‘Oh, go on, Mum. What harm can it do?’ I ask her. ‘You can carry on believing what you’ve always believed, and still have a look at Eric’s Ark. It’s really very interesting.’
So Mum spends an hour on her hands and knees with Eric poring over his plans, while he explains at length about carnivores and herbivores, which animals can co-habit and which must be kept apart, and the amount of excrement they will all produce in a day (which, Eric explains cheerily, can all be chucked into the sea, because if there’s one thing Noah has plenty of, it’s sea).
‘I thought you didn’t believe in Noah,’ Mum says, perhaps glimpsing a tiny opportunity for Eric’s salvation.
‘I don’t. This is all theory.’ Eric rolls up his plans and stows them carefully away in an old chest out of Blossom’s way (Blossom has no time for Eric’s researches, and given half a chance is more than capable of hoovering up all his hard work). ‘Don’t worry, Rosie.’ He pinches her cheek. ‘I’ll be okay. You don’t need to believe in a great boat full of animals in order to be saved.’
Every evening, my father phones, and Mum speaks to him for about five minutes. She is reluctant to tell us what he says, but he is apparently coping well.
‘The church are all praying for us,’ she tells me.
‘I bet they are,’ mutters Silas, mixing chemicals in the sink.
‘But he keeps asking when I’m coming home. I don’t know what to do, Ruth. I’ve never been in this situation before. What do — what do people do?’
‘I’ve no idea. But you’re doing okay, Mum. And at least you’re able to think things through without anyone putting pressure on you.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you miss him?’ I ask her.
‘I don’t know.’ Mum rolls out pastry for a pie she’s making (she’s “earning her keep” as she puts it by doing much of the cooking). ‘I ought to miss him, oughtn’t I? After nearly forty years. I certainly ought to feel — well, something more than this.’
‘I don’t think oughts count when it comes to feelings. After all, you can’t help what you feel, can you? It’s what you do that counts.’
‘And what I’m doing is wrong. I made vows, Ruth. Important vows. I believed — believe in them. And now look at me.’
Poor Mum. I don’t think there are any divorced or separated couples among her sheltered acquaintance, so this is unknown territory for her. I often wonder how people like my parents survive the mores of our post-modern world. They behave like lost time-travellers from a bygone age, expecting everything to be as it used to be — as it ought to be — unable to accept or understand change. I’m sure my father is more worldly-wise than my mother, and that he has succeeded in protecting her from the more shocking aspects of the twenty-first century. They rarely watch television, and newspapers are carefully rationed. They have what Dad calls the “wireless” (who still uses that word?), listening to the news and the occasional church service, and such books as they read are all about the Bible or the joyous “witness” of those who have seen the light. There are a few children’s books left over from my childhood (Peter Rabbit, Barbar the Elephant, What Katy Did, Little Women; safe, clean stories with happy endings), but that’s about it. Matters sexual were never discussed, and such information as I had was gleaned from the rather clinical sex education lessons at school, and ill-informed friends (you can’t get pregnant if you have sex standing up; that kind of thing. My friend Molly Wilkins put this theory to the test, and soundly disproved it).
‘But I’m not going back. Not yet,’ Mum says now. ‘I’m not ready.’
I think it’s the first time I’ve heard Mum say what she wants to do. It occurs to me that she’s spent her whole life doing things for other people or because other people have told her to do them. Things are certainly changing.
The next day’s post brings news from Mikey. He has Googled Amos, and come up with some interesting, if ancient, snippets, under the following headings:
‘Young trombonist wins prestigious prize’ (The Times, May 1990). Typical.
‘Student leads demonstration against regime in Zimbabwe’ (Daily Mail, February 1994). Also typical.
‘Gifted jazz-player survives window fall’ (Daily Telegraph, April 1999). Ditto. Amos is accident-prone. He puts it down to his height, but actually he’s incredibly clumsy.
