The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  I am closely questioned as to the cleanliness of the house (not bad at all), the welfare of my father (ditto) and whether he is eating properly. I answer to the best of my ability, while trying to keep my tone positive.

  ‘I’m not sure about his cooking skills,’ I tell her, ‘but he’s certainly getting food from somewhere.’

  ‘You make him sound like a stray cat.’

  ‘Same kind of thing.’ I am entertained by the idea of Dad eating saucers of scraps left out on people’s doorsteps.

  ‘Really, Ruth!’

  ‘Sorry. But he’s missing you, and sends his love.’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you sure that’s what he said?’

  ‘Certain.’ After all, I can hardly pass on the chilly “regards” Dad wanted me to relay, and my little lie is unlikely to be discovered.

  Mum looks pleased.

  ‘Perhaps he’s coming round after all.’

  ‘Well, you were the one who left,’ I remind her.

  ‘Yes. But I meant coming round to the idea of you. And the baby.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he might be. But I wouldn’t count on it. Not yet, anyway.’ It would be unkind to raise her hopes. ‘You know Dad and his principles. It takes a lot to make him change his mind.’

  Mum sighs. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no hurry. Provided Eric and Silas don’t mind putting up with me.’

  ‘You know they love having you,’ I tell her. ‘So do I,’ I add, and find to my surprise that it’s true. It’s been good having Mum around, and while we’re not yet exactly confidantes, we’re becoming increasingly comfortable with each other.

  The following afternoon is a hen house afternoon, but there is no sign of Lazzo, whose turn it is to do hen house duty. Eric and Silas are out seeing a man about a pig and I was hoping to have a few uninterrupted hours of violin practice (Mum, needless to say, is having nothing to do with Virgins or hen houses). It is a warm for late October, and I am sitting in the garden rehearsing all the things I’d like to say to Dad (I’m still smarting from the Amos incident), when the phone rings. I run indoors to answer it. It is Blossom.

  Blossom on the telephone is something else. At least when you have her face to face, you can fill in some of the gaps by trying to interpret her expression, but listening to her disembodied voice is like trying to unscramble a foreign language.

  ‘Laz fitting,’ she says, without preamble.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our Laz. Fitting.’

  ‘Fitting? Fitting what?’ Carpets? Soft furnishings? What is Blossom talking about?

  ‘Fitting. Like he does. You know.’

  ‘Oh. You mean Lazzo’s having fits?’

  ‘What I said, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Course.’ Pause. ‘Won’t be coming in.’

  ‘Can you come then, Blossom? We’ve got a lot on.’

  ‘Can’t. Busy.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Kaz coming instead.’

  ‘That’s kind of her.’

  ‘Not kind. Told her to.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I spare a thought for Kaz. Supervising pilgrimages is hardly compatible with Kaz’s professional calling and I open my mouth to say something appreciative, but Blossom has already rung off.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kaz arrives.

  I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but whatever it might have been, Kaz isn’t it. She is amazingly like Blossom, and yet totally different, for while following her mother’s template, Kaz manages to be beautiful. It is as though someone had taken Blossom and airbrushed out her age and her imperfections, to make, literally, a new woman of her. The eyes which appear black and beady in Blossom, are dark and luminous in Kaz. Blossom’s small bony body becomes toned and celebrity slim in Kaz, and Blossom’s sharp features and pointed chin give an elfin, Peter Pan look to her daughter.

  That Kaz contrives to be beautiful is all the more astonishing since she appears to have gone out of her way to deface the gifts with which nature has endowed her. Her dyed-blonde hair is scraped back in an untidy ponytail, and a variety of studs and rings pierce her eyebrows, ears and lips, while two tiny snakes are tattooed around her wrists. All this is set off with knee-length laced leather boots, a skimpy top and a faded denim skirt which just about covers her bottom. The effect is electric.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Kaz says, giving me a radiant smile. ‘Bloody bike had a puncture. Laz was supposed to fix it, but he forgot. He’s a lazy bugger.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ I say weakly, trying to imagine how anyone can ride a bike in a skirt that short.

  ‘I’m Kaz,’ she says, unnecessarily.

  ‘Hi. Good to meet you.’

  ‘You must be Ruth.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘Expecting, I see,’ remarks Kaz, patting my bump. ‘I was expecting once,’ she adds.

  ‘Oh. What hap— I mean, what did you do?’

  ‘The usual.’ Kaz sighs. ‘I couldn’t keep it. I hadn’t any money. Besides, Mum said she’d kill me if I had a baby. I was only fourteen.’

  ‘I thought Catholics were against abortion?’

  ‘They’re against murder, too, but that wouldn’t have stopped Mum from killing me. She’s what you might call a pick and choose Catholic. And she didn’t pick my baby.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘A bit sad, I suppose, but I was only a kid. And in our house, we do what our mum says. It makes life easier.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Kaz grins. ‘You don’t like Mum much, do you?’

  ‘Well ... she’s very good with the animals.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t like her much, either.’

  ‘Then why do you live at home?’

  ‘I guess I’m too lazy to move out.’

  We both laugh. I’m warming to Kaz. She’s bright and funny, and unlike her mother and brother, she actually speaks in whole sentences.

  ‘Did she tell you about my work?’ Kaz asks.

  ‘Lazzo did mention something about it.’

  ‘Well, for the record, I’m not what you probably think. Mum thinks pole dancing is the same as lap dancing.’

  ‘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 me
ss 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.