The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Well of course we’re not. We can’t throw you out if you don’t live here, can we, even if we wanted to? We’re just saying that it would be — awkward if you lived here at the moment. We’re asking you to find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘But surely I can stay just until I find somewhere to rent? After all, I don’t look pregnant. No-one need even know. And I’ll pay my way.’

  ‘It’s not about money, and it doesn’t matter that you don’t look — well that things aren’t obvious. People will ask questions, and we’ll have to tell them the truth.’ Ah. The truth. Far be it for me to stand between my parents and the truth. ‘I’m sorry Ruth, but there it is. This problem is not of our making.’

  Looking at my father, his heightened colour, the way he is stabbing at the butter, I can see that he’s still very angry, and I know what all this is about. I’m being punished. I’ve been a bad girl, and this is my punishment; to be banished from my parents’ house. It may well have something to do with what people think, but it’s got a lot more to do with how my father feels.

  ‘And the baby? Are you going to disown that, too?’

  ‘We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.’ My father holds out his cup for more tea.

  ‘My baby isn’t a bridge to be crossed! It’s a human being; your grandchild. None of this is the baby’s fault. “Suffer the little children —”’

  ‘Please don’t try quoting Holy Scripture at me, Ruth. Especially out of context. As I said, we’ll have to see.’

  ‘What about you, Mum? What do you think?’ I see my last straw, and grasp at it, but without much hope.

  ‘I’ll do as your father says, naturally.’ My mother looks uncomfortable. ‘It’s probably best that you go away. Just for the time being.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘As your father says, we’ll — we’ll see.’

  I am filled with sudden rage. Hitherto, I have dwelt on my situation rather than my unborn child. My baby, to whom I have yet to give more than a few glancing thoughts since my visit to the clinic, suddenly becomes enormously important, and for the first time in my life, I feel I am not alone in my battle against my parents. I now have someone on my side. It may be tiny — still at the seahorse/rabbit stage — but it is mine. We are a unit. My baby and I against the world. I feel empowered and protective and — yes — even maternal, and I smile, in spite of myself.

  ‘This is nothing to smile about, Ruth.’ My father dabs at his mouth with his napkin, and then folds it neatly and replaces it by his plate. ‘However, just to let you know that we want to do right by you, we have an idea.’ He pauses to make sure he has my full attention. ‘We thought you might go and stay with the twins for a while.’

  ‘Applegarth’s huge. They’ve got plenty of room,’ my mother offers.

  ‘Yes,’ my father continues. ‘I’m sure they’ll be glad to help.’

  Why on earth should they be glad to help, when my parents are not? But it’s an interesting idea.

  My uncles — my mother’s elder brothers — are identical twins. Eric and Silas have remained unmarried, and have always lived together, occupying their parents’ old home, a huge rambling Victorian house in the middle of nowhere, together with a menagerie of animals and a chaotic amount of clutter. They are gentle eccentrics, devoted to each other and all living things. They have never, as far as I know, made any kind of living, existing comfortably on their inheritance (my grandfather made a lot of money in wool. Needless to say, my mother has divided most of her share between her church and various charities) and such food as they are able to grow themselves. Although nowadays I see little of them, I have always been fond of my uncles, seeing them as the most human (and by far the most interesting) members of my small family. However, I’m not at all sure how they will feel about having their disgraced niece thrust upon them at short notice.

  ‘When were you thinking of asking them?’ I say, folding my own napkin in an attempt at insouciance.

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘But it’s only half-past eight!’

  ‘They get up early to do the milking.’

  Milking? ‘And?’

  ‘They’re thinking about it.’

  ‘I’ll bet they are.’

  ‘They’re ringing back at eleven.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to consult me before you did this?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ My father stands up, drawing a line under our conversation. ‘Since you are so irresponsible, and that is putting it kindly, as to get yourself into this — situation, you can’t really expect us to trust you to make a wise decision as to what to do next.’

