It was my idea.’

  ‘But Ruth’s a responsible adult. She’s perfectly capable of deciding for herself.’

  There is something about a completely sober person trying to be sensible when it is far too late for sense that is totally irresistible. Kaz and I howl with laughter.

  ‘Really, Ruth! You’re drunk!’ says Mum.

  ‘Lighten up, mate. It’s not the end of the world.’ Kaz offers her glass to Mum. ‘Here. Have a little drink. Do you good.’

  ‘I am not your mate, I don’t drink, and I think it’s time you were going.’

  Oh dear.

  ‘Can’t ride a bike like this,’ says Kaz. ‘Fall off,’ she explains.

  ‘You came on a bike?’

  ‘They all come on the bike,’ I tell her.

  ‘Not all together,’ Kaz says. ‘It’s the family bicycle.’

  Fortunately, at this point Eric and Silas return. They seem to know Kaz, and are quite unfazed by what’s going on.

  ‘I see you’ve been trying the parsnip brandy,’ Eric says. ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Kaz. ‘Very — very tasty.’

  Eric looks pleased.

  ‘Yes. I thought it was rather good. Silas hates it. Have you tried it, Rosie?’

  ‘No, I certainly have not.’

  ‘Well, never mind.’ He turns to Kaz. ‘I’d better run you home, Kaz. The bike can go in the back of the Land Rover.’

  After Kaz has gone and I have sobered up a bit (giggling isn’t the same on your own), Mum asks me about Kaz.

  ‘She’s Blossom’s daughter,’ I explain.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What do you mean, ah?’

  ‘Well that explains it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Her behaviour.’

  ‘Mum, Kaz is nothing like Blossom. She is nice and intelligent and kind, and she’s young.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I spend all my time here with you and Eric and Silas. And that’s fine. But sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone my own age.’

  ‘She’s hardly your age, Ruth.’

  ‘Well, someone nearer my age, at any rate. My friends are all over the place, and I hardly ever get to see them. Sometimes it’s nice just to let go and — be silly.’

  ‘Well, you certainly managed that.’ Mum is still in shrewish mode. ‘What does she
do, anyway? For a living?’

  ‘She’s a pole dancer,’ I tell her.

  ‘But that’s disgusting!’

  ‘That’s what Blossom thinks, but pole dancing is perfectly respectable.’ I try to remember what Kaz told me. ‘They never touch the customers, and the customers aren’t allowed to touch them. It’s a bit like — like the ballet, really.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ says Mum, who having made up her mind about Kaz seems reluctant to change it. ‘I just hope she’s not trying to persuade you to do anything like that.’

  I think I’ll stick to my busking. I know my limitations.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  November is heralded by the typical cold dank conditions I always associate with this most unpleasant of months. Gone are most of the colours and the fruits of the autumn, and we tramp to and fro over ground thick with a mush of mud and fallen leaves. Most of the chickens have stopped laying, one of the goats has lost her kid (‘wrong time of year,’ said Silas glumly), and despite our best efforts, such vegetables as have survived are rotting faster than we can gather them in the damp conditions. I have had to give up my busking as I find standing around in the cold so tiring, and while I know it was the right decision, I resent having had to make it for reasons beyond my control.

  I have always hated November, not least because I loathe fireworks. When I was about five, I was invited to a fireworks party, where a nasty little boy chased me all over his garden with bangers. That, coupled with the horrifying image of someone who looked very much like his father being incinerated on the huge bonfire, instilled in me a terror I remember to this day. I managed to unfasten the gate and run home, crossing two roads on the way, and was eventually discovered hiding in the tool shed, weeping with terror. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards. To this day, I cannot see the point of fireworks. If I want to look at something pretty, I can find it in flowers and scenery and art. If I want surprises, life provides plenty of those without any need for the artificial kind. And I do not enjoy sudden loud noises.

  Neither do Eric and Silas’s animals.

  You would think that out here in the country, November 5th would pass virtually unnoticed. Not so. There are a couple of houses not far away, both with children, and both apparently hell-bent on commemorating Guy Fawkes and his nefarious activities. Fortunately, Eric and Silas have managed to persuade them to restrict their celebrations to the night in question (in recent years Guy Fawkes, like Christmas, has tended to spread itself over several days), so that some precautions can be taken. But with the best will in the world it’s impossible to persuade a cow that unexpected bangs and bumps and showers of coloured stars aren’t cause for consternation. While the neighbouring households are no doubt oohing and aahing as they fire their rockets and burn their effigies and eat their hot dogs, for us it’s all hands to the pump, trying to offer consolation to the livestock.

  We have locked up such animals as we can, but I suspect that for some, this merely compounds their misery. Inside the house, Mr. Darcy is beside himself with terror, the cats are hiding in Mum’s bed, and Sarah, that most independent of animals, has managed to escape from her shed and get into the house, where she has taken refuge in the larder, her anxiety betrayed by the trail of terrified little turds she has left in her wake.

  Fortunately, Lazzo has come round to help, and has been a tower of strength, visiting sheds and outhouses, stroking and comforting, and ending up on a kitchen chair with Mr. Darcy shivering in his arms and a can of beer in his hand.

  ‘Noisy,’ remarks Lazzo, as another shower of sparks lightens the sky outside the window.

  ‘D’you think fireworks are getting louder?’ Eric asks, of no-one in particular. ‘I’m sure they never used to make so much noise.’

  ‘It probably just seems like it.’ Silas pours himself some nettle wine (we are having our own party of sorts. I, needless to say, am back on the wagon). ‘It’ll pass.’