‘“His playing made our holiday,” wrote Enid Horton, who enjoyed one of our musical cruises last year’ (Cruise brochure, Summer 2000).
There are various other bits and bobs; extracts from local newspapers, concert reviews, a mountaineering accident and, strangely, a brief appearance on a TV cookery programme, but nothing which can be of any use in actually tracking Amos down. The last mention is two years ago, and since that, nothing. It would appear that Amos hasn’t just disappeared from the face of the earth; he’s vanished from cyberspace, too.
Mikey is sympathetic in his accompanying note, and says he’s “sure Amos will turn up sooner or later”. It’s the sort of banality lovers delight in; the world they inhabit is so blissful (if in the long run, so removed from reality) that they feel it incumbent upon themselves to spread the bliss around by trying to convince the rest of us that our worlds, too, will reach this pinnacle of perfection, if only we wait long enough.
I am more disappointed by Mikey’s letter than I would have expected. I have faith in Mikey, and I had really hoped that he would come up with something more concrete. Each Amos-related disappointment is harder to deal with than the last, and this time, I find myself close to tears.
I wander outside to find someone to talk to. Mum and I are getting on pretty well, considering our different predicaments, but I don’t think either of us is ready yet for an Amos conversation.
I run Silas to ground in the greenhouse, where an amazing array of plants is managing to flourish among the broken flower pots and the weeds which have managed to negotiate the spaces left by several broken panes.
‘It smells wonderful,’ I tell him, as I am hit by a blanket of warm moist air, redolent of sun and soil and tomatoes.
‘Mm. Doesn’t it.’ Silas straightens up and smiles at me. ‘What’s up, then?’
‘How do you know there’s anything up?’
Silas taps his nose. ‘I can always tell. Baby okay?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Made any decisions yet?’
‘I’ve been trying to find its father.’
‘Good for you! Any luck?’
I shake my head. ‘Not yet. Mikey’s been on the case, but Amos seems to have disappeared.’
‘Amos. You never told us he was called Amos. Well, that’s certainly a good name for anyone’s father.’
‘Yes. Even Dad would — might approve.’
‘So what next?’ Silas ties up a drooping frond of something with a piece of string.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you talked to your mum yet?’
‘Not yet. I guess she’s got enough problems of her own at the moment.’
‘It might take her mind off them. Give her a chance, Ruth. I think she really does want to help, but doesn’t know where to begin.’
‘Has she said so?’
‘She doesn’t have to.’ He puts away his string and wipes his hands on the seat of his trousers. ‘You forget. We’ve known her a lot longer than you have. People don’t change that much.’
‘I will talk to her. Soon.’
‘That’s good.’
I’m grateful for the way my uncles lead but never coerce me. Their advice is often good, but they never either assume I’ll take it or put pressure on me to do so. It’s just there; an offering, nothing more. And because of the generous undemanding spirit of the offer, as often as not, I accept it. I remember all the times my father gave me “advice”, and how I frequently refused to take it on principle, although it wasn’t all bad. It might not have been given in the way Silas’s is, and was often couched in the terms of a command or a criticism, but perhaps I s
hould have given him some credit. He was probably only doing what he thought was right.
I pick a tiny bright red tomato and put it in my mouth.
‘Would you have liked children, Silas?’
‘Yes and no.’ Silas seems unsurprised by my question. ‘Yes, because it’s one of the most wonderful things anyone can do, and no, because it’s such a huge responsibility. And I never met the right person to have them with.’
‘Did you — have you — I mean —’
‘Have I ever had a girlfriend? On yes. When we were younger, Eric and I had quite a few. But the twin thing got in the way, and in any case, none of them worked out. In the end we settled for what we have, which is more than many people manage.’
Later, we make our way back to the house together carrying baskets filled with bright red tomatoes and yellow peppers and glossy aubergines the colour of bruises. They look almost too beautiful to eat, and certainly much too good to part with, but they have to go, for tomorrow is market day.
