B07F6HL2NB

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Now you’ve got an idea what it will be like when you’ve had the baby,’ Mum says, only half-teasing. ‘You have to get on with things while they’re asleep, otherwise nothing gets done.’

  Ah. The baby. There’s apparently only about three weeks to go before it’s due to make its entrance (or rather, its exit), and I’ve still hardly done anything about it. I’ve bought the basic necessities with help from Mum and generous contributions from Eric and Silas, but I haven’t made any plans. I’m booked into the local hospital for the actual birth, and my uncles have said I can come back here afterwards, but that’s about the sum of it. Mum keeps trying to encourage me to think about the future, and even Dad has enquired as to “what I intend to do” after the baby’s arrival, but I simply don’t know. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, I can’t see beyond the moment. I still can’t imagine a baby, or myself as a mother. Friends phone to ask how I am, Mikey is beside himself with excitement, Mum is knitting mountains of fluffy little garments, even Kent is excited; but for me, despite indigestion, backache, exhaustion and all the bounding activity that goes on inside my bloated body, the baby still has no reality.

  I humour Mum by returning to my ante-natal classes, but I appear to have missed quite a lot, and I still find the sessions boring. Mum, who has put her squeamishness to one side and agreed to be with me for the birth, has started accompanying me, and learns how to rub my back, operate the gas and air and encourage my deep breathing. I find all this bewildering, but Mum is fascinated, and so I let her take over, reasoning that so long as one of us knows what to do, things should be okay.

  ‘What are you going to call your baby, Ruth?’ she asks me. ‘Have you thought of any names?’

  And of course, I haven’t.

  ‘How about Lucy for a girl? After Grandma?’

  ‘But it’s a boy. Blossom said so, and they told me at the hospital.’ Is Mum too in denial? I know she would like a granddaughter, but she can’t change the baby’s sex just by calling it Lucy. If only life were that simple!

  ‘A boy, then. What about a boy’s name?’

  ‘Malachi.’ The name comes to me suddenly. ‘I shall call it — him — Malachi.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum looks both surprised and disappointed. ‘Why? I mean, why Malachi?’

  ‘He was a prophet.’

  ‘I know he was a prophet, but you don’t have to name your child after a prophet. There are lots of other good biblical names. John, Matthew — that’s nice — Joseph, Peter —’

  ‘No. Malachi.’ Malachi, son of Amos, although I don’t say this to Mum. The name pleases me. It’s unusual, and has a nice ring to it.

  ‘What would people shorten it to?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Does it have to be shortened?’

  ‘People always shorten names.’

  ‘They lengthen mine.’ This is true enough, although my parents rarely call me Ruthie.

  ‘He mightn’t like it.’

  ‘He mightn’t like any name I choose. The whole thing’s a bit of a gamble, isn’t it?’ It occurs to me what a huge responsibility it is naming a baby; giving it a label which it has to carry for the rest of its life, and which might not suit it when it grows up. I recall a schoolfriend — large and plain and lumpen — who had been given the name of Grace. Her parents couldn’t have known how unsuitable the name would turn out to be, but in the end, they weren’t the ones who had to live with it. At least Malachi doesn’t give rise to any particular expectations (except perhaps a beard, and a penchant for seeing into the future). And it is undeniably dignified.

  But Mum has gone on to speculate about second names (presumably in case the first one is rejected), and I let her get on with it. Four weeks still seem a long way away. Anything can happen in four weeks.

  In the event, several things happen.

  The first is a devastating raid by a fox, in which a great many of the immigrant chickens perish, together with the white duck.

  ‘Bloody, bloody thing,’ rages Eric, gathering up the tattered corpses. ‘I can understand it taking just one. One is reasonable. Even a fox has to eat. But all these! All this waste. It’s just been killing for the fun of it.’

  ‘Isn’t that what foxes do?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.’

  ‘They weren’t really our chickens, were they?’

  ‘That’s not the point. And your poor Mum’s terribly upset.’

