The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Did they really both go with you to your last scan?’ asks Mum over the washing-up.

  ‘Yes. They were an absolute pain.’

  ‘I’m sure they were. But Ruth — was it appropriate for them to, well to see you like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘With no clothes — down there.’

  ‘It was a knickers-on affair; all perfectly dignified,’ I assure her. ‘Down there was all covered up, and just the tummy showing. But in any case, I don’t think I’d want them again, and certainly not both together. They were very sweet, but they wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. And they did their double act in the waiting room and made an exhibition of all of us. I’m not going through that again.’

  ‘They used to do that as little boys.’

  ‘Well, it’s probably all very sweet with little boys, but with elderly men, it’s excruciating.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Mum folds her tea towel and hangs it up. ‘Ruth?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m — I’m so glad I came. Not glad about leaving Dad, of course, but glad I’m here now, seeing you like this. Being — well, being with you.’

  ‘I’m glad too.’

  ‘But I’m worried about your father.’

  ‘Why? He’s okay, isn’t he?’

  ‘Up to a point.’ She sighs, twisting her wedding ring round on her finger. ‘But he’s not used to looking after himself, and — well, it is my job. I know that’s an unfashionable view, but it’s all I’ve ever done since we married. Looked after the house and Dad, and you of course, when you were at home. Dad worked hard before he retired, and I saw it as my role to support him. I still do.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Enjoy what?’

  ‘Being — well, a housewife, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. On the whole, I did. But that’s another thing. I’d like to do something else as well; I’d like to be good at something else. Something different. Before it’s too late. Does that sound odd?’

  ‘Not odd at all. Isn’t that what most of us want? To do something really well? That’s certainly how I feel about my violin, and although I’ll never be as good as I’d like to be, at least I’ve given it my best shot. What sort of thing would you like to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not creative, or musical, or anything like that, but there must be something I could do. Something new. Something different.’ Mum sits down at the table, and rests her chin in her hand. ‘I may have been quite a good wife, but I wasn’t really a very good mother, was I?’ she says after a moment.

  ‘Well, you looked after me beautifully. I had a — good childhood,’ I say carefully.

  ‘But I never tried to understand you. I thought I did, but now, when I see you with Eric and Silas, so relaxed, so easy — I feel I must have got something wrong. And the violin.’ She sighs, and pulls at a strand of her neatly permed hair. ‘I knew it meant a lot to you, but I didn’t understand why. When I hear you playing now, and see how much Eric and Silas enjoy it, and the encouragement they give you...’ her voice tails away. ‘I should have been the one to encourage you, even if I don’t know much about music. It was as much a part of my job as looking after you. But I didn’t know. I never really understood. And now I suppose it’s too late.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s ever too late in relationships,’ I tell her. ‘Provided both people want things to change. I don’t think I’m really the daughter you wanted, am I? And it’s not your fault I’m the way I am. Take the music. In some ways, I’d prefer not to want to be a musician. It leads to so much heartache and disappointment. Life would have been so much easier if I’d wanted to be — a chartered accountant, for instance. A nice safe profession, with far less scope for failure and a good income. And Dad would have been thrilled.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ We both laugh.

  And of course, all this is true, provided that in the fullness of time Dad was able to walk me down the aisle in my white frock and hand me and my virginity over to a suitable young man (maybe another chartered accountant. Why not?), after which I would “settle down” and keep house for him and any offspring we might have. And the whole cycle would begin again. A little dull and predictable, but safe, and oh, so respectable.

  ‘And I’m to blame, too,’ I say now. ‘Instead of ranting and slamming doors, I could have sat down with you and explained things properly. I could have tried to understand you, as well as the other way around.’

  ‘You did get pretty angry,’ Mum says. ‘But we were the adults.’

  ‘Well, now I’m an adult too, and we — well, you and I, anyway — can start to understand each other.’