I must go and practise my violin.
Chapter Seventeen
A few days later, just when life seems to be settling down a bit, there is another major interruption in the form of the reappearance of the Virgin of the hen house.
‘She — it — can’t be back!’ Eric says in disbelief, when a triumphant Blossom announces these unwelcome tidings.
‘See for yourself.’
‘You must have done something, Blossom. This is certainly your doing.’
‘Rain did it.’
‘It couldn’t have. That was perfectly good wood preservative. It’s guaranteed waterproof.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Eric and Blossom glare at each other.
‘I will suit myself. And I’m certainly not going out in the rain to look at all this nonsense,’ Eric says.
‘Shall I go and look?’ My curiosity is aroused.
‘Fine, Ruth.’ He lowers his voice. ‘But please don’t encourage her.’
I put on wellingtons and an old raincoat and trudge down the garden behind Blossom.
‘There!’ she says, when we reach the hen house. ‘Told you.’
Sure enough, Blossom’s miraculous image appears to have made a come-back. There it (she?) is, outstretched arms, little stars and all. If anything, the image is even more lifelike than it was before.
‘How...?’ I am astonished.
‘Rain,’ Blossom says again. And she’s right. I don’t know what substance it was that we used to paint the hen house, but it has completely washed away, leaving the oak pale and pristine, if a little wet, and Blossom’s Virgin as good as new.
Blossom crosses herself, and risks a rare smile.
‘Can’t keep her away,’ she tells me. ‘If she wants to appear, she’ll appear. No stopping her.’
Mystified but oddly fascinated, I make my way back to the house. There’s no sign of Eric or Silas, but Mum has just returned from taking Mr. Darcy for a walk (Mr. Darcy neither likes nor needs walks, but it’s all part of Mum’s idea of being useful). They are both soaked to the skin.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks me. ‘Eric won’t say, but something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
‘Sort of.’ How do I tell my fervently anti-papist mother that there’s a religious apparition on the premises?
‘Well?’ Mum takes off Mr. Darcy’s lead (an unreliable structure concocted from baler twine) and dries him with an old towel.
‘It’s like this.’ Very carefully, trying as much as possible to spare Mum’s feelings, I explain about Blossom’s faith and Blossom’s apparition.
‘It’s idolatry,’ says Mum, after a shocked silence. ‘That’s what it is. Idol-worship. I wonder Eric and Silas put up with it.’
‘They don’t. They’ve done their best to get rid of it. But when you come to think about it, it’s pretty harmless.’
‘Harmless? You call this harmless? Ruth, what can you be thinking of?’
‘Mum, you don’t have to have anything to do with it. It’s between Eric and Silas and Blossom. It’s their hen house and her apparition. And look at it this way. If this is actually going to put a smile on Blossom’s face, isn’t it worth it?’
Mum still looks unhappy.
‘I don’t like it,’ she says. ‘This — kind of thing. It’s not right. It’s evil.’
And try as I might, I can’t persuade my mother that Blossom’s Virgin need have nothing to do with her. Mum’s now part of the household, albeit temporarily, and apparently she feels that she will be in some way contaminated by its presence.
‘What would your father say?’ she keeps repeating
‘Don’t worry. Eric and Silas will probably paint over it again, and we can forget all about it,’ I tell her. ‘Would you like to see it?’
‘No. Oh, no. Certainly not. I wouldn’t — couldn’t look at it. That wouldn’t do at all.’
Meanwhile Blossom, sensing the strength of Mum’s feelings, does her best to make things worse by praising the Lord and crossing herself, and telling us all how good the Holy Mother is to visit us again like this, when we have gone out of our way to get rid of her.
‘It can’t stay,’ Eric tells her, when he’s been out to have a look for himself. ‘That stuff they gave us was useless. We’ll have to get something stronger. We’re not going through all that miracle business again.’
‘Can’t get rid of her,’ Blossom says. ‘Not twice.’
