B07F6HL2NB

by Frances Garrood

  ‘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 should 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 (Blossom 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.

  ‘Church,’ says Blossom. ‘Church’ll do it.’

  ‘Oh, will they!’

  ‘I’ve asked.’

  ‘You had no right!’

  ‘No harm in asking.’ Blossom breathes on a glass she’s drying and polishes it. ‘He said yes.’

  ‘Who said yes?’

  ‘Father Vincent.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  Blossom goes on to explain that Father Vincent is quite happy for the parish secretary to distribute tickets. Not for money, of course; that wouldn’t be right. But it would limit numbers, and there would be strict visiting times.

  ‘You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?’ Silas asks wearily.

  ‘Yep.’ Blossom polishes another glass, and holds it up to the light.

  ‘Why, Blossom? Why are you doing this?’

  ‘For Our Lady,’ says Blossom piously.

  Eric and Silas look at each other.

  ‘I suppose we could look into it,’ Eric says. ‘Just look into it, mind. No promises.’ Eric is currently preoccupied with the dietary habits of snakes, and is anxious to defuse the situation so that he can return to his researches. ‘And of course, we’ll have to speak to Father Vincent.’

  ‘If — if we decided to go ahead with all this, how much would your Lazzo charge for his — relocation activities?’ Silas asks.

  ‘Wouldn’t charge,’ says Blossom.

  ‘What, nothing at all?’

  ‘S’right. Do it instead of penance.’

  I know a bit about Catholics and their penances. With a bit of luck, Lazzo might even get time off purgatory, as well. If he’s anything like his mother, he could probably do with it.

  ‘We’ll need to phone Father Vincent,’ Silas says.

  ‘You do that.’ Blossom puts away the last of the crockery. ‘Going to do the pigs.’ She goes out of the back door, closing it quietly behind her.

  ‘Goodness!’ says Silas. ‘If that’s what Blossom’s Virgin does for her, it’s almost worth it.’

  ‘Hmm. I want to know what Father Vincent has to say,’ Eric tells him ‘I have a feeling we haven’t heard the whole story.’

  After a lengthy telephone conversation, Eric informs us that we’ve been seriously misled.

  ‘Reading between the lines, I suspect that Father Vincent agreed to Blossom’s suggestion in order to get her off his back. It was late last night, and he says he’d “had a little drink or two”. He did admit he’d said yes to something, but he can’t remember what. Most unwise.’

  ‘Did you explain?’ Silas asks.

  ‘Yes. To be honest, I don’t think Father Vincent’s too bothered about Blossom and her Virgin. I get the feeling he’d probably agree to anything. But apparently, he has a very accommodating secretary, and he says that she’d probably agree to give out tickets. Provided it doesn’t take up too much of her time.’

  Listening to this exchange, I build up a picture of an idle parish priest, fond of a tipple, and a poor overworked secretary, who’ll probably be less than enthusiastic about all this. I may of course be wrong.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Poor Mum, who is also listening, is looking more panic-stricken by the minute.

  ‘Nothing. Yet.’ Silas smiles at her. ‘And certainly nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘People aren’t going to worship this — this thing, are they?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course not,’ says Eric, who I’m sure has no idea what they’re going to do. ‘And nothing’s been decided yet, in any case.’

  ‘I could help,’ I say, after Mum’s left the room, for I’ve been thinking. ‘I could oversee things; make sure no-one steps out of line.’

  ‘Oh, not you too, Ruth. I thought you of all people would understand!’ says Silas.

  ‘Of course I understand. It’s just that I have a feeling you’re going to give in anyway, so we might as well do the thing properly.’

  ‘And that includes the church and tickets?’

  ‘It could do. But not every day, of
course. If we restrict visitors to certain times, then surely there’s no harm in it. And if things don’t work out, or people become a nuisance, we can always paint over it again.’

  The truth is, despite the fact that I’m enjoying my new life, I still have time on my hands. I do my bit to help, and there’s my weekly busking, but Blossom’s Virgin offers new possibilities, and it would be something else to take my mind off the future.

  ‘Are you prepared to do this? Because we certainly haven’t got time.’

  ‘Yes. It might be fun.’

  ‘Don’t let Blossom hear you say that.’

  ‘I think Blossom will agree to anything, if you let her keep her Virgin.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want Lazzo around the place,’ says Eric. ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I know even less about Lazzo than my uncles do. ‘But you could say you’d like to meet him first.’

  ‘I suppose we could.’

  Lazzo turns up later in the afternoon. He’s not at all what I expected, for while he’s not especially tall, he’s built like an army truck, with a wide moon of a face, short thick legs and hands like shovels. Taken all together, his appearance would be terrifying if it were not for the mild, almost childlike expression in his eyes, which are so pale as to be almost colourless. It’s hard to believe that Lazzo ever issued from the womb of anyone as tiny as Blossom, but this must have been the case (and of course, he was premature. Perhaps Blossom’s body, as uncompromising as Blossom herself, expelled him as soon as he’d outstayed his welcome). On reflection, I’m grateful that I shall never have to meet Lazzo’s father.

  ‘Come to help,’ says Lazzo, leaning his (Blossom’s) bike against the wall. It would appear that he has inherited his mother’s way with words.

  We invite him indoors and ply him with tea (strong, four sugars) and biscuits (seven custard creams) after which we all repair to the hen house to see what would need to be done.

  Lazzo inspects the hen house and its possible destination, strokes the hens (he must have his mother’s way with animals, because the hens would normally run a mile rather than be stroked), and gives his stubbled chin a thoughtful rub.

  ‘Okay,’ he says.

  ‘You’ll — you would do it, then?’ Silas asks him.