  ‘Don’t make the same mistakes with — with your baby,’ Mum says now. ‘You’ve got the chance to make a better job of it than I did, and a clean slate, even though you’ve got no — there’s no —’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitates. ‘Who was he, Ruth? What was he like?’

  I recognise that she’s been working up to this question, and I admire her courage, for it can’t have been easy. Mum and I have never really confided in each other, and this is uncharted territory.

  ‘Well, he’s nice,’ I begin lamely. ‘A musician. A very good one. Much better than I’ll ever be.’

  ‘And — oh, Ruth, I really need to ask you this. Is he — is he married?’

  I shake my head. ‘He was, but his wife found someone else and he’s now divorced.’

  I note the little intake of breath at the D word, but Mum doesn’t comment.

  ‘Do you still see him?’ she asks me.

  ‘No. We’ve lost touch.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is. It’s funny, really. We’ve never played a big part in each other’s lives, and yet now I really miss him. I haven’t even had the chance to tell him about the baby, and he ought at least to know that. Then it would be up to him what he did about it. If anything. And before you ask —’ for I can see the question trembling on Mum’s lips, almost begging to be let out — ‘I might even marry him, if he’d have me. Not just because of the baby, but because he’s a good man, we’ve lots in common, and I think we’d be good together. But we’d have to see about that.’

  ‘He can’t have just — disappeared.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But it seems that he has. Disappearing is what he does. He’ll probably turn up sooner or later, but we could be talking months or even years. I’ve tried to track him down, but I think he must be abroad.’

  ‘Does he have a steady job?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I laugh at Mum’s expression. ‘Musicians and steady jobs don’t necessarily go together. As you and Dad kept telling me, it’s risky business.’

  And for the time being, we leave it at that. I realise afterwards that Mum and I have covered more ground in the last hour than we have in the past ten years, and I’m grateful to her for initiating the conversation. If it had been left to me, would we ever have talked like this? I doubt it. My mother has the courage that I lack, and I feel new respect for her. In many ways, she is a much better human being than I can ever hope to be, and while I disagree with many of her principles, she has certainly lived by them. It is to my shame that this could never be said of me.

  The scan takes place the next day, and while the baby certainly appears to be more baby-like than it was last time, and Mum ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over tiny fingers and toes, a waving arm, a ‘dear little face’ (‘I believe it’s got your nose, Ruth.’ Has it? How on earth can she tell?), I still fail to experience any of the wonder and delight I’m supposed to feel.

  ‘Aren’t you at all excited, Ruth?’ Mum whispers, when the technician disappears for a moment to fetch something. ‘I’d no idea it would be as amazing as this. We never had this sort of thing when I was expecting you.’ She seems to have forgotten the unfortunate provenance of her foetal grandchild in her wonderment at the combined miracles of nature and modern technology.<
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  ‘Of course I’m excited,’ I tell her (what else can I say?).

  ‘Do you want to know the sex of your baby?’ The technician has returned.

  ‘No — yes — I don’t know.’

  ‘Silas does,’ Mum reminds me.

  ‘Well, it’s not his baby,’ I snap, and am instantly sorry. I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Yes, okay. Why not?’

  ‘A boy,’ we’re told. ‘Were you hoping for a boy?’

  ‘I — don’t mind. But Blossom will be pleased.’

  ‘What’s Blossom got to do with it?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Blossom reckons she can always tell. She told me weeks ago that it was a boy.’ It would have been nice to be able to confound Blossom, but now it seems that even that small victory is denied me.

  We go through Silas’s list of questions, and receive patient (and on the whole, satisfactory) answers. No, the baby doesn’t appear to have any congenital defects or chromosomal abnormalities, although there are no absolute guarantees. Yes, it is the right size for its gestation, has all the right bits and pieces in the appropriate places and the degree of its activity is normal. It probably weighs about a pound (only a pound? That’s less than half a bag of sugar. I try to imagine a pound of baby, and fail) and its various measurements are to scale.