‘Three times if necessary,’ says Eric. ‘Blossom, let me make this absolutely clear. These are our grounds, and they are home to our animals. We are not having strangers tramping about visiting our hen house. It’s quite out of the question.’
‘It does look quite — well, quite real,’ I venture. ‘Have you looked at it properly? You have to admit, Eric. It’s more than just a bit of wood grain and a few scratches.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ he asks me (Eric is not in a good mood today).
‘Well, yours, of course. But all the same...’
‘No, Ruth. Absolutely no. It’s got to go, and there’s an end to it.’
Blossom sulks and curses and bangs about the house until Silas tells her to take the rest of the morning off and go home.
‘Can’t. You’ll do something to her.’ Blossom gets out a mop and bucket and starts sloshing soapy water round the kitchen floor.
‘So what are you going to do? Stand guard by the hen house?’
‘Might do.’
‘Blossom, I’m not asking you. I’m not even telling you. I’m ordering you to go home and cool down. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk about it. We can’t do anything about it before tomorrow, anyway, and we certainly can’t have a sensible conversation when you’re in this kind of mood.’
After Blossom has clattered off on her ancient bicycle, leaving the kitchen floor awash with suds and her mop lying across the hallway, Mum asks Silas what he’s thinking of.
‘Why do you let her speak to you like that?’ she asks him. ‘You should get rid of her. You can’t just hang on to her because you’re sorry for her.’
‘Sorry for her? Sorry for Blossom?’ Silas roars with laughter. ‘No-one needs to be sorry for Blossom, I can promise you. And there’s no need for us to get rid of her. That’s just Blossom’s way. She’ll calm down soon enough.’
‘You’re too soft. Both of you. That’s always been your trouble.’
‘Maybe. But Blossom suits us.’
‘You mean, you suit Blossom. No-one else would employ her.’
‘Probably not.’
‘You two are impossible.’
‘That’s what you love about us.’ Silas pats her on the head. ‘Now, I’m going to ring up the hardware shop and complain about that preservative. There must have been some mistake.’
The following morning, Blossom turns up early. Her mood has clearly improved, and she is almost polite to Eric and Silas.
‘Got an idea,’ she tells them, as she washes up the breakfast things without being asked (Bl
ossom never does the washing-up).
‘Oh, yes?’ Eric says.
‘Move the hen house into the back field.’
‘Move the hen house? Who’s got time to move the hen house, even if we wanted it moved?’
‘Our Lazzo.’
‘Oh yes?’ Lazzo (short for Lazarus, so called because he nearly died as a baby) is Blossom’s son. She rarely mentions him, and appears to have as little time for him as she has for Kaz, but apparently he has his uses. ‘Well, even if he would, why should anyone move the hen house? It’s perfectly all right where it is.’
‘Visitors,’ explains Blossom.
‘Ah. Visitors. But there won’t be any visitors because there won’t be anything for them to see once we’ve painted over it.’
I wait for Blossom to explode, but she has obviously changed her tactics.
‘Shame,’ says Blossom. ‘Should be pleased. It’s a sign.’
‘Yes. A sign that that dratted hardware place sold us the wrong stuff. And as you know, we’re not pleased. Not at all pleased. We just want to be left in peace to get on with our lives.’
But Blossom’s not going to let Eric and Silas get away quite so lightly. She has it all worked out, she tells them. If the hen house is moved to the back field (which is more thicket than field), together with its occupants, then a separate track can be made which will bypass the house and garden, and any visitors can come and go without disturbing anyone.
‘What about the hens?’ Silas asks.
‘Be fine. Leave them to me.’
‘And how do we control the number of visitors?’
Blossom wheels out her trump card.
‘Tickets.’
‘Tickets?’
‘S’right.’
‘And do you imagine that we’re all going to take it in turns selling tickets so that people can view our hen house? Do you think we’ve got the time?’ Silas is becoming seriously angry.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 69