The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Oh, dear. What’s happened? Have you broken something, Gavin?’ I ask, when Gavin and his wheelchair have been unloaded from the back of Mikey’s car.

  ‘We’ve come to visit your Virgin,’ Mikey tells me.

  ‘What are you two up to?’

  ‘We’re not up to anything. It’s just that Gavin’s decided to return to the Catholic Church and he wants to see it again.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with him? Is there something the matter with his legs?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  It’s a relatively warm Saturday afternoon, the first sunshine we have seen for a couple of weeks, and there is a good gathering of pilgrims admiring the Virgin, praying and taking photographs. They draw back respectfully when they see the wheelchair, and Mikey parks his charge in front of the Virgin, where he and Gavin bow their heads apparently in prayer.

  I am puzzled. Hitherto, Mikey has shown little interest in our Virgin, but perhaps Gavin, in returning to his faith, has managed to take Mikey with him. After all, it’s quite possible. I’m sure that Mikey would dance barefoot on hot coals if Gavin asked him to, he is so besotted. On the other hand, why haven’t they explained the wheelchair? Surely Gavin hasn’t suddenly been struck down by some grave and unmentionable disease? Mikey and I have never had any secrets from each other. I would hate to think that he didn’t feel he could trust me after all these years.

  Meanwhile, people gather round the wheelchair, asking questions. What’s wrong with Gavin? Has he always been unable to walk? If he’s looking for a miracle, maybe he should try Lourdes. Someone’s aunt came back from Lourdes cured of a tumour. People exchange views and experiences of Lourdes, and the gathering becomes something of a party.

  Then quite suddenly, Gavin leaps from his wheelchair, flinging out his arms as though about to embrace some invisible giant.

  ‘A miracle! It’s a miracle! I can walk!’ he cries, hugging Mikey and turning to the other visitors. ‘Look, everyone! Oh, praise the Lord! I can walk!’

  ‘Crippled from birth —’ it is now Mikey’s turn — ‘and will you look at him now? Just look at him! He’s walking with the best of us. We came looking for a miracle, and here it is. A miracle! Much better than Lourdes,’ he adds tactlessly (I’m pretty sure that Mikey knows nothing at all about Lourdes).

  Together, they pirouette round the wheelchair, while their fellow-pilgrims give little cries of astonishment and joy. A couple fall to their knees in thanksgiving, someone murmurs Hail Marys, while the rest gather round and ply Gavin with questions. What does it feel like? Has he really lived his life in a wheelchair? Did he have any kind of vision? Did the Virgin move? Did she speak to him?

  But the performance is over. Gavin and Mikey reward their audience with radiant smiles and handshakes all round, before running off toward the house murmuring about having to make phone calls and letting Gavin’s dear mother know the good news (Gavin’s dear mother, I know for a fact, died when he was eleven).

  ‘How could you, Mikey? How could you?’ I demand, when we get back to the house. ‘That was in the most appallingly bad taste.’

  ‘It was fun, though, wasn’t it? You have to admit, Ruth, it was a laugh.’ Mikey tries to put his arm round me.

  ‘It was not a laugh.’ I push him away. ‘It wasn’t fun, either. Not for anybody else. What about all those poor people? They think they’ve just seen a miracle, and it was just you two making fools of yourselves. And of them. It was an unforgivable thing to do.’

  ‘Oh, get a life, Ruth. Whatever’s happened to your sense of humour?’

  ‘My sense of humour is perfectly intact, thank you. I just don’t happen to think it’s amusing to play tricks on vulnerable people.’

  ‘We’re sorry,’ says the newly-healed and now subdued Gavin. ‘We really didn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘Oh, don’t apologise to her, Gav. We haven’t done anything wrong.’ Mikey is unrepentant. ‘Ruth’s just in a bad mood.’

  There are few things more infuriating than being told you’re in a bad mood when, basically, you are not. It comes second only to being told that ‘it must be the wrong time of the month’ (at least he can’t say that to me at the moment).

  ‘Right. That’s it. Go.’ I point to the door. ‘Just go.’

  ‘What? No cup of tea?’ Mikey looks astonished.

  ‘No cup of tea. No cup of anything. Remember, I’m in a bad mood. You said so yourself.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean —’

  ‘Just go, Mikey, would you? And take that bloody wheelchair with you.’

  After they have gone, I find that I am shaking; shaking with anger, but also with disappointment and hurt. I thought I knew Mikey better. It’s true that he has always enjoyed the odd practical joke, but he has never to my