The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘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.

  ‘No prob.’

  ‘And the run?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ll need help.’

  ‘Do it on me own.’

  ‘It’s very heavy.’

  ‘Take roof off. And nesting boxes. Be fine.’

  ‘And you’ll be careful? It’s very old, and we’re — fond of it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘If you’re sure, then.’

  ‘Sure. Do a path, too.’ Lazzo gives us a surprisingly sweet smile.

  ‘And what about pay?’ Eric asks him.

  ‘Nope. Mum says not.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you always do what your mum says?’ Silas is obviously as curious as I am.

  ‘Better that way.’ Lazzo laughs, and we join in. I’m beginning to warm to Lazzo. ‘Start tomorrow?’

  Eric and Silas exchange glances.

  ‘Start tomorrow,’ they agree.

  It would seem that Lazzo has got the job, and Blossom has clocked up an important victory. The Virgin of the hen house is here to stay.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blossom is in triumphant mode. She practically dances round the house with her duster, and even comes in on her days off. She also smiles.

  Surprisingly, this is neither a pretty nor a welcome sight. Blossom smiling is not like other people smiling. There is none of the open friendliness one might expect from a normal person; none of the acknowledgement by one well-intentioned human being of the common humanity and good will of another. Blossom’s smile has something sinister about it; a touch of the I-know-something-you-don’t (or perhaps in this instance, I’m-up-to-something-you’re-not-going-to
-like).

  ‘I wish Blossom would stop smiling,’ my poor mother says. ‘I don’t like it.’

  I know she feels threatened by Blossom and that her feelings are compounded by this new and terrifying smile, but there’s not a lot we can do about it. We can hardly tell Blossom to stop. As for my uncles, they have other preoccupations than the newly-smiling Blossom. Eric has just arrived at the knotty problem of insects (‘they’re small, of course, but there are so many of them’), and Silas has found a dead whippet.

  ‘I’ve phoned the police, and no-one knows anything about it,’ he says wistfully. ‘I’ll never get another chance like this. I need to get started on it soon.’

  ‘What did the police say?’ I ask him.

  ‘They said I’d better wait, but I can’t. They don’t understand. It’s beginning to smell. And Eric won’t let me to put it in the freezer.’

  ‘Is it like when you find money?’ I ask him.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If it’s not claimed within a certain period, then you can keep it.’

  ‘Probably, though I don’t suppose they get many people wanting to keep other people’s dead dogs.’

  ‘The owners might be quite grateful,’ I suggest. After all, a stuffed whippet has got to be better than a corpse. ‘You could stuff it, and then if someone claims it, drive the car over it so that it looks run over again, and let them have it back. They mightn’t notice the difference.’

  ‘Do you think?’ His face is so boyishly hopeful that I can’t help laughing.

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  ‘I’ll get started, then?’

  ‘I would. No time like the present.’

  Meanwhile, Lazzo is labouring away at the task of moving the hen house. He appears to be incredibly strong, and a very hard worker once he gets going. His triceps bulge and the veins in his neck stand out as he lifts huge sections of timber, and if glimpses of buttocks and an expanse of hairy stomach are less than attractive, then we can always look the other way. I trot to and fro with mugs of strong tea and doorsteps of bread and cheese (Lazzo’s size is matched only by his enormous appetite) and Mr. Darcy watches adoringly from the sidelines. He brings Lazzo his ball and his old rubber bone, and the tattered bedsock he sleeps with at night, and even the treasured half-toothbrush. He lays them all at Lazzo’s feet, then lies down in the long grass, his chin on his paws, following Lazzo’s every move with soulful brown eyes. I’d give a lot to be adored the way Mr. Darcy adores Lazzo.

  Blossom’s attitude towards her son is to ignore him.

  ‘Best left,’ is her only comment, when I mention his presence.

  ‘You must be proud of him,’ I venture. ‘He’s an amazing worker.’

  ‘Humph.’ Blossom shrugs.

  ‘Who does he work for normally?’

  ‘Doesn’t work.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘On benefit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Special needs.’ Blossom turns on the vacuum cleaner, her chosen way of terminating a conversation, and I am left to ponder the special needs of Lazzo.

  If you discount tea and sandwiches, Lazzo’s needs seem to be few, and certainly not particularly special. Is there something about Lazzo we ought to know, I wonder? Or is he — or more likely, his mother — pulling a fast one? And if so, how does Blossom reconcile that with her faith? The next time I bring Lazzo his tea, I scrutinise his face for clues, but can find none. I would have thought that someone like Lazzo would be eminently employable.

  ‘Do you have — another job, Lazzo?’ I ask him as he leans against a tree trunk drinking his tea.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why not? You seem — very capable.’

  ‘Not allowed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Born premature,’ explains Lazzo, posting a fist-sized sandwich into his enormous mouth.

  ‘But wasn’t that rather a long time ago?’ For few people must resemble a premature baby less than Lazzo does.

  ‘Yeah.’ Lazzo grins. ‘But Mum says I’ve got special needs.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Used to have fits,’ he says, swallowing a huge piece of sandwich. I watch in fascination as it makes its journey down a neck so thick that it could be an extension of his head. It’s a bit like watching a snake swallowing an antelope (I saw this once on a television programme).