  By half-past eleven, the expected phone call still hasn’t come, and my father is pacing up and down the hallway looking at his watch and tutting like the White Rabbit (although of course, unlike the White Rabbit, it is not he who is late). My father hates unpunctuality, and although he has known his brothers-in-law all these years, and they have never considered time-keeping to be a priority, their behaviour never fails to surprise and infuriate him. Accepting other people’s modi vivendi is not my father’s forte.

  It is twelve fifteen when the expected phone call finally comes, and my father shuts himself in his study to take it. Lingering in the hallway outside, I hear little of what he says, although such words as ‘shame’ and ‘waste’ and ‘disappointment’ give me a taster of the tone of the conversation. When he finally emerges, it is not without an air of triumph.

  ‘All settled,’ he says, his relief palpable. ‘They’re happy to have you for as long as you need to stay, and there are no neighbours to gossip, so they have nothing to worry about on that score.’

  Eric and Silas have always seemed to me to be the last people on earth to worry about gossiping neighbours — or anything else, come to that — but I let it pass.

  ‘I don’t believe they’re churchgoers,’ he continues (he knows very well that they aren’t), ‘but I’m afraid that can’t be helped.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I murmur.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Two days later, I have finished clearing out my flat, packed up those things I want to take with me, said a fond (and unreciprocated) farewell to the cat, and am on my way. The Norwegian invasion is just hours away, and I don’t trust myself not to tell my new tenants all the things which are still fuelling my indignation. Suffice it to say that I hope the boiler makes its early-morning howling noise (an occasional but very alarming occurrence) and that the neighbours throw one of their more boisterous parties. After their uncharitable behaviour, the Norwegians do not deserve any consideration from me.

  My father drives me the forty miles to my uncles’ house (I sold my car to help pay for the gap year). It is not a comfortable journey.

  ‘So,’ he says, after about fifteen minutes. ‘What plans do you have?’

  Plans? I haven’t had time to plan anything, and my parents seem to have taken care of my immediate future.

  ‘Well…’ I hesitate.

  ‘I thought as much.’ The car veers violently to the left. ‘You haven’t given this much thought, have you, Ruth?’

  ‘I need time,’ I tell him lamely.

  ‘You don’t have much time.’

  ‘I believe these things take about nine months,’ I say, in a weak attempt at humour.

  ‘Not funny, Ruth.’

  ‘I never said this was funny.’ My father’s not the only one feeling angry. ‘But it’s happening. It’s a done deal. I’m having a baby. Lots of people have babies, and yes —’ because I know what’s coming next — ‘many of them are out of wedlock. Dad, it’s not the end of the world!’

  ‘It’s the end of your reputation.’

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. ‘I’m a violinist, Dad. My reputation — such as it is — rests on my musicianship, not on my virginity!’

  ‘Well, really!’ The car screeches to a halt at traffic lights.

  ‘I’m only saying w
hat you’re thinking.’

  ‘I think we’d better end this conversation before one of us says something we regret,’ my father says, as the car starts up again.

  And I think he’s right. Looking at his stern profile, his neat collar and tie, his highly polished shoes, I find it hard to believe that this man is related to me at all. Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, but where my father is concerned, this seems to be very much in doubt.

  Will I love the seahorse/rabbit unconditionally? Only time will tell.

  Chapter Four

  We arrive at my uncles’ house late, since my father has had to stop the car twice for me to be sick. My copious vomiting took place without comment from either of us, which was probably just as well. My father has never felt comfortable with illness of any sort.

  It always amazes me that the open countryside inhabited by my uncles can exist so near to relative civilisation. It is hard to believe that these sweeping hills and wide skies and lack of any neighbouring habitation are a mere three miles from a respectably-sized town, but so it is. The house itself, known as Applegarth, is situated at the end of a rutted track. It is well-built but run down, with a wilderness of a garden adjoining a paddock occupied by what look like several broken-down agricultural implements and a variety of livestock. Eric and Silas call it a smallholding. My father calls it a mess.

