B07F6HL2NB

by Frances Garrood

  ‘I’ll phone Father Vincent. That’s what I’ll do,’ Blossom says.

  ‘What can he do?’ Eric asks.

  ‘Father Vincent will know.’

  Father Vincent doesn’t know. When summoned to inspect Blossom’s miracle, he seems far more concerned about the mud on the route to the hen house and the lively and unwelcome attentions of Mr. Darcy than the possibility of any miraculous manifestation.

  ‘Hm.’ He stands at the side of the hen house, looking thoughtful.

  ‘Well? Well, Father?’ Blossom is almost skipping up and down in her excitement. I am amazed, not only at Blossom’s unusually high spirits and the sudden loosening of her tongue, but also by her demeanour. I have never seen Blossom showing respect for anyone before, but she is almost grovelling in her behaviour towards Father Vincent.

  Father Vincent puts on his spectacles and leans down, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘Hm,’ he says again.

  We all wait. It would appear that without Father Vincent’s imprimatur, Blossom’s miracle isn’t a miracle at all, so a lot hangs on his verdict.

  ‘You can see her, can’t you, Father? There she is, bless her, with all those little stars.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Yes? Yes, Father?’

  ‘I suppose it could be. Just could be. But it’s very hard to tell.’

  ‘Perhaps we should pray, Father? Shall we pray?’ Blossom makes as though to kneel down in the mud.

  ‘No need to kneel,’ Father Vincent says hastily. ‘We can pray standing here quietly.’

  Father Vincent and Blossom stand for several minutes with their eyes closed, and once again, we all wait. When they open their eyes, I find that I’m holding my breath, as though their verdict is of great importance.

  ‘It is the Blessed Virgin, isn’t it, Father? Please say it’s her!’ Blossom says.

  ‘It’s not for me to say whether or not this is the Blessed Virgin.’ Discreetly, Father Vincent wipes his shoes on a clump of grass.

  ‘Who then?’ I ask, unable to contain my curiosity. ‘Who decides what’s real and what isn’t?’

  ‘We need a miracle or two,’ says Father Vincent. ‘Yes. That’s what we need. A miracle.’

  ‘What sort of miracle?’

  ‘A healing, perhaps. Yes. A healing would certainly help.’

  I cast about in my mind for someone who needs healing.

  ‘Sarah has a touch of mastitis,’ Eric suggests.

  ‘Sarah?’ Father Vincent turns to him.

  ‘Our sow.’

  ‘Oh, no. Not a sow. That would not be appropriate.’ Father Vincent sighs. I feel that he is not really entering into the spirit of the occasion. ‘I’ll need to talk to the bishop.’

  Even I know that people like bishops are busy and take a long time to answer things, and as we all troop back into the house for a cup of tea, I feel quite sorry for Blossom. After all, does it really matter whether her Virgin is real or not? If it makes Blossom happy (and it would seem that it does) then where’s the harm?

  But despite her disappointment, Blossom seems strangely cheery, stirring Father Vincent’s tea for him and getting out chocolate biscuits and even cracking a little joke or two. I have the distinct feeling that Blossom is up to something, and I wonder what it can be.

  In the event, I don’t have long to wait.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two days later, Blossom turns up with two strange men who, she says, wish to pay their respects to the Virgin. She will escort them herself, she tells us. She knows how busy we all are (Does she? Blossom never seems to have any idea what anyone else is doing, and cares even less, but we let it pass).

  But on Friday, we find out who Blossom’s friends were.

  MIR-EGG-LE OF THE HEN HOUSE! screams the headline in the local paper, together with what appears to be a craftily airbrushed photograph of Blossom’s Virgin and a half-page article about Blossom herself:

  ‘Local farmer, Blossom Edgar, has discovered what is believed to be a manifestation of the Blessed Virgin Mary ingrained in the wood of her hen house’, it begins.

  Blossom a farmer? Blossom’s hen house? Even Eric and Silas are indignant.

