‘Yah!’ The man was contemptuous. Undeniably our offerings looked pitiful laid out against a background of grubby snow. ‘Ye can piss off an take yer trash wi’ ye. An if anyone else tries te lay that kid at me door,’ he ran his finger down the edge of the blade, ‘ye can tell them Ah’ll gi’ them a facelift fer free. It wez that gobshite that came here sniffing after her like a dog after a bitch on heat. With a heighty-toity voice an fancy claes. It wez him, aal reet.’ He threw back his head to laugh, exposing a lack of dentistry and a filthy neck. ‘Cuckoo O’Shaunessy’s got his deserts. Ha, ha, ha! He thinks he’s bloody God Aalmighty but his daughter’s nowt but a whore.’
‘Which is his caravan?’ asked Dimpsie.
‘O’er yon brae.’ He pointed towards a group of trees, tiresomely distant. ‘Now sod off!’ He went back into the caravan and slammed the door.
We set off doggedly towards the horizon. The giraffe and the kitten-pig painting banged against my chest and the crutches dug into my ribs. By the time we reached the trees, our shoulders and spirits were bowed with weariness.
‘That must be it.’ I indicated with my nose a small caravan parked in the shelter of some pines. ‘It’s an awfully long way to run if they attack us. Cuckoo isn’t a very encouraging name, is it? He seemed reasonably sane in the surgery, but perhaps he has bouts of madness at the full moon. Don’t you think we might go home and try again another day?’
‘We’ve come so far. I think we should go on.’
This caravan was called ‘The Intrepid’. A dog barked from inside as we approached.
‘That’s an encouraging sign,’ said Dimpsie. ‘I’ve a good mind to ring the RSPCA when we get home about that other man keeping his dogs tied up outside in weather like this—’ She broke off as the door was opened by a man I recognized as Nan’s father. He seemed to have grown in the last week.
‘Well?’ His hair was grey and long, fastened back in a ponytail, and his eyes were fiery. His cheeks were scored with deep creases, and a long scar ran from his nose to his chin and halfway round his neck, as though someone had tried to hack off his head. Even his ears were ravaged and puckered.
Dimpsie shrank back as he scowled at her. ‘Mr O’Shaunessy?’
‘T’at’s me.’ He glared ferociously. The scars seemed to turn red and ugly. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘How do you do? I’m Dimpsie Savage and this is my daughter, Marigold. I hope you don’t mind – we’ll go away at once if we’re intruding – we brought a few things for the baby … My husband delivered him—’
‘You,’ he stabbed in my direction a finger the size of those miniature Swiss rolls that come wrapped in silver and red foil, which I’ve always rather liked. ‘I remember ye now. At least I remember t’e leg. Yore the doctor’s girl.’ He nodded and allowed his eyebrows to part company. Dimpsie and I let out our breaths which we had been holding in preparation to making a dash for it. ‘Ye’d better come in.’
He jumped down, making the earth shake – or perhaps that was my imagination – and waved us ceremoniously up the steps. As I was anxious not to provoke a frenzy of murderous fury, I propped the crutches against the side of the caravan and hobbled obediently in. A delicious warmth hit my frozen face. A gas heater was belting out kilowatts, and in front of it a wooden clotheshorse was hung with nappies folded into neat rectangles. With the smell of clean laundry was mingled an appetizing aroma of baking, which reminded me of the inadequacy of that day’s lunch. My father had stopped giving Dimpsie housekeeping money and the craft shop was in arrears with the rent. The cinema tickets, the incense and the kohl had used up a large part of my savings, so we had been living on tins of stuff from the larder. We had got down to the impulse buys, things like chestnut purée and stuffed olives, delicious but not in combination. Fortunately each week Evelyn sent a dozen eggs from her own hens, but there is a limit to how many unaccompanied eggs you can eat.
A black and white dog came over to me, wagging his tail, then lifted a paw in greeting. I shook it and he allowed me to stroke his head. Normally when within reach of a friendly animal, I pursue the acquaintanceship single-mindedly, but on this occasion I was distracted by the caravan’s remarkable interior decoration. On every available inch of wall space hung an elaborately carved, brightly painted cuckoo clock.
‘These are wonderful!’ Dimpsie said admiringly. ‘What superb workmanship! Just look at those squirrels. They look quite real. And I love this one with the cat and the St Bernard.’