  As we emerge later on into pale autumn sunshine, I feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness, and suddenly I ache for the big, comforting presence of Amos; for the feeling of his arms around me, his clean man-smell, his comfortable chest, even the tickle of his beard against my cheek. I imagine him seeing in our baby all the things I don’t yet seem able to see, and telling me what a clever girl I am (isn’t that what new fathers are supposed to say?). We would walk hand-in-hand across the road to the pub for lunch, and he would have his usual pint of bitter (in a jug with a handle) and I would sip my tomato juice, and we’d get out our new photos of the baby, and admire them together. Best of all, we would be a couple; a couple sharing our baby.

  Mum has been better company than I could have hoped for (or deserved), but it’s Amos that I want with me now. I imagine his delight at the prospect of a son, his dreams of taking him to football matches (Amos loves football. Who will take the seahorse/rabbit to watch football if it hasn’t got a father? Every child deserves at least one parent who understands the off-side rule), helping with maths homework, running in fathers’ races on school sports days, and in the fullness of time, teaching it to drive. How will I manage to do all these things on my own? How do single parents cope?

  ‘Are you all right, Ruth?’ Mum asks me.

  ‘Something in my eye,’ I tell her, fumbling in my bag for a tissue.

  Despite our new improved relationship, I’m still not ready to tell Mum how much I long to find Amos.

  Chapter Twenty

  It has taken Lazzo nearly a week to complete his labours with the hen house, and the project is almost finished. A large patch has been cleared in the back field, with a rough path leading to it from the main track, and the hens are comfortably installed in their new surroundings. The Virgin side of the hen house is exposed, with the rest — including the nesting boxes — fenced off by the run, so that the hens are spared the worshipful activities of their visitors. As Silas says, whatever the hens may or may not be, they are certainly not Roman Catholics. As it happens, they seem to have suffered very little from the upheaval, and I put this down to Lazzo. He has a quite extraordinary way with animals, reminding me of Dickon in The Secret Garden. Cows come up to him to be stroked; Sarah, who normally eschews any physical contact, allows him to tickle her tummy; the cats — usually so haughtily independent — fawn all over him; and poor Mr. Darcy is completely besotted.

  ‘How do you do it?’ I ask, as Lazzo and I sit together on a log contemplating his handiwork. Lazzo is holding a chicken on his lap, gently ruffling its feathers with a very dirty thumb, while Mr. Darcy lies adoringly at his feet.

  Lazzo looks down at the chicken.

  ‘Dunno,’ he says.

  ‘Have you always been good with animals?’

  ‘S’pose. Had a hamster when I was five,’ he offers, as though this is some kind of explanation.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Cat got it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. ‘Have you ever thought of working with animals?’

  ‘Never thought of working.’

  We both laugh. I have grown fond of Lazzo. Apart from his appraising glances and the occasional suggestive wink, he has been on the whole civil, sensible, and fun. He has a good sense of humour, and his company is undemanding. He appears to be perfectly self-sufficient, comfortable in his own skin, and content. While Blossom may have been a pretty awful mother, she must have got something right.

  ‘What do you want to do? In the future?’ I ask him. ‘There must be something you’d really like to do.’

  ‘London Zoo,’ says Lazzo promptly.

  ‘What, work there?’

  ‘Just go.’

  ‘Have you never been?’

  ‘Never been to London.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you,’ I promise him. ‘One day, I’ll take you to London Zoo.’ I bend down to pull Mr. Darcy’s ears. ‘But what else? You must have some kind of — ambition?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Would you like to — get married?’ I venture, realising that this is possibly a tactless question.

  ‘Mum says no-one’d have me.’

  ‘She can’t be sure.’ I feel a surge of indignation on Lazzo’s behalf. How dare Blossom pass judgement in this way? How can she possibly know?

  ‘Says I’m too lazy. Got a point.’ Lazzo grins, and pats my shoulder. ‘Fine as I am.’