  ‘Should that pig be in the larder?’ Mum is much exercised by the mess (not to mention the smell) which has accompanied Sarah’s visit.

  ‘She always spends Guy Fawkes in there,’ says Eric.

  ‘Is it — hygienic? I mean, a pig in a larder...’

  ‘Probably not.’ Eric grins at her. ‘But it hasn’t done us any harm yet.’

  Mum moves her chair nearer the door. ‘If you say so. Though I don’t know what Brian would say.’ (Brian is my father.)

  ‘Then don’t tell him,’ Silas says.

  Mum looks uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure that she still tells Dad most of the things that go on in this household, for old habits die hard, and I wonder how long she can hold out before the inevitable climb-down and return home. I know she’s not happy, suspended as she is between two very different lives; torn between her loyalty to my father and her feelings for me, not to mention her hurt at the minimal effort Dad has made to retrieve her. But what can she do? Poor Mum. With the best will in the world, she’ll never really fit in here. It’s too far removed from everything she’s used to. But having made what is — for her — a very courageous move, will she fit back into her old life again? Only time will tell.

  A few days later, all of our minds are taken off our individual worries by a more serious matter.

  For some time now, Silas has been researching the long-term effects of rheumatic fever, and we haven’t taken a lot of notice. After all, health issues have always been a major source of fascination for Silas, and most of the time there is little for the rest of us to concern ourselves with. And if he’s been a bit tired of late, perhaps a little breathless, then these things happen at seventy-four, don’t they?

  ‘Mitral stenosis,’ says Silas, reading from his medical book. ‘I think that must be it. I seem to have all the symptoms.’ He applies his stethoscope to his chest and listens attentively. ‘But I can’t hear anything. Damn.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re supposed to hear?’ I ask him.

  ‘Not really.’ Silas sighs. ‘I’ve read about heart murmurs, but I’ve never heard one, so I don’t really know what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Perhaps you should let the doctor check you out.’

  ‘Oh no. Well, not yet, anyway. People don’t usually drop dead from mitral stenosis.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ It certainly sounds impressive enough to be fatal.

  ‘Quite sure,’ Silas assures me. ‘This kind of thing can rumble on for years. And my blood pressure’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And I’m not a bad colour.’ He examines his reflection in the hall mirror. ‘Or maybe just a little cyanosed. What do you think, Ruth?’

  ‘What’s cyanosed?’

  ‘Blue. Pale. It’s caused by lack of oxygen.’

  I examine Silas’s face. ‘You look okay to me.’

  ‘Mm. I’m not sure.’ He examines his hands. ‘It can affect the extremities, too.’

  Silas’s hands are so dirty I don’t think it would much matter what colour they were, but if Silas reckons his fingertips are a little blue, he may be right. After all, he’s lived with them for long enough.

  ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the doctor?’ I ask him. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘Maybe eventually, but there’s plenty of time yet. This was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Rheumatic fever does this. It goes away for years, and then the effects come back to haunt you in later life.’

  And he goes on to give me a detailed explanation. He uses words like haemolytic streptococcus and carditis, sub-cutaneous nodules and erythema marginatum, mitral regurgitation and aortic stenosis. This kind of vocabulary is meat and drink to Silas; to me, it’s double Dutch.

  ‘Gosh. All that,’ I say weakly, when he’s finished.

  ‘Yes. It’s a nuisance, but so interesting, don’t you think, Ruth?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘We are fearfully and wonderfully made,’ Silas tells me cheerfully.
r />   ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to do the pigs now.’

  ‘Take care.’

  A week later, Silas collapses. One minute, he is standing at the kitchen table putting the finishing touches to his latest victim (a weasel; Silas has always wanted a weasel, and has been wildly excited ever since he found it); the next, he’s lying on the floor, looking very pale and rather surprised.

  ‘Silas? Silas! Are you all right?’ I’m completely panic-stricken. I’ve never seen anyone pass out before, and have always been queasy when it comes to medical emergencies. I also have no idea what to do.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’ Silas tries to sit up.

  ‘No. No. Stay where you are. You mustn’t move.’ Somewhere in that tiny section of my brain which stores my minuscule knowledge of things medical there is the strict injunction not to move the patient. Or is that just in the case of accidents? And what about the recovery position? What is it, and should I put Silas in it now? I have always wondered about the expression ‘in a flap’, but now I understand, because my hands seem to be making involuntary fluttering movements as I panic and dither, and Silas lies obediently on the floor, waiting for me to do something helpful.

  ‘Fetch Eric,’ Silas tells me.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Eric.’

  ‘He’s fixing the bedroom window.’

  ‘Bedroom window. Yes.’ I look down at Silas. ‘Can I — should I —’

  ‘Fetch Eric. Please, Ruth.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  I fly upstairs and fetch Eric. Together we arrive back in the kitchen, where Silas is still lying on the floor.

  ‘Well, now.’ Eric creaks down into his knees and places a hand on Silas’s forehead. ‘Mm. You are a bit sweaty. What exactly happened? And how are you feeling?’

  ‘I had some kind of syncope attack —’ syncope attack? — ‘and I’m feeling a bit — woozy.’ Silas takes his own pulse. ‘Atrial fibrillation,’ he tells us, after a moment.

  ‘Translate,’ Eric orders. ‘This is no time to show off your medical knowledge, Silas. Ruth and I are worried.’

  ‘I’ve fainted, and I’m having palpitations,’ Silas explains. He looks calm and untroubled, and the unworthy thought occurs to me that Silas is enjoying this. He now has a real illness with real symptoms. He will be able to spend hours poring over his grisly book analysing his condition.