  This is true, for Mum has been taking her duties as chicken custodian very seriously, and now she blames herself.

  ‘I should have locked them all up,’ she mourns. ‘I had a go, but some of them refused to be caught, and it was so cold last night that in the end I gave up. But it was wrong of me. I was being lazy. I could have caught them if I’d tried harder.’

  ‘Mum, chickens are stupid things. It’s not your fault if they decide to stay out all night. They know the score. There’s a cosy shed there for them if they want it. You did your best.’

  ‘And we can’t even eat them.’ Eric says. ‘That blasted fox has mangled them to bits. I’ve a good mind to go out with my gun and see if I can catch him. He’s bound to come back for more.’

  ‘And if you shoot him carefully, I could stuff him.’ Silas has joined us in the kitchen. ‘See if you can get him through the ear. Yes. That would be a good place. The ear. You’re a good shot, Eric. I’m sure you could do it. That’d preserve the pelt, and would be a nice clean kill.’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you, Silas.’ There’s an edge to Eric’s voice. ‘Anything else I can shoot for you while I’m out there? An owl perhaps? A bat?’

  ‘No. Just the fox.’ Silas seems impervious to Eric’s tone. ‘Though a bat would be wonderful,’ he adds wistfully. ‘I wonder whether anyone has ever stuffed a bat?’

  The next thing to happen is the disappearance of Mr. Darcy. One minute he is happily rolling in chicken manure (which of course we have in abundance, and which is his preferred emollient), and the next, he has completely vanished.

  ‘It’s so unlike him,’ Eric keeps saying, as we hunt through sheds and outbuildings, whistling and calling. ‘He’s never done anything like this before. He’s such a home dog.’

  ‘And lazy,’ suggests Kaz.

  ‘That too.’ But I can tell from Eric’s tone that we shouldn’t speak ill of the disappeared.

  Mr. Darcy isn’t a hunter, nor does he go out in search of the opposite sex. He’s never been known to fight, and he doesn’t go near the main road. He’s a stay-at-home dog, occasionally a guard dog, if he can be bothered, but not a wanderer. The whole thing is a mystery.

  Hitherto, I have taken Mr. Darcy for granted. He and I get on well enough, he’s been a great asset for my busking, and has given me welcome companionship on windy days outside the pound shop, not to mention a talking point for the punters. He is not a creature of beauty, being a strange mixture of collie, terrier and several other rare and not-so-rare breeds, but he is unique. If he resembles anything at all, it is the result of one of those children’s games where you add little bits of different animals to make an entirely new species. I would be happy to bet that there is no other dog on the face of this planet who looks like Mr. Darcy.

  ‘Do you have a photo?’ I ask Eric.

  ‘There might be one somewhere.’

  ‘We could make a poster.’

  ‘But where would we put it? We’re miles from the town. He can’t have made his way there on his own.’

  ‘Unless he’s been stolen.’

  Eric gives me a pitying look. ‘Much as I love our dog, I think it very unlikely that anyone would want to steal him.’

  ‘He could be shut in somewhere.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  Lazzo, who can eat up the miles like a giant in a fairy story, goes off on foot to search farther afield, and Silas, who needs to be kept occupied, is given the task of phoning such neighbours as there are to make enquiries and to ask them to look in t
heir sheds and garages. Blossom crashes around with her vacuum cleaner, berating us all for our inattention (were we supposed to mount a round-the-clock guard against the possibility of anything happening to Mr. Darcy?), and the rest of us try to get on with our lives. But the ancient chipped dog bowl, the smelly blanket by the Aga, the dog hairs all over the furniture, the half-toothbrush — these are poignant reminders, and we all find it difficult to settle to anything.

  A day later, we receive a further blow when Dad, attempting yet again to supervise jobs about which he knows nothing, falls off the roof of his house.

  ‘Everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am,’ he says, as he lies in hospital with concussion and three cracked ribs. ‘Falling off a roof is not lucky.’

