B07F6HL2NB

by Frances Garrood

  I realise that the more complicated it becomes the more Eric enjoys it, but have enough sense not to say so.

  ‘So you see, we’ll have to have a garden, or even a small park, for all the creatures which can’t do without living plants. At this rate, the Isle of Wight is definitely going to be too small. Perhaps something the size of Gibraltar.’ He rubs his head. ‘How big is Gibraltar?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Eric, you can’t have a park on a boat. The soil would rot the boards and fall through.’

  Eric sighs. ‘Ruth, you’re missing the point, like everyone else. I thought you at least understood. Of course it’s not possible. At least, not possible on an Ark. But on a structure the size of Gibraltar — whatever that is — and reinforced with concrete (I must ask someone about that) it might be possible. Or maybe I could line the foundations with plastic.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have had concrete in those days,’ I remind him. ‘Or plastic.’

  ‘I know, I know. That’s not the point, either.’ He jots down a note to himself. ‘Come to think of it, I believe there’s a cruise ship with a small golf course,’ he says thoughtfully.

  ‘Is there really?’

  ‘I believe so.’ He folds up his charts. ‘Ruth, are you all right?’ He pats my bump. ‘Not long to go now.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

  ‘It won’t be so bad, you know.’

  ‘What? The baby? Childbirth? The — my — future?’

  ‘All of them.’ He holds out his hand, and draws me down beside him on the sofa. ‘You’ll be all right, you know. And we’ll do anything we can for you. You’ll always have a home here, if you need one.’

  ‘I know.’ I squeeze his hand, and my eyes fill with tears. ‘Kent’s so lucky.’

  ‘Why? Why is he lucky?’

  ‘To have you — you and Silas — as his father. Fathers, I mean.’

  ‘You have a good father, Ruth. And he does care, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps he does, but at the moment I want to feel that he cares.’ I look down at our linked hands. ‘I don’t think my father has so much as touched me since I was a small child.’

  ‘People have different ways of showing affection. Some just aren’t the hugging kind.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ I lift Eric’s hand and hold it against my cheek. It is rough and chapped from working outside in all weathers, but the feel of it is infinitely comforting, and I realise that what I miss more than anything else at the moment is physical contact with another human being.

  ‘He’s a fortunate man, your Amos,’ Eric says, as though reading my thoughts. ‘I hope he does come and find you soon, and discover that for himself.’

  ‘Oh, so do I, Eric. So do I.’

  I gaze out of the window, where a wintry dusk is already draining away what little daylight we’ve had. Somewhere out there, perhaps not very far away, is Amos. I wonder what he’s doing at this moment; whether he’s playing his trombone, perhaps having a pint in a pub with a friend, driving somewhere in his dreadful old car, making a curry (Amos makes good curries). If I believed in telepathy, I’d send him a message. As it is, I just have to hope that one of the smattering of messages I’ve left all over the country reaches him soon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  March comes in like the proverbial lion. A biting east wind whisks the last few brittle autumn leaves round the frozen garden and penetrates under doors and the edges of ill-fitting windows. The animals huddle in their sheds, and we huddle indoors, wrapped in as many layers as we can lay hands on. I look like a Russian doll; as though within each layer of clothing there lies another, smaller woman, similarly clad. Mum, who has never been good with the cold, suffers terribly from chilblains, and Silas, who still hasn’t regained all the weight he lost during his illness, feels the cold more than usual. He is banned from outdoor duties, although he protests that he is fine, and that the ‘fresh air will do him good’. Eric points out that it’s more likely to kill him, and fortunately the medical bible agrees, so Silas has to do as he’s told. He takes comfort from the corpse of the hare, recovered from beneath the frozen remains of Dorothy. We all hope that the stuffing of this unfortunate animal will keep him amused until the warmer weather arrives. The only people unaffected by the cold are Lazzo, who strides back and forth, often in his shirtsleeves, seeing to the animals, and Kaz and Kent. Having for the time being at least resolved their differences, they appear to have recaptured their initial glow, and this seems to be enough to keep them happy, if not exactly warm.