  ‘What would their dear mother say?’ he mutters, as he drives cautiously round bumps and through puddles. ‘She was so fond of this place.’

  ‘I expect Silas and Eric are fond of it too, in their own way,’ I say.

  ‘In that case, they should look after it.’ My father stops the car so that I can get out to open a gate, causing several chickens to run squawking into the bushes. ‘I suppose that’s what you call free range,’ he remarks. ‘It’s a wonder they don’t get stolen or run over.’

  ‘They’re more likely to be eaten by foxes here,’ I point out.

  When we reach the house, Eric and Silas greet us on the doorstep.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ They kiss me and shake my father’s hand. ‘Come on in. We’ve made soup.’

  ‘Ruth probably won’t have any. She’s got an upset tummy.’ Dad has obviously decided not to acknowledge the cause of my indisposition. He scrapes something unpleasant off his foot and then, after hesitating for a moment, takes of his shoes.

  ‘I’m fine now, and I’d love some soup.’ I deposit my case in the entrance hall, and look around me. Coats and caps hang several deep on hooks inside the porch and some, having given up the unequal struggle, are lying in heaps on the floor. There are wellingtons and walking boots, sticks and galoshes, and even a rifle propped up casually in a corner.

  ‘Is that safe?’ Dad asks, indicating the rifle.

  Silas (or Eric) laughs.

  ‘It’s not loaded. And we only use it for rabbits.’

  ‘How comforting,’ my father mutters.

  In the large kitchen, every available surface is occupied with clutter. There are unwashed pots and pans, old newspapers, tools, clothes and bags of animal feed. A large dog is sleeping by the very grimy Aga and two cats are curled up on the draining board. Something which could be soup is bubbling away in a kind of cauldron. It smells interesting.

  ‘I’ll have to say no to the soup,’ Dad says, backing away nervously, as though he might catch something. ‘Rosemary’s expecting me home.’

  I know this isn’t true since today is Mum’s day for doing meals-on-wheels, and I’m surprised. Dad glances at me, and there is mute appeal in his eyes. He looks out of place and rather pathetic standing there in his stockinged feet, and I take pity on him.

  ‘Yes. She did tell him to hurry home,’ I say. My father looks at me suspiciously, and I smile at him. ‘Mustn’t keep her waiting.’

  ‘No. No. I’d best be going.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Thank you for having Ruth.’

  ‘No problem.’ Eric/Silas grins. ‘It’ll be nice to have a woman around the house.’

  I walk back down the track to open the gate for Dad, and he winds down the car window.

  ‘We’ve done the right thing.’ He hesitates. ‘Take care of yourself.’ This is the nearest he gets to an endearment, and I’m touched.

  ‘You too. Love to Mum.’

  As I watch the car making its cautious way back down the track, its usually gleaming paintwork now generously splattered with mud, there’s a lump in my throat. Poor Dad. While I find his attitude hard to understand, I am his only child, and such a disappointment. Perhaps families are destined to disappoint each other; all those expectations, those cosy stereotypes, those impossible hopes. How can anyone begin to live up to them?

  Back at the house, Eric and Silas are glowing with good cheer. They introduce me to the dog (‘we call him Mr. Darcy’) who opens one eye in acknowledgement, and the cats, who appear to have no names and who ignore me. The soup (‘Nettle and rabbit. Don’t worry — it’s much nicer than it sounds!’) is delicious, and I have two helpings. Afterwards, we eat early cherries from the garden and slices of rather stale bought cake, after which I’m taken on a tour of the grounds.