  I know what he means. If you don’t fall off a roof, no-one tells you how lucky you are, but if you do, then you are apparently lucky not to have killed yourself or at the very least, sustained life-threatening injuries, and people don’t hesitate to remind you constantly of your good fortune.

  ‘I’d like to know how they’d feel,’ Dad grumbles. ‘It’s not funny. Falling off a roof.’

  The faith and the optimism which carried him through the fire seem to have deserted him, but I suppose even Dad has his limits. It’s been a horrible six months for him by any standards; he has a disgraced daughter, he’s lost his home, nearly lost his wife, and now this. I think he’s entitled to be fed up. Mum stays with friends so that she can visit him, and after two days’ observation he’s allowed out.

  Of course, he comes back to Applegarth — where else can he go? — where he and Silas bond over their medical problems and get on remarkably well. Dad is introduced to Silas’s book, and together they pore over it, looking for complications. Dad thinks the book is wonderful. He would like a copy for his birthday, he tells us, but Mum is not amused, and says that one hypochondriac in the family is quite enough.

  Meanwhile, the weather is appalling — cold and sleety, with an icy north wind — and the heating breaks down. As I lumber up the garden carrying buckets of pig feed, with motherhood just a fortnight away, I wonder what else can go wrong. I also wonder — selfishly, no doubt, but perhaps with just a little justification — when it will be my turn to have some attention, because at the moment, I’m a bit short on it. As I lean over Sarah’s door to fill her trough, I shed tears of exhaustion and self-pity, getting nothing for my troubles but a surly grunt and an evil look from one piggy eye.

  ‘Sarah,’ I tell her, ‘you should count your blessings. You have no idea what a lucky woman you are.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Eric has shot the fox. He had to get up long before dawn, but he finally got it, and has returned in triumph.

  ‘But you shot it through the head,’ Silas protests. ‘Look what a mess you’ve made of it! I said aim for the ear. The ear would have been perfect.’

  ‘It may surprise you to know,’ says Eric, who is cold and hungry and very tired, ‘that my priority wasn’t to provide you with a specimen. My priority was to kill the fox in order to protect the chickens. And that’s what I’ve done.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s an awful shame,’ says Silas sulkily. Silas has had a good night’s sleep, breakfasted on hot porridge with brown sugar and cream, and is cosily wrapped up in the new dressing gown Mum gave him for Christmas. I sense trouble.

  ‘If you think that I’m going to sit around on a freezing night trying to get in exactly the right position to shoot a fox through the ear — the ear, for goodness’ sake! — then you’re very much mistaken. Besides. You’ve already done a fox. Why do you need another one?’

  ‘I wanted a pair. I thought we could have one on either side of the fireplace.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’

  ‘Over your dead body? I’m the one who’s nearly died!’

  ‘And don’t we all know it!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means,’ says Eric, peeling his gloves off hands which are blue with cold, ‘that I’ve had enough of your illness. It means that there are other people in this house besides you. Ruth, for instance —’ oh, please don’t bring me into it! — ‘who’s exhausted; Rosie, who’s been working her socks off; Lazzo and Kaz. Blossom, too. Brian, who’s had a nasty accident. And Kent. You are not the only person who needs looking after.’

  ‘I never asked to be looked after! I’m up and about, doing my bit ’ —

  ‘You’re up and about interfering, and quoting that bloody book at everyone —’

  ‘You gave me that bloody book, as you call it.’

  ‘And you asked for it!’

  Mum, Kent and I listen in astonishment. I have never heard my uncles exchange so much as a cross word, but it would seem that when they get going, they can argue with the best of us.

  ‘I think I’ll be going.’ Kent edges towards the door.

  ‘Me too. I’ve got the chickens to feed.’ Mum joins him.

  ‘That’s right! Abandon us, why don’t you?’ shouts Silas.

  ‘Well, I don’t think you need us at the moment,’ Mum tells him. ‘You seem quite capable of fighting without any help from anyone else.’

  ‘WE ARE NOT FIGHTING!’