  The baby is late. I never expected it to arrive on time, considering that after so long in the womb, it should be allowed a little leeway. I have never understood how babies can be late. I can see that early could be a problem; even I know that premature babies are bound to be underdeveloped. But late? It seems to me more than likely that each baby comes in its own time, and that that time varies from baby to baby.

  But the midwife disagrees, and mutters about weight loss and something called ‘placental insufficiency’. I know that the reason I have lost weight is that indigestion prevents me from eating as much as I normally would, but the midwife, a busty bossy woman, doesn’t listen. I tell her it’s my body; she says what about the baby? I say it’s my baby, too; she says I’m being selfish, and threatens to have it induced. I ask whether this can be done without my consent. She reluctantly admits that it can’t. Well, then.

  I sit around and wait. Because of my size and accompanying exhaustion, I was relegated some time ago to light duties — feeding the hens, helping Mum with meals, a spot of hen house duty — but now everyone insists on treating me like an invalid, and I’m hardly allowed to do anything at all. I read and try to play the violin, but my attention span is so limited that I can’t concentrate on either. My sleep is disturbed by the activities of the baby, who appears to have no notion of day or night, and by bad dreams. I have a recurring nightmare in which the baby refuses to come out — in fact never comes out — and I get bigger and bigger as the years go by.

  ‘He’s a man now, you know,’ says the midwife, who is still apparently in attendance. ‘He’s started shaving.’

  The idea of a fully-grown man living inside me and actually shaving is so horrendous that it invariably wakes me up.

  These days, I hardly recognise Kaz. Gone is most of the ironmongery which used to adorn her face, her hair is returning to its natural colour (a pleasant shade of honey) and she’s trying to give up cigarettes (Kent hates them).

  ‘Though it’s bloody difficult,’ she tells me, as we shiver together outside the back door while she has a smoke. She’s down to seven a day, and rations them carefully so as to get the most out of them. ‘If you’ve never smoked, you don’t know how wonderful it is. That first long pull of smoke into your lungs — there’s nothing like it.’ She removes what is now a minuscule stub from between her lips, gazes at it wistfully for a moment, and then screws it carefully into the ground with her heel. ‘Let’s go in and get warm.’

  We wake the next morning to snow. When I look out of the window, the garden and the fields beyond are carpeted in white. The roofs and corners of the outbuildings are rounded and softened by snow, making them resemble gingerbread houses, and the branches of the trees are bent low under its weight. There isn’t a breath of wind.

  Perhaps there’s still something of the child in me, for I never fail to be excited by snow. The magic white light, which seems to glow on the walls even before you’ve opened the curtains; the softness of the silence; the treat of being the first to make footfalls in virgin snow. Of course, as a child, I had snowballs and snowmen to look forward to, and I think I can say I’ve grown out of those, but there is still something special about waking up to snow, especially when, as today, it is totally unexpected.

  But it would appear that I’m the only one excited by the snow, for downstairs, everyone is grumbling. Snow means more work, of course. It needs to be negotiated or shovelled away; such animals as are still allowed
out during the day will have to be kept in, which means more mucking out; everything takes twice the time when you have to tramp through snow.

  ‘Blossom won’t be in,’ says Eric wearily.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She never comes when it snows. Says the bike won’t work.’

  ‘Well, she may have a point.’

  ‘She may. But I think the real point is that she doesn’t like snow.’

  But Lazzo turns up, full of good cheer, and between us all (for once, my offers of help are accepted) we get the jobs done. By lunch-time, the snow is pock-marked by trails of footsteps, crossing and re-crossing each other, and my excitement has evaporated as quickly as it arrived. My fingers are stiff with cold, my feet are numb inside my wellingtons, and I know without looking that my cheeks have turned an unattractive shade of purple. Maybe snow isn’t so much fun after all.

  But after lunch, Mikey and Gavin turn up.

  ‘We’ve come to help you make a snowman!’ Mikey says. ‘To cheer you up.’