‘Ye’d care to see it working perhaps.’ Mr O’Shaunessy seemed to be thawing a little in the warmth of her approval. He set the hands of the clock to twelve and tapped the pendulum into motion.
Not only did a tiny robin on a spring burst out through the doors at the top with each cuckoo, but the cat jumped up and down beneath it and the dog went in and out of his kennel.
‘It’s magnificent!’ Dimpsie was sincere in her appreciation.
For her the excellence of the craftsmanship outweighed any ideas about cuckoo clocks being kitsch. I’m ashamed to confess that my enthusiasm was dampened by the certainty of the disapproval of my chief taste arbiters, Evelyn and Sebastian. When the company had been touring southern Germany, Sebastian became so sensitive to the sight of cuckoo clocks that someone would be sent ahead of him into any restaurant or Bierkeller to request their removal before he could be induced to dine there. This of course gave great offence, but that may have been his purpose. The flavour of the Schwarzwälder kirschtorte, sharply alcoholic and quite different from sickly English versions, came back to me as my insides gnawed with emptiness.
Dimpsie pointed to a workbench on which lay chisels and hammers among curls of wood shavings and said in a voice of awe, ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve made all these marvellous clocks yourself?’
Mr O’Shaunessy looked sternly at her, as though suspecting her of false flattery but Dimpsie’s mild brown eyes as she looked up at him from beneath her crinkled fringe were without guile.
‘Aye. T’is is t’e latest.’ He set it going. A pair of wooden figures came out from a little doorway and travelled along a semicircular gallery followed by two more couples, rotating to the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz.
I was preparing to launch into fulsome praise, when the door opened and in came Nan, muffled up in white fake-fur coat with black spots on it, like a large, damp Dalmatian.
‘Whatever are you doin’ here?’ She looked surprised but moderately pleased.
‘Hello, Nan. How are you?’ I gave her my Princess Aurora birthday smile, judging that the radiant Giselle might be a bit much at such close quarters. ‘This is my mother.’ I indicated Dimpsie over my shoulder. ‘She’s mad about babies and wanted to see yours. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Help yerselves.’ Nan shrugged and pointed to a large wooden box, which we had been too engrossed by the clocks to notice.
‘O-o-h!’ cried my mother and rushed over to peer in.
Mr O’Shaunessy joined Dimpsie beside the box, dwarfing her to the size of a child. ‘What d’ye say, Missus? Isn’t me grandson a champion?’
‘He’s absolutely bea-utiful!’ The tremor of genuine emotion in her voice was evidently not lost on the proud grandfather, for his harsh features broke into a smile. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Harrison Ford. Did ye ever see t’e like fre hair? An he’s the appetite of a blacksmit’.’
‘Look at his darling eyelashes.’ Dimpsie straightened up to look at Nan. ‘He’s gorgeous. You must be so proud.’
‘Can’t say I am,’ Nan replied rather grumpily. ‘He’s got the lungs of a blacksmith an’ all. Wah, wah wah! in the middle o’ the night.’
‘Oh dear, yes,’ Dimpsie said sympathetically, ‘I remember how tiring it was constantly having to get up. But it gets better.’
‘As te that,’ said Nan, ‘Dad gets up te him, not me. But however much I stuff me ears wi’ cotton wool, I can hear him greetin’.’
‘What about a cup of tea, ladies?’ said Mr O’Shau
nessy.
‘That would be heaven – ee-ow!’ I ducked and put up my hands to protect myself as something gripped the top of my head. I felt feathers.
‘’Tis only Petula,’ said Mr O’Shaunessy. Something sharp tapped my scalp. ‘Now don’t peck, Pet,’ he commanded. ‘I t’ink tis the colour of yer hair. She isn’t sure what ye are.’
He came over to lift the bird from my head. Petula was a magpie, with iridescent black and white feathers and a bright yellow beak.
‘I found her injured. She couldn’t fly. Magpies are said te be vermin but t’ey’re canny birds. T’ey can’t help but do what t’ey were made for. Pet’s better now, but I reckon she stays cos she’s fond of me. Who’s a bonny lass, then?’ he crooned, stroking the bird’s throat.
‘Pet’s a bonny lass,’ replied the magpie. Her voice sounded croaky, as though coming through an ancient loudspeaker.