  When I was a child, I used to stay regularly with my uncles. My parents’ apparent ambivalence about the domestic set-up was countered by their need to pursue various church activities for which at the time I was considered too young. Since my only grandparent lived two hundred miles away, Eric and Silas were the obvious people to have me, and they were always more than willing. They didn’t put themselves out or make any special arrangements; they simply absorbed me into their way of life, treating me as an equal (and expecting me to behave like one), and I adored my visits. Free from any injunctions to keep my clothes clean, wash my hands before meals or go to bed at seven, I ran wild (as much as one little girl on her own can do such a thing). I helped with the animals and the cooking, I climbed trees and paddled in the stream and rode the one-eared donkey in the orchard before returning home with a healthy suntan, scratched and bruised knees, filthy clothes and a head full of interesting information. I may not have known where human babies came from, but the provenance of piglets and kittens was no longer a mystery to me, and if my parents objected, there wasn’t much they could do about it. As I once heard Silas explaining to my mother, ‘The child sees what she sees. It’s only nature.’ And they had to put up with it.

  The grounds surrounding the house haven’t changed much, although the quantity of livestock has increased. There is now a pretty doe-eyed jersey cow, two goats, some sheep and several pigs, including a very pregnant sow called Sarah. There are also at least two dozen chickens, four beehives, some ducks in a very muddy pond and a peacock. The peacock just arrived one day, I’m told, and is ornamental rather than useful. A selection of ramshackle sheds and outhouses provides shelter for the animals, and while their surroundings leave a lot to be desired, the animals look well-cared-for.

  The garden is a riot of flowers, weeds and vegetables, all coexisting in apparent harmony. There are cabbages and nettles, broad beans and nasturtiums, roses and tomatoes. The white bells of bindweed can be seen flourishing among the raspberry canes and there are fruit trees and brambles in the orchard.

  ‘It’s like the Secret Garden,’ I say, as I pick my way across this jungle while Mr. Darcy, who has woken up and joined us, chases exciting smells among the bushes.

  ‘Yes. It’s a bit of a mess,’ admits Silas/Eric.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘We don’t mind.’ He pauses, ‘One day we’ll have to sort it all out, but we always seem to run out of time.’ They both laugh, as though at some private joke. ‘I hope you’ll be able to put up with us.’

  Back at the house, I feel a bit like Snow White entering the home of the seven dwarfs. She didn’t have to do all that cleaning (although with a merry band of Disney rabbits and birds to help her she seemed to make light work of it), but I can understand why she did it. I have a feeling that I shall have Snow White urges before I’ve been
here long, for while I’m not a particularity tidy person, I think I’ll find it hard to live in this chaos. Will my uncles mind if I do a bit of tidying up? I’ll leave it a day or two before I suggest it, since I would hate to do anything which implied criticism of my hosts.

  ‘Oh, you’ve brought your violin with you!’ Eric/Silas cries, as we re-enter the house. ‘How lovely! We’ve got an old piano, but we can’t play it. Silly, isn’t it? But you will play for us, won’t you, Ruth? We love a bit of live music, don’t we, Silas?’

  His brother nods and smiles, and I notice again the slight dimple in Silas’s chin and the way Eric’s eyebrows sweep up at the corners, and resolve to make sure that from now on I shall remember who is who.

  When I am shown up to my room, I find that I have been promoted from the tiny attic bedroom I slept in as a child to the big front bedroom, with its heavy dark furniture, worn carpet and ancient brocade curtains.

  ‘We were born in this room,’ Silas tells me, as he brings up my suitcase. ‘In this bed, actually.’

  The bed is huge, with an elaborately carved headboard and great sunken mattress which dips alarmingly in the middle. It has probably hosted the couplings and births of whole generations of my mother’s family, and I try to look enthusiastic.

  ‘We thought about buying a new mattress,’ he adds. ‘But I’m told the this one’s quite cosy.’

  The mattress certainly turns out to be cosy, for once I’ve given up any attempt to climb out of the dip in its middle, I find that it envelops me like a womb, and that first night I sleep better than I have in weeks. It occurs to me that it would have been very hard to keep up even the most severe of marital disputes if the protagonists had to retire to this bed afterwards, because close — not to say intimate — physical contact must be unavoidable if both parties were to get any sleep. Maybe all beds should be like this, in the interests of domestic harmony.