The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Mine of course.’

  ‘What unreasonable behaviour?’ I asked him.

  ‘Good question.’ Amos sipped his pint. ‘Something about noisy practising and chicken curry and socks —’

  ‘Socks?’

  ‘I like brightly-coloured socks and she hates them. Hardly grounds for divorce.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have worn more subdued ones?’ I ventured.

  ‘Ruth, you’re missing the point.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The woman is totally unreasonable. Another beer?’

  ‘Please.’

  Amos pushed our empty glasses across the bar and nodded to the barman.

  ‘No mention of her adultery, of course,’ he continued. ‘Now that is grounds for divorce. But, oh dear me, no. I’m not allowed to drag her precious “private life” through the divorce courts. So it’s back to me and my curries and my socks.’ He sighed. ‘I never asked for all this unpleasantness, but it seems that it goes with the territory. I just want to get the whole thing sorted as painlessly as possible. Not a lot to ask, really.’

  I agreed that it wasn’t.

  ‘Thank God we didn’t have a kid.’

  ‘Did she want one?’

  ‘No. Annabelle’s career means far too much to her.’

  ‘And you? Did you want children?’

  Amos gazed into this beer glass, as though searching for an answer.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think I did. Well, I did once, anyway. But marriage to Annabelle soon put paid to that.’

  ‘But with the right person?’ I persisted.

  ‘Ah. The right person.’ Amos grinned. ‘With the right person it might be quite a different story. Yes. I think with the right person kids would be fun.’

  How ironical that only a couple of hours after this conversation took place we were destined to make our own baby.

  Of course, the baby would never have happened if Amos hadn’t invited me back to his flat for coffee.

  ‘You’re too tipsy to go home yet,’ he said, steering me out of the pub and down the road (I had driven up to see him). ‘You need coffee, and plenty of it.’

  But the coffee failed to make much impression, so Amos suggested that I should stay the night.

  ‘You can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ he said.

  His words hung in the air like something unfinished, as though waiting for one of us to deal with them. I looked at the sofa. It seemed about half the length of Amos; it was even too short for me. Amos caught my glance and smiled at me. I smiled back. I noticed for the first time that he had very sexy eyes (how come it had taken me so long?) and Amos obviously found something he rather liked about me. He took my hand.

  ‘On the other hand...’ he said.

  ‘On the other hand,’ I replied.

  We both laughed, and suddenly, we were in each other’s arms, tearing at each other’s clothes like a pair of teenagers. Within minutes, the floor was littered with shirts, jeans, socks (including fluorescent green ones) and underwear, and we were hot-footing it to the bedroom.

  Amos was a good lover; gentle and considerate as well as passionate; and despite the effects of several pints of beer (usually death to my libido) I found myself responding in a most satisfactory manner. Afterwards, I lay with my head on his chest thinking fondly of the importance of old friends and wondering why on earth we had never done this before.

  ‘We make a good team, don’t we?’ Amos said, stroking my hair as we drifted towards sleep.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Shall we do this again some time?’

  I laughed.

  ‘Why not?’

  I could feel him smiling in the darkness.

  ‘Why not indeed.’

  But when we parted company the next morning, we made no plans for a repeat performance. Amos had his divorce to worry about, together with the question of where the next pay cheque was coming from, and I had my gap year. But we promised to keep in touch, and meet up again “some time”.

  ‘I’ll send you a postcard,’ I told him as we kissed each other goodbye.

  ‘Send me lots,’ Amos said, ‘One from every destination.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I promised.

  But we had both forgotten that Amos was having to move out of his flat and didn’t yet know where he would be living, and neither of us could have known that the piece of paper upon which I’d written down his new mobile number had already been left behind, mislaid in a tumble of bedclothes.

  By the time I reached my car that morning, I had already lost Amos.