  ‘Well, really, Blossom. This is a bit much. You could at least have asked us,’ Eric says.

  ‘You’d have said no.’ Blossom is unrepentant.

  ‘Yes. We almost certainly would have.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘But Blossom, this is our house and our hen house. We should be the ones to decide whether we want to be invaded by the press.’

  ‘Should be pleased.’ It would seem that Blossom has returned to monosyllabic mode.

  ‘Well, we’re not.’

  ‘Too late,’ says Blossom with a hint of triumph.

  ‘Well, yes. In this case, it is too late. But please don’t let anything like this happen again.’

  ‘Oh well. I suppose there’s no harm done,’ Silas says later when Blossom has gone home. ‘And she’s had her moment of glory.’

  But the following week, the first pilgrims arrive.

  ‘Where is she? Where’s the Blessed Virgin?’ The two women who appear at the front door are breathless with excitement.

  ‘I’m afraid this is private property,’ I tell them. ‘And in any case, the — the manifestation has to be verified. It may take some time.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t mind about that,’ one of them assures me. ‘We can make up our own minds.’

  ‘But this is still private property. I’m afraid I can’t invite you in. It’s not my land. And the owners are out.’ Eric and Silas have gone to the feed merchant in town.

  ‘If it is the Blessed Virgin, then you have no right to keep her to yourself. This kind of thing belongs to everyone.’ She turns to her companion. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Well...’ The other woman looks uncertain.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she continues. ‘It’ll be round the back. We don’t need to trouble you, and we won’t be any bother. Just ignore us.’

  And before I have time to think of a reply, she has taken her companion’s arm and led her round the back of the house towards the outbuildings. They look harmless enough, and as it’s pouring with rain, I decide to leave them to it, although I keep a watchful eye from the kitchen window.

  When Eric and Silas return, I tell them about our visitors.

  ‘Probably just a one-off,’ says Silas. ‘I don’t expect we’ll be bothered again.’

  But how wrong can you be. The next day, there are two small parties, and the day after that, four. Blossom, who has had two days off, is delighted when we tell her what’s been happening.

  ‘A shrine,’ she says ecstatically. ‘A shrine in our own garden!’

  ‘No, in our garden, Blossom,’ Eric says. ‘We’ve already told you, this is our garden, not yours. And the hen house is ours too. You have no right to invite all these strangers round as though you own the place. It really is too much!’

  I have never seen either of my uncles angry before, but obviously the very real threat posed to their privacy is having its effect.

  ‘Didn’t invite them,’ says Blossom mutinously. ‘Just came.’

  ‘Yes, because of that stupid article in the paper. Blossom, you knew this would happen, didn’t you?’

  ‘Might have.’

  ‘Of course you did. I have a good mind to take the hen house to pieces and destroy that panel. I can always make another.’

  ‘Can’t do that. It’s holy. It’s a shrine.’

  ‘Just you watch me.’

  ‘Your dad’s hen house? Turn in his grave.’

  ‘He’d get over it.’

  Eric and Blossom glare at each other for a moment, then Blossom appears to change tack.

  ‘I’ll sort it out. See to the visitors. Won’t know they’re there.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Eric looks doubtful, as well he might. ‘They’ll disturb the animals. And then there’s the security risk, too.’


  ‘Leave it to me,’ says Blossom.

  ‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea. What do you think?’ He turns to his brother.

  ‘Let’s give it a few more days, and see what happens,’ says Silas, whose mind is on other things. He has found a particularly pleasing specimen by the roadside on the way home and is obviously longing to deal with it. ‘This may all die down.’

  But the pilgrims keep on coming. They arrive in cars and on foot, and they traipse up and down the garden, creating a mud bath as they go. To be fair, they are on the whole respectful and apologetic, they don’t make much noise and they come and go quite quickly, but they are there. And someone has to be around to oversee the proceedings.

  A week later, when an entire minibus full of pilgrims has made its way up the track, my uncles are at their wits’ end.