  ‘What a ridiculous idea.’ I’m no longer in the mood for snowmen. ‘Haven’t you got a job to go to?’

  ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘Oh. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Come on, Ruth. It’s your last chance to be a kid before you’re a mother.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know.’

  So we make a snowman. Kaz and Kent join in, and when it’s finished, I have to admit that it’s the best snowman I’ve ever seen. It — he — is huge (Mikey made the finishing touches with the help of a stepladder), and sports a rather fetching trilby hat and a moth-eaten dinner jacket.

  ‘There. Don’t you feel better now?’ Mikey brushes snow off his jacket and beams at me.

  ‘You know, I think I do.’

  ‘I said you would. It brings out the child in you.’

  ‘That’s actually what I’m waiting for.’

  ‘So you are!’

  We all howl with laughter, while my father, who doesn’t do fun in any form, watches us pityingly from the sitting-room window and Mr. Darcy runs round and round in circles, dizzy with excitement. A lone pilgrim, waiting for someone to attend to her, watches in astonishment, and Eric and Silas applaud from the back doorway.

  Today has turned out to be a good day after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Late in the evening, the wind gets up again, and before long it’s howling round the house and down the chimney.

  ‘It’s snowing again. Already drifting,’ says Kaz, letting in a blast of ice-cold air as she comes in from checking on the animals. ‘Bloody hell, it’s cold. Put the kettle on, someone. I can’t move my fingers.’

  Kent obliges, and Kaz peels off several layers and then goes to warm herself by the Aga.

  ‘I think they forecast a blizzard,’ says Eric mildly.

  ‘Now he tells us,’ mutters Kaz.

  ‘Well, what would you have done about it?’ Eric is scribbling madly at the kitchen table, making notes from a textbook. ‘D’you know what? I forgot all about the dodo!’

  ‘What about the dodo?’ Kent asks.

  ‘It would have been on the Ark.’

  ‘But it’s extinct,’ Kaz objects.

  ‘It wasn’t then, though, was it?’ I can tell from Eric’s tone that he was hoping someone would say this.

  ‘Well, no. But do you have to have it?’ I ask him. ‘After all, you’ve left out other birds, haven’t you? Why not leave out the dodo?’ I have a ridiculous mental image of a pair of dodos waddling up the gangplank into the welcoming arms of the Noah family.

  ‘Because it’s important. The fact that it’s extinct could mean it’s quite old —’

  ‘Or quite careless.’

  ‘I wish you’d take this seriously, Ruth.’

  ‘How can anyone take dodos seriously?’

  ‘It nests on the ground, so it will have to be kept separate in case someone treads on its babies.’ Eric makes another note. ‘Apparently it wasn’t very bright.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ murmurs Silas.

  ‘What did you say, Silas?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Silas has nearly finished his hare, and is enormously pleased with it, although apparently hares’ eyes are hard to get hold of. ‘Will rabbit’s eyes do, do you suppose?’

  It is at this stage, in the middle of the dodo/hares’ eyes discussion, that two things happen at once. All the lights go out and my waters break.

  ‘Bugger!’ I stand shocked into inactivity, warm water trickling down my legs and seeping into my socks. What do I do next?

  ‘It’s only a power cut, Ruth. Not to worry,’ says Eric, foraging in a drawer for candles and matches.

  ‘No. It’s the baby. I think it’s started.’

  There is a stunned silence (which, when I come to think about it, is odd, since it’s what everyone seems to have been waiting for).

  ‘Where’s Rosie?’ Silas asks, after a moment.

  ‘She’s gone up to bed. She was feeling a bit under the weather. Do you think you can hang on, Ruth?’

  The idea of hanging on to a baby who has decided to be born is so ridiculous that I laugh.

  ‘No,’ I tell him, ‘I don’t think I can hang on. Or rather, I don’t know whether I can hang on. I’ve never done this before. But don’t disturb Mum yet. This will probably take ages.’

  ‘Not a good night to have a baby,’ Silas remarks, going over to the window and drawing back the curtain. Frenzied snowflakes are hurling themselves against the darkened window. They appear to be going up rather than down.