  Chapter Ten

  For a few days following my near-encounter with Amos I feel low and dispirited. I am troubled by disturbing dreams, in one of which my poor little seahorse/rabbit (in my thoughts and dreams, it is still a seahorse/rabbit; never the grainy grey foetus of my scan) is weeping inconsolably. ‘I want my daddy, I want my daddy,’ it cries. I pick it up and try to hold it, but it slithers from my grasp and disappears, and when I awake, I too am weeping. In another dream it has packed up its belongings and is leaving.

  ‘Where? Where are you going?’ I cry.

  ‘To find my father,’ it tells me, bundling up its possessions in one of those red spotted handkerchiefs you read about in fairy stories. ‘You are not enough.’

  You are not enough. And of course, it is right. When I come to think about it, I have never been enough; not a good enough daughter, not a good enough violinist, and now apparently not a good enough mother, even though my baby is not yet born.

  Is Amos the answer? Quite probably not, since however good a father he might prove to be, he wouldn’t make up for my own shortcomings as a mother. And supposing he were to turn out to be a better parent than me; how would I cope with that? What would it be like to bear and give birth to a child, and then have someone else come along and cope better than I could? But even I know that parenthood is not a competition — rather, a team effort — and as Amos said all those months ago, he and I make a good team. I decide to put all thoughts of the baby on hold for the time being. After all, I have over five months before I have to meet my problems head on, as it were. Anything can happen in five months.

  Fortunately, my broodings are interrupted by the activities of Sarah, that paragon of motherhood, for the following week she gives triumphant birth to her family of piglets.

  This takes place in her shed, with Blossom in attendance and the rest of us admiring from a distance. Apparently Blossom is the only person Sarah will allow to come near her when she is farrowing, opening an evil piggy eye and giving a warning grunt when anyone else threatens to approach, and Blossom is in her element. As each slippery pink piglet arrives, Blossom wipes it with a handful of straw and hands it to its mother for approval, announcing the sex and condition as she goes.

  ‘Male. Nice weight. Another male. Good. Little female. Bit weak.’ And so on.

  And they keep on coming. Nine, ten, eleven. The atmosphere in the shed becomes tense, for how will Blossom react if she has been wrong, and there are more or fewer than thirteen? Blossom hates being wrong (it does occasionally happen),and has been known to sulk for a week.

  But no. On this occasion we are safe, for after the thirteenth piglet, Sarah gives a sigh and opens both eyes, and we all applaud. Thirteen it is. Once again, Blossom is vindicated.

  To my surprise, there is no further talk of drowning and stuffing excess piglets, but there is one tiny runt, and Silas decides to rear it himself.

  ‘Won’t work,’ says Blossom. ‘Be dead by morning.’

  The piglet is dead by morning. Poor Silas has stayed up with it all night, feeding it and rubbing its tiny body to try to keep it warm, but to no avail. When I come downstairs for breakfast, I find him in tears.

  ‘Oh, Silas! Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘My piglet. It died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I make him tea and give him a hug. ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Silas blows his nose on an enor
mous handkerchief.

  ‘And this sort of thing must have happened before.’

  ‘Lots of times. But you never get used to it.’

  ‘And — you can stuff it?’

  ‘There is that.’ He pauses. ‘Except that it would be a bit like stuffing a friend.’

  A friend? A newborn piglet he’s known barely twelve hours, a friend? One of the many things about my uncles which never fails to amaze me is their emotional involvement with animals which are largely bred to be eaten. In the short time I have lived with them, they have personally despatched several chickens and ducks, and sent a pig and a beautiful billy kid to slaughter, and on every occasion Silas has shed tears. Once, when I asked him about it, he replied that it was ‘the least he could do’, but I think the real answer is that he simply can’t help it. Eric’s approach is more pragmatic, but he too hates killing things, although once the animals have been butchered into neat little meaty packages, both brothers are perfectly happy to eat them. I decide that if it is ever my misfortune to come back as a farm animal, I would like to belong to Eric and Silas. Their animals may end up in the pot, but they live happy lives and are much loved.

  ‘Told you,’ says Blossom, when she turns up after breakfast to check on her patients and Silas tells her his news.