  ‘The trouble is, they’ll come whether we let them or not,’ says Silas. ‘And the idea of people creeping round the house in the middle of the night to pay homage to our hen house, and disturb the hens, is not a pleasant one.’

  ‘Creosote,’ says Silas. ‘We’ll creosote the whole hen house, and that will be that.’

  ‘We can’t. Creosote’s illegal. Cancer risk or some such nonsense,’ Eric tells him.

  ‘Paint, then. We’ll paint it.’

  ‘Seems a pity. It won’t fit in with the other outbuildings.’

  I open my mouth to suggest that nothing other than total squalor would fit in to the chaos of tumbledown sheds which comprise my uncles’ domain, but then I close it again.

  ‘Wood preservative, then,’ says Eric.

  ‘Won’t it show through?’ I ask.

  ‘Shouldn’t do. And it could do with a spot of weatherproofing, anyway. This way, we’ll kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Or chickens.’

  ‘This isn’t funny, Ruth. We have a real problem here.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You can help. It shouldn’t take long.’

  The following day, Eric drives into town and returns with several large tins of very dark wood preservative, and by the evening, we have the whole job done. The hen house looks very smart, standing out among the other more ramshackle outbuildings, but more to the point, there is no sign of the Virgin. Several disappointed visitors have had to be turned away, and there is now a large sign on the gate to the effect that the Virgin Mary has “disappeared”.

  ‘Which is true enough,’ says Silas, ‘even if she needed a little help. After all, if these manifestations can appear, then presumably they can disappear. I’m going back to my fox.’

  Neither Eric nor I are going to argue with him. The fox in question has been with us now for two days, and is beginning to smell.

  ‘What do you think Blossom will say?’ I ask Eric, as he and I mix feed for the pigs.

  ‘She’ll be furious. Apart from anything else, she hates not having her own way.’

  ‘We did do the right, thing, didn’t we?’

  ‘Of course we did.’ Eric laughs. ‘You’re not turning Catholic on us are you? It’s a bit late for that.’

  ‘No. But you must admit, it was odd. It really did look like — well, like something. A bit more than a few knots in the wood, anyway.’

  ‘I reckon Blossom’s Father Vincent will be relieved,’ Eric says. ‘He didn’t seem at all keen on the idea of a shrine on his patch, and I can’t say I blame him.’ He slops pig feed into a trough. ‘It seems to me that miracles are a lot more trouble than they’re worth.’

  But if Eric thinks miracles are trouble, they are nothing compared to Blossom’s reaction when she comes to work the next day and finds out what we’ve done. Shocked silence gives way to hysteria, followed by a torrent of vituperation. What we have done is apparently worse than blasphemy, worse than the blackest of mortal sins. Not only have we looked a spiritual gift horse in the mouth, we have outraged God Himself with our behaviour. We are worse than heathens and idolaters, and are, all three of us, condemned to eternal hell fire.

  ‘Goodness!’ says Silas, when Blossom has slammed out of the back door to have another look at our handiwork. ‘I didn’t know Blossom even knew half those words. She’s a dark horse, and no mistake.’

  ‘Why do you let her talk to you like that?’ I ask them, more surprised at my uncles’ reaction than by Blossom’s behaviour, which was more or less what I had expected (Blossom’s vocabulary is all there when she chooses to use it, as I’ve discovered to my cost).

  ‘We don’t “let” Blossom do anything. She’s a law unto herself.’ The plans for Eric’s Ark are spread all over the table, and he’s engrossed in designing an enclosure for some of his reptiles. He doodles with his pencil and rubs his chin. ‘Do crocodiles eat snakes?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Ring the zoo and ask, Ruth. There’s a pet.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Within a week, the drama of the hen house and its apparition has died down. One or two visitors still knock on the door to enquire about the whereabouts of the Virgin, but most people appear to have accepted her disappearance, and life returns to normal. Blossom’s attitude remains unforgiving, but as Eric remarks, we can live with that. She never was a little ray of sunshine, so the fact that she’s sulking is barely noticeable, and if her efforts with the duster and the vacuum cleaner are even less effective than before, her devotion to the animals remains intact. Even Blossom can’t blame the animals.