  ‘Thank you, Silas.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ruth. But I’m sure you’ll be ok. It says in my book —’

  ‘Silas, this is not the time for your book. I need proper help. I think I should phone the hospital.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Silas sounds disappointed. ‘Can I ring them for you?’

  ‘I think I’d better speak to them myself.’

  But it isn’t only the power lines that have come down, and the phone is dead.

  ‘Mobiles. Has someone got a mobile?’ Kent asks. Kent himself doesn’t use a mobile, and knows very little about them.

  ‘No signal here,’ Eric says. ‘No-one can use a mobile from Applegarth.’

  ‘We could try,’ says Silas.

  We try. Three mobiles attempt to phone the hospital, and fail.

  The first pain rises like a wave in my stomach. It isn’t too bad, but I think it means business. I look at the circle of helpless faces round the candlelit kitchen table, hoping someone will say something helpful.

  ‘I’ll drive her to the hospital. Get your things, Ruth,’ says Kaz. ‘And for God’s sake, wrap up warm.’

  ‘In that case we really do need to fetch Rosie. Brian, could you go and tell her? She’ll need some warm clothing,’ Eric says.

  Dad, who has been standing helplessly in the background, seems only too pleased to have something to do, and hurries off upstairs, while I pack a small suitcase (this should have been ready weeks ago, but somehow denial got in the way, so I’ve probably left vital things out).

  Ten minutes later, Kaz, Mum and I totter unsteadily out into the blizzard, together with Kent, who’s coming as extra support. The snow is falling fast, blown in all directions by a wind which is threatening to become a hurricane, stinging our faces in icy gusts and forming steep drifts all over the garden. We scoop the snow off Kaz’s car, our hands already numb with cold, and climb in. With four adults and a suitcase, the car seems very full, and fulfils my worst fears by refusing to start.

  ‘We’ll have to take the Land Rover,’ Kaz says.

  ‘Are you insured for it?’ I ask.

  ‘Ruth, this is an emergency. Insurance doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘I’ll drive if you like,’ Kent offers.

  ‘Please.’

  Kent fetches the keys, and we all pile in. By now, I’m so cold that it’s somehow ceased to matter. I sit hunched in the front passenger seat, my ar
ms wrapped around my stomach, waiting for the next pain. It comes in a gentle crescendo, but is still easily bearable. I’m beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about. So far (weather conditions notwithstanding) this is proving to be a doddle.

  We make our way cautiously down the driveway, through drifts of snow, the windscreen practically obscured by a billion snowflakes which dance and dazzle in the headlights.

  After about ten yards, the Land Rover comes to a gentle halt. Kent revs the engine, but nothing happens. He gets out to have a look.

  ‘There’s a huge drift,’ he tells us, ‘and a massive tree’s come down. We won’t be able to get out, even if we manage to clear the snow.’

  His voice is practically drowned out by the wind, but his meaning is clear. We’re stuck.

  ‘Is there another way round?’ he yells.

  ‘No.’ I know this for a fact. The track is the only route through the thickly wooded coppice which separates Applegarth from the road. Silas and Eric have discussed plans for a ‘back way’, but these have never come to fruition. To all intents and purposes, we’re stranded.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Mum’s gloved hands make little flapping movements. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘First things first. We need to get Ruth back into the house,’ Kaz says. ‘She’s frozen.’

  ‘Can you walk?’ Kent asks me. ‘Because the car is well and truly stuck now.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  With Kaz and Kent on either side of me and Mum still fretting behind us, we begin to walk back to the house. We are facing into the wind, which is so strong we can almost lean on it without falling. It hurls the snowflakes into our frozen faces, snatching away our breath, as we stumble over the hidden ruts, pausing as I have another, stronger contraction. Although it’s such a short distance, it takes us about fifteen minutes, and by the time we reach the house, we’re all exhausted.

  ‘Well, you said you loved snow. You’ve got snow,’ remarks Kaz, as we stumble in through the back door, bringing with us a strong gust of wind and yet more snow.