  ‘Careful what you say,’ I whisper. ‘He’s really upset.’

  ‘Silly old fool,’ says Blossom cheerfully, disregarding the fact that the silly old fool has been extremely good to her, and moreover that Eric and Silas are probably the only people in the world who would employ her. ‘Soon get over it.’

  Meanwhile, Sarah and her brood are doing nicely. When I pay her a visit, I marvel at her serenity and at the neat little row of babies suckling from her recumbent form.

  ‘How do they each find a teat like that?’ I ask Blossom.

  ‘Each have their own,’ she says.

  ‘And do they stick to it?’

  ‘Course.’ She eyes me pityingly. ‘Don’t know much about animals, do you?’

  ‘Well, no. But I haven’t had much opportunity.’

  Blossom smirks.

  ‘Not got the hands for it,’ she tells me.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at them. Long white fingers.’ She sniffs. ‘Never make a farmer.’

  I take my long white fingers — violinist’s fingers, I console myself — and retreat to the house. I have learnt not to join battle with Blossom. She may be a woman of few words, but she has a knack of winning any argument.

  The whole household seems cheered by the arrival of the piglets. Silas, having come to terms with his bereavement, is making his plans to restore his piglet to the glory it never achieved in its brief lifetime, and Eric has made progress on his ark.

  ‘Noah’s ark isn’t just impossible, it’s totally ridiculous,’ he tells me. ‘Even if you only have a few dozen species it quite simply wouldn’t work. All that fodder. All that prey.’

  ‘Prey?’

  ‘Of course. Mice and rats for the foxes and things, small deer for the big cats. That sort of thing. Of course, mice and rats wouldn’t be too much of a problem. I could breed those pretty fast.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Well, Noah, then. But other bigger mammals have quite long gestation periods, and only produce one baby at a time. So there would need to be a lot of those, just to keep everything fed.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just breed thousands of mice?’

  ‘I thought of that, but there still wouldn’t be enough. So as I was saying, instead of simply disproving the Ark as measured in Noah’s cubits, I’ve decided to prove how big it would really have to be, instead. At the moment, with the figures I’ve got, it would need to be about the size of the Isle of Wight.’

  I picture the Isle of Wight as a neat lozenge off the south coast, but have no idea how big it is.

  ‘As for the number of people needed to build it, not to mention the wood and the time it would take, I’m not even going to go into that.’

  ‘Is all this effort really worth it?’ I ask, amazed that a simple argument with my father can have given rise to all this industry. ‘After all, you admit yourself it’s only theory.’

  ‘Never dismiss theory, Ruth. It can be quite fascinating.’

  ‘He loves a project,’ Silas tells me. ‘With a bit of luck, this’ll keep him amused for years.’

  I look at Eric, bent over his graph paper.

  ‘Perhaps you should have been an academic,’ I tell him.

  ‘I would love to have gone to university,’ he agrees.

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  My uncles exchange glances.

  ‘It was me,’ Silas says. ‘I failed my exams. I spent some time in hospital with rheumatic fever, and never really caught up with my school work. I tried to make Eric go without me, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  But even before he replies, I know the answer. Quite apart from their mutual dependence, Eric and Silas are not the kind to waste time on regrets.

  That afternoon, Mikey pays us an impromptu visit on his way down to the West Country. Mikey and I have been keeping in regular touch, and I am delighted to see him.

  ‘I couldn’t go past without calling in to see how you are,’ he says, giving me a hug.

  ‘You the father?’ Blossom, who never bothers with introductions, is hovering with her empty dustpan.

  ‘No. I’m gay. Can’t you tell?’ Mikey grins at her.

  ‘Can’t say as I can.’

  ‘Ah well. Can’t win ’em all.’ He follows me through to the kitchen. ‘What’s up with her?’ he asks me.

  ‘Blossom? She doesn’t like visitors. She barely tolerates me.’

  Mikey laughs.

  ‘And how’s my godchild?’

  ‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘And the identical twin uncles? How are they?’

  ‘Come and meet them.’