‘How clever!’ Dimpsie came over to see. ‘What else can she say?’
‘What does Pet like for tea?’ her master asked.
‘Pet likes cake,’ croaked Petula.
‘T’en Pet shall have some. Sit down, ladies, and I’ll put t’e kettle on.’
Petula hopped onto the table to be admired while we squeezed onto the banquettes that surrounded it on three sides. Nan scowled at the bird and opened the magazine lying in front of her.
‘Bloody nuisance! Always poopin’ everywhere.’
‘I think she’s beautiful.’ Dimpsie stroked her long black tail and Petula pecked her hand hard.
‘Nasty spiteful thing!’ said Nan.
Dimpsie smiled, rubbing the place which had turned red. ‘I expect she thought I was taking liberties.’
Petula hopped on to Nan’s magazine, deposited a white blob on the face of Princess Michael of Kent and then flew up to the top of the cupboard.
‘Dad! That damn bird’s done it again!’ Nan wailed.
Mr O’Shaunessy zoomed over with a hanky and scrubbed the princess’s face clean. Then he covered the table with a clean cloth which, though unironed, was as white as the snow outside and put on it blue and white striped mugs and plates with a matching sugar bowl and milk jug. He set a brown teapot in front of Dimpsie and indicated with a nod of his head that she should pour. I was so hungry I could not take my eyes from whatever was beneath the checked tea towel. He lifted it to reveal a Singin’ Hinny, which is a speciality of Northumberland, a cross between a cake and a large flat scone filled with currants. He cut it into four pieces, split each one and buttered it. I shut my eyes to savour fully the taste of childhood, sweet and rich and satisfying.
‘This is perfection.’ I opened my eyes to smile at Mr O’Shaunessy.
He gave me a doubtful look. ‘Ye don’t disdain our simple food t’en?’
‘Certainly not.’ I felt rather indignant at the imputation that I was a snob. But I reminded myself that people who live unconventionally must often be in receipt of slights and snubs. ‘It’s one of my favourite things.’
Nan looked up. ‘My favourite thing’s smoked salmon. I’ve only ate it once. I suppose ye eat it all the time.’
‘No, I don’t. I can’t afford it.’
‘Ye canna be poor. Yer fatha’s a doctor.’
‘Yes, but I support myself. Anyway, my father isn’t interested in food. He’d be furious if we spent his money on things like smoked salmon.’
‘If I had any money, I’d eat smoked salmon every day. I’d never look at another Singin’ Hinny. Daft name, anyways.’
She returned to flicking through the magazine while eating the despised Hinny, her little finger extended to express disgust. Mr O’Shaunessy looked annoyed but said nothing. The warmth of the heater condensed on the windows in silvery trickles. The cosy cheerfulness of the caravan ought to have put anyone in a good mood, yet it was clear that father and daughter were not happy. I wondered what had happened to Mrs O’Shaunessy. Above the sink was a plate-rack that held two plates and two glasses. A Tilley lamp shed light on a tidily folded pile of blankets and two pillows. Presumably each night the banquettes became beds. I tried to imagine myself living in such proximity with my father, sleeping, dressing and undressing in the same room and shivered inwardly at the thought.
‘Are your clocks for sale, Mr O’Shaunessy?’ asked Dimpsie.
‘Aye. Twice a year a man comes from t’e USA and takes t’em all away.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t think of trying to sell them locally? I have a craft shop in the village.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid most of the things are pretty awful. But if I could get people to supply me with nicer things it might do better in the summer when the tourists come.’
‘The Americans send me the innards, the clock mechanism, see. I’d have to pay for the parts.’
‘Well, couldn’t you do that? Or better still, let me. We could try just one to begin with.’ Dimpsie looked eager.
Mr O’Shaunessy stuck out his lower lip, debating inwardly. ‘Well, Mrs Savage, I don’t know—’
‘Oh, do call me Dimpsie. It’s a nickname – so silly, isn’t it, but it’s what my father called me because I was a fat little baby covered with dimples.’ Mr O’Shaunessy looked taken aback. I could see my mother was going on too fast for him, but that was her way when she liked people. She wanted to know everything about them immediately and to tell them everything about herself. She clasped her fingers together. ‘And may I call you Cuckoo?’