  ‘And do you still — have fits?’ I know I’m being impertinent, but Lazzo intrigues me.

  ‘Nah. Well, little ones.’

  ‘What kind of fits?’

  In reply, Lazzo rolls his eyes and slobbers a bit, shaking his massive frame like a tree in a gale. I try to stand my ground.

  ‘Epileptic, then?’ I suggest, after a moment. I have an epileptic friend who manages to hold down a very high-powered job with no apparent difficulty.

  Lazzo nods, and loads his mouth up with another sandwich.

  ‘Can’t you have tablets?’

  ‘Forget to take ’em.’ As he speaks, I can see clumps of bread revolving in his mouth like cement in a mixer.

  ‘What about your mother? Couldn’t she remind you?’

  ‘She’d be cross. Thinks I take ’em.’

  ‘So what do you do with them?’

  ‘Sell ’em.’

  ‘Sell them?’

  ‘Yeah. Got a mate gets high on my tablets.’ Lazzo laughs. ‘Do him more good than me.’

  ‘And — the benefit people. Won’t they catch up with you?’

  ‘Haven’t yet. Do a little fit for ’em when they come round. Soon gets rid of ’em. People don’t like fits.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ If I were a benefit person, I’d soon make myself scarce if I had the misfortune to witness Lazzo doing his special needs act.

  ‘So you just — stay at home?’

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘How do you get on with your mother?’ I’ve been dying to ask him this.

  Lazzo laughs. ‘No-one gets on with Mum.’

  So it’s not just us, then. Well, I suppose that’s something.

  ‘That must be difficult. How do you manage?’

  ‘Just take no notice.’

  ‘And — Kaz?’

  ‘She’s all right. Never in, though. Pole dancer.’

  ‘Really?’ I’ve never met anyone who’s related to a pole dancer. Though I’m not sure why Blossom disapproves of her daughter. After all, pole dancing is perfectly above board, isn’t it?

  ‘Good money,’ Lazzo explains, picking his teeth with a piece of straw.

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  Lazzo looks me up and down appraisingly. ‘Should give it a go,’ he suggests with a grin.

  I make a mental note to try not to become over-familiar with Lazzo. He has a certain charm even though he may be a little odd, but no doubt he’s equipped with the usual complement of hormones and urges, and if there were to be any sort of struggle (perish the thought) there’s no doubt as to who would — literally — come out on top.

  As though to drive the point home, half an hour after this conversation, the baby takes the opportunity to remind me of my responsibilities by delivering its first unmistakeable kick. I’ve been told to expect ‘flutterings’ or feelings I might mistake for indigestion, but this is a proper kick; faint, to be sure, but almost certainly delivered by a tiny foetal foot. It may be that there have been other movements, and in my state of semi-denial I have failed to notice them. I shall never know. Whatever may or may not have happened, I now have unequivocal proof that the baby is, quite literally, alive and kicking.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I can go with her. I’d like to go with her. And she said after last time she didn’t want us both again, so only one of us can go.’

  ‘What about me? It was my idea.’

  ‘But I know more about this sort of thing than you do. I promise I’ll bring back a full report.’

  ‘Anyone can bring back a full report. Ruth can do that.’

  ‘True. But it makes sense for
it to be me. I’ve read all the books, and I know what questions to ask.’

  ‘Lend me the books, and I’ll know what to ask, too. Anyway, the hospital staff are the people in the know. We don’t have to know anything at all. And I’m sure they’ll be delighted to explain.’

  I listen in fascination as Eric and Silas argue over the lunch table as to which of them is to accompany me to my twenty-week scan. I’ve never heard them argue before, and while this is a relatively amicable discussion, there is an undertone of stiff-necked determination on both sides.

  ‘May I say something?’ I ask at last.

  ‘Of course. Go ahead, Ruth,’ Eric says.

  ‘This is my scan, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I’m insured to drive the Land Rover now?’

  ‘You know you are.’

  ‘Then I can go to the scan on my own. And I can bring back — how did you put it? — a full report myself. That way, no-one needs to feel left out, and you can both stop this silly argument.’

  Their faces fall into identical expressions of surprise and disappointment, and I can’t help laughing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ Eric says, after a moment. ‘I suppose we just forgot, well, forgot...’

  ‘That I was here?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing I am here. And presumably I have the casting vote.’

  ‘But it seems such a waste,’ mourns Silas. ‘It’s so interesting, and you’re allowed to take someone. I’ll never get an opportunity like this again.’ He makes it sound like a wasted theatre ticket.

  ‘Yes. But I can hardly choose between the two of you, can I? So it’s fairer to have neither of you. No-one will be pleased, but no-one will be disappointed.’

  ‘We could toss up for it,’ Silas suggests.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Ruth?’ I’d forgotten my mother was there.

  ‘Yes, Mum?’

  ‘I’d love — I’d really love to come with you. If you’ll let me.’

  ‘Oh, Mum! Of course I’ll let you. I’d love to have you with me. You’re the obvious person. And we can go for lunch afterwards.’

  Eric and Silas stand down gracefully (after all, they can hardly take issue with my mother accompanying me to the hospital), and after extracting promises of photos and answers to the list of questions Silas has compiled, they go out to do something unpleasant to a goat.