  Eric and Silas take to Mikey immediately, and he to them, and after we’ve been out to visit Sarah and her family, we spend a companionable hour drinking gooseberry wine (apple juice for me), and chatting, while Blossom clatters mutinously up and down the hallway, eavesdropping. Mikey admires Silas’s badger (which is nearly finished and stands in the corner of the kitchen looking like an ageing Master of Ceremonies), listens carefully to Eric’s plans for his Ark without showing any signs of surprise, and generally makes himself agreeable. I had forgotten what delightful company Mikey can be.

  ‘What’s happened to your gap year?’ I ask, as I see him out. This is something which still preys on my conscience.

  ‘I’ve shelved it for the time being. Besides, I’ve — met someone.’

  ‘Oh, Mikey! How exciting!’

  ‘Yes. It’s a bit soon to get excited, but I’m very happy.’ He takes my hands in his. ‘And you? What about you, Ruth? Are you happy?’

  I hesitate.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am on the whole.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But — well, I suppose I’d like someone, too.’

  ‘Anyone in mind?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘The baby’s father perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But you don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘I do and I don’t.’ I sigh. ‘It’s — complicated.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I’ve never had a baby with anyone before, so this is a first for me.’

  ‘Do you — I mean, how do you feel about him?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. We’ve been friends — good friends — for years, but the sex was a one-off. We’ve never had that kind of relationship. It was always straightforward.’

  ‘And now it’s not.’

  ‘Now it’s not even a relationship, because I have no idea where he is.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes. So I haven’t any chance of finding out how I feel about him, if that doesn’t sound too weird.’ />
  ‘Not weird at all.’ Mikey pauses. ‘But you’d like to find him?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I would. For a while, I wasn’t sure, but now I really want to at least get in touch. To tell him about the baby.’

  ‘Someone must know where he is,’ Mikey says. ‘Nowadays, it’s very hard to just disappear.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But Amos has a thing about technology and the internet. He has the most basic mobile, and hates computers. He never does social media. So he’s not traceable the way most people are. Besides, he has a vengeful ex-wife who’s after his assets, and he’s trying to hide from her. He was never going to be easy to find.’

  After Mikey has gone, I go up to my room and sit on my bed, gazing out of the window at the view of ramshackle sheds and untamed vegetation. Speaking to Mikey, I have finally put into words what I’ve been feeling for a while, especially since that fleeting glimpse in town: whatever it takes, I’m going to try to find Amos.

  I reach for up my address book and start leafing through the pages. Someone somewhere must know where he is.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the course of the next two days, I manage to contact several people, none of whom have any idea where Amos might be. He has apparently mentioned another cruise ship, in which case he could be anywhere in the world, and also “taking time out”, which could mean much the same.

  But before I have time to be seriously disappointed at what is essentially non-news, something happens to turn our household completely upside-down, and take our minds off anything but the matter in question.

  It is all Blossom’s fault.

  Perhaps I should first explain that Blossom is a fully paid-up rosary-carrying Roman Catholic. Not for Blossom the twice-yearly trip to the confessional; she apparently goes to both Mass and confession every week.

  When Silas first told me I was completely stunned. ‘Blossom in confession! I wonder what she says?’

  ‘So do we.’

  ‘Probably not a lot as she never admits she’s in the wrong,’ I say, rather unkindly.

  ‘There is that.’

  ‘But still.’

  ‘As you say. But still.’

  To be fair, Blossom doesn’t talk about her faith much, but it does go some way to explain her attitude to my condition and to the behaviour of Kaz. I’m not at all sure what it is that Kaz does to incur her mother’s disapproval, but knowing Catholics — and I know quite a few — it’s almost certain to have something to do with sex. I have often thought that the Catholic church would be much happier if there were no such thing as sex; if instead of having babies, people simply divided in two, like those micro-organisms we studied in biology at school. Clean, simple and straightforward, with no messy relationships or the ‘impure’ thoughts and deeds to which my Catholic friends felt obliged to confess.