Mr O’Shaunessy looked affronted. ‘I know t’at’s what t’e bastards call me behind me back.’ He clenched his fist, a scarred gorilla’s paw. ‘I’d like to see t’e man who’d dare say it to me face!’
Dimpsie looked dismayed. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mr O’Shaunessy.’ She put her small hand on his arm where it was immediately lost among thick black whiskers. ‘It was stupid of me.’
Seeing contrition in every feature of her gentle face, Mr O’Shaunessy relented. ‘I was baptized John. But me friends call me Jode.’
‘Jode!’ My mother beamed, relieved to be forgiven. ‘So suitable. A very manly name.’
Mr O’Shaunessy – Jode, as he was from that moment on – squared his shoulders and looked gratified.
‘That’s settled then,’ she said. ‘You’ll write and ask them?’
He seemed to shrink a fraction. ‘I can’t read nor write. Nan deals wit’ letters and t’at.’
‘Oh … well …’ Dimpsie looked uneasy. There seemed to be so many opportunities for giving offence. ‘Why don’t I save Nan the trouble and send the letter myself? What do you say, Nan?’
She had been deep in an article about the best way to store fur coats. When the matter was explained to her, she shrugged characteristically and said, ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Dimpsie lifted her mug of tea. ‘May this be the beginning of a fruitful partnership. A pity we haven’t anything stronger to celebrate with.’
‘Dad don’t approve of drink,’ said Nan, not looking up.
‘Oh, no, of course not. Neither do I, actually.’ She caught my eye and blushed.
Jode exposed teeth like anti-tank bollards. ‘What say we have a singsong instead? Not’ing like a hymn for lifting t’e spirits.’
Dimpsie and I exchanged glances of alarm. Neither of us could sing a note.
‘Grow up, Dad!’ Nan growled. ‘Who wants te yawl their lungs out on a pissin’ awful day in a van in the middle of a clarty field? Anyway, you’ll wake the babby.’
Jode frowned momentarily, then rubbed his face with his hand to restore an expression of good humour. ‘Have another bit of cake, Nan. Maybe it’ll sweeten yer temper.’
‘It’ll take more’n a bit of cake to do that!’ Nan flashed out.
‘You’ll forgive her kittle humour.’ Jode turned to Dimpsie. ‘She’s been disappointed in love and there’s no pain so sore.’
‘Dad! Give over talking about me as if I woren’t here!’ Nan’s eyes filled. ‘I hate men and I don’t want owt more to do wi’ them.’
Cast
ing about for a diversion, Dimpsie remembered the things we had brought with us. After a cursory glance Nan showed little interest, but Jode exclaimed politely over each article as though we had opened a casket of precious jewels, which made their awfulness more embarrassing. While he was admiring the kitten-pig, the involuntary beneficiary of the craft-shop cast-offs began to cry. Tenderly Jode lifted the infant from the box and brought him over to the table. He offered the bundle of waving arms and legs to Nan, but she turned to stare out of the window.
‘May I?’ Dimpsie held out her arms. Her expression as he laid the baby in them made me feel that every step of the way had been well worth it.
Little Harrison Ford’s face was salmon-coloured with emotion. His mouth was wide open, showing pale pink gums and a uvula that trembled proportionally with the volume of his crying. Jode gave the feeding bottle to Dimpsie with the air of one bestowing the freedom of Newcastle on its most illustrious citizen. My ears rang in the sudden silence as the baby stopped howling and sucked urgently, opening and closing its tiny fists, its entire body tense with concentration. Jode watched dotingly as the child consumed the bottle’s contents, while Nan read an article about shopping in the Brompton Road, which could only serve to embitter. The baby lay still for a few moments, at peace with the world. Then his face turned from salmon to crimson. Even his eyes seemed to redden.
‘He’s filling his nappy. Regular as clockwork,’ said the happy grandfather. ‘Give him te me.’
He took him to the other end of the caravan, which was not far. Nan held her little upturned nose while the changing was going on. I tried to breathe through my mouth. Dimpsie looked as delighted as though her nostrils were assailed by the sweet gums of Araby. She and Jode were under a spell woven by Nature to ensure the upbringing of at least some of her progeny.
I glanced out of the window at the darkening sky.
‘We must go,’ I said to Dimpsie.
Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs Page 23