  We leave them to it. There is no point in trying to intervene, and although it can’t be good for either of them, we should have seen something like this coming. Eric and Silas have been under considerable strain, not helped by a houseful of people. Accustomed to a peaceful life on their own, the past few months must have taken their toll, and I can’t help feeling partly responsible.

  ‘Still arguing, are they?’ Blossom who has been hovering outside the kitchen door, looks pleased.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘Well, if it bothers you, you can always do a spot of vacuuming. That should drown them out.’

  ‘Telling me my job, are you?’ Blossom bridles.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ I assure her.

  The argument rages for some time, and is followed by a sulk. I thought I knew a bit about sulking, having been something of an expert when I was in my teens, but my sulks were nothing compared to that of Eric and Silas. The sulk hangs over all of us like a malevolent grey blanket, rendering the atmosphere indoors even more depressing than the cold and the mud outside.

  ‘They used to do this as children,’ Mum tells me. ‘They could keep it up for days.’

  ‘But they’re usually so close.’ I find their behaviour puzzling.

  ‘It’s because they’re so close. They know exactly how to annoy each other.’

  ‘But how can they annoy each other if they’re not saying anything?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But it seems to work.’

  ‘How did — does it end?’

  ‘One of them apologises.’

  ‘That doesn’t look very likely at the moment.’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Eric is researching water buffaloes, and Silas is looking something up in his bible. They are both pretending to be happily occupied, but even I can see that they’re miserable.

  But in the event, the row between Eric and Silas is overtaken by a bigger and more serious altercation when two days later, Dad and Eric fall out over Eric’s Ark.

  To be fair, Dad has done his best to avoid the issue, aware, presumably, that it would be bad manners to pick a quarrel with someone who has been such a generous host. But Eric, still sore from his argument with Silas, finally gives in to the temptation to taunt Dad with his findings, and Dad, who is having serious problems with a recalcitrant electrician, falls into the trap.

  ‘For a start, there’s the weight of water,’ I hear Eric saying, as I come into the sitting room.

  ‘What do you mean, the weight of water? What’s the weight of water got to do with it?’ Dad asks.

  ‘The weight of the rainwater; enough water, remember, to reach the top of Everest. It would sink the Ark before it had even started.’

  ‘But it says in the B
ible —’

  ‘Never mind what it says in the Bible. The Bible story is a myth.’

  ‘It most certainly is not!’

  ‘It has to be. Because the whole story is nonsense.’

  ‘How dare you —’

  ‘Quite easily, actually.’

  ‘If the whole story is nonsense, how come you’re spending so much time going into it all? You tell me that!’

  ‘I’m doing it to prove how much nonsense it is. I’ve given it the best possible chance; I’ve spent hours doing research. You ask Ruth. She’s been helping me —’ thank you, Eric — ‘and I can tell you, there never was an Ark. There couldn’t have been. Some kind of boat, perhaps, with some chickens, a goat, a few bits and bobs. Enough to keep a family going for a while. But not a whopping great Ark full of animals. It’s a preposterous idea.’

  ‘They found the remains on Mount Ararat. How do you explain that?’

  ‘They found the remains of something, but it’s by no means clear it was an Ark.’

  ‘Of course it was the Ark! The Bible says —’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Eric is almost hopping with frustration. ‘You can’t keep saying that. It’s a cop out! Think, man. Think. Question it, think round it, use your common sense!’

  ‘Well, really. I didn’t come here to be insulted!’

  ‘No. You came here because you burnt your house down.’ Oh dear. ‘And when I try to explain to you the extensive research I’ve been doing, you completely dismiss it.’

  ‘Well you’re dismissing the Bible. The word of God.’

  ‘The story of God, more like. Take the water buffalo.’ Eric ploughs on, regardless of my father’s indignation.

  ‘Take what?’

  ‘The water buffalo. It’s just one example. How do you expect that to survive on the Ark? You tell me that.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about water buffaloes.’

  ‘Exactly! And I don’t suppose you know anything about lemurs, or wildebeest, or humming birds or spiders —’