  And he’s probably right. It’s so easy to attribute to other people one’s own hopes and aspirations; to decide that they can’t be happy because their lot isn’t what one would want for oneself. In a way, I envy Lazzo. He appears to have everything he wants, plus his childlike ability to live in the present. A doorstep of bread and cheese, a can of beer, a sunny day, the rough lick of a cat’s tongue on his hand — Lazzo appears to get his pleasures from simple things. I can’t imagine him agonising over past mistakes or future plans; wanting things he can’t have or worrying about what people think of him. Lazzo is what he is, take it or leave it. One could learn a lot from Lazzo.

  Now that the business of relocation has been dealt with, the small matter of the Virgin has to be addressed, together with the imminent advent of her admirers. But when I mention the subject to Blossom, it would seem that everything’s in hand.

  ‘All sorted,’ she tells me, her beady eyes challenging me to interfere with her plans.

  ‘What about the tickets?’ I ask her. ‘You said it would be a tickets-only affair.’

  ‘Done,’ says Blossom.

  ‘What do you mean, done?’

  ‘Church.’

  Blossom’s minimalist means of communication can be absolutely maddening. Sometimes I want to take her by her shoulders and shake the syllables out of her until there are enough of them to constitute a proper sentence.

  ‘What about the church?’

  ‘All in hand.’ Blossom reaches for the switch on the vacuum cleaner, but I turn it off at the wall.

  ‘Blossom, we need to know. We need to know who’s coming, when they’re coming, and how many. You can’t just make all the decisions off your own bat.’ Eric and Silas are out, and Mum is washing her hair. Blossom and I are on our own.

  After a lot of cajoling I manage to acquire a few basic facts. A small committee from the Catholic church has apparently visited the hen house (how come we didn’t notice? It’s not as though small committees are a normal part of the landscape) and have given their seal of approval. Someone has volunteered to print tickets on their computer, and Father Vincent has given his blessing (I’ll bet he has. I suspect Father Vincent will do anything for a quiet life). Visitors will be admitted on two afternoons a week. A large notice has been made for the gate (w
e now have a separate path leading to the hen house), giving the days and times when the Virgin is receiving visitors, and Father Vincent is donating a padlock out of the church petty cash.

  ‘You could at least have checked with Eric and Silas,’ I tell her.

  ‘Did. Weren’t listening,’ Blossom tells me. ‘Eric on the phone; Silas stuffing something. Often don’t listen,’ she adds. ‘Not my fault.’

  I know very well whose fault it is. Blossom has a habit of raising awkward subjects when she knows they are least likely to be heard, and then interpreting silence as agreement. Whatever may be said about Blossom, she’s not stupid.

  ‘Oh, well. I suppose that’s okay,’ I concede. ‘Two afternoons should be manageable. How will people know about it?’

  ‘Parish magazine. Told them start next week.’

  It would appear that Blossom has thought of everything.

  When Eric and Silas return, they agree that we should be able to accommodate visitors on two afternoons a week, although, as I suspected, they were unaware that they had already agreed to the arrangement.

  ‘So long as you take charge, Ruth. You said you would,’ Silas reminds me.

  ‘If Blossom lets me, I’m happy to be in charge.’

  ‘She’ll have to do as she’s told,’ Eric says.

  ‘Blossom,’ I remind him, ‘never does what she’s told.’

  ‘Well the two of you will have to work things out together. Silas and I haven’t the time.’

  Working with Blossom proves to be easier than I had anticipated, largely I suspect because she is so keen for the project to work and knows that as Eric’s and Silas’s representative, I have the power of veto. After the first week, Eric and Silas agree that the project has given rise to very little trouble. Visitors arrive at the appointed times, bearing their tickets, and on the whole they behave nicely. They come in twos and threes, reverent and respectful, murmuring in low voices, sometimes praying, and Blossom, Lazzo and I take it in turns to oversee things.