  Meanwhile, my own attention returns to my burgeoning pregnancy. With all the recent goings-on, not to mention my preoccupation with finding Amos, I have given scant thought to the development of the baby, but it would seem that my attention is not required for it to flourish quite satisfactorily. It continues to grow steadily, and of course I continue to grow with it.

  My feelings towards it are ambivalent. While I am happy to acknowledge the miraculous nature of pregnancy and childbirth, I am not quite so happy about the way I am being taken over. Accustomed to having my body to myself, I find that there are times when I resent having to share it with someone else; someone who will grow and stretch, making me grow and stretch too; someone who plans to requisition my breasts for feeding purposes, and to that end is already causing them to balloon out of all proportion to the rest of me (I have always been rather proud of my small, neat boobs). And it’s not just my body that I have to share. Presumably I have to share my nutrition as well, and common sense tells me that the baby will get first pick of everything — food that I have eaten, for me — leaving me with such organic leftovers as are not required for its further development. Add to all this the tiredness and the mood swings, and the fact that neither the baby nor I are allowed to mitigate them with a soothing glass or two of wine, and there are times when I feel more than a little hard done by.

  None of this is helped by the involvement of my uncles. Ever since the scan, they have taken a proprietorial interest in my condition, volunteering to take me into town for my check-ups and on occasion entertaining perfect strangers with accounts of my progress. The grainy photographs still play a part in all this, one of them currently occupying the mantelpiece (together with a handful of baler twine, the latest electricity bill and several empty rifle cartridges), but I find that my own enthusiasm for my condition diminishes in inverse relation to that of my uncles. It is as though the baby has become their property rather than mine, and while I know that it needs all the friends it can get, I find myself resenting this. I am tired of being asked how I am feeling (tired), whether I have felt the baby moving (no) and whether I’m feeling excited about it (no, no, no!).

  And then there is Silas’s particular interest in all things medical.

  In my experience, there are two kinds of hypochondriac. There is the anxious, neurotic am-I-going-to-die-of-this kind, and the interested, isn’t-this-fascinating kind. Silas’s hypochondria is of the second variety. Hence, while he anticipates — seems almost to want — investigations and operations, he appears unafraid either of them or of the poss
ible outcomes. Not for Silas the gloomy contemplation of death and disease; more the dispassionate absorption of the scientist. Silas is deeply interested in the workings of his body, and sees illness, real or imagined, as a challenge; a problem to be solved rather than an unpleasant experience to be endured. I personally feel that it is no coincidence that Silas has taken to taxidermy. When he has no preoccupations with his own body, he can concentrate on trying to restore those of his hapless subjects. In many way, Silas would have made a very good doctor.

  The Book of Family Medicine, his favoured bedside reading, is a well-thumbed volume to which he has frequent recourse. Its fragile pages are worn, many of its paragraphs underscored, with comments in the margins in Silas’s spidery handwriting, and he is happy to dispense its advice to anyone who might require it. He also possesses an ancient stethoscope, courtesy of a medical friend (although I think it unlikely that he has any idea what he’s listening for) and a DIY blood pressure machine. Since I joined the household Silas has self-diagnosed, variously, a brain tumour, appendicitis and a duodenal ulcer. These have all subsided within a few hours — before medical help could be sought — but have been as real to Silas as the genuine article. In many ways it’s a good thing he doesn’t have access to the internet, which can be a rich source of medical misinformation (and misleading suggestions) to people like Silas.

  Silas’s hypochondria extends to the rest of the household — a kind of hypochondria by proxy — and this can be tiresome. His book has a large section on Pregnancy and its Complications, and I find him reading it covertly when he thinks I’m not looking.

  ‘How’s the blood pressure, Ruth?’ he asks me this morning. We are in the kitchen together, where Silas is putting the finishing touches to his fox.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, it was last time.’

  ‘Should I — would you like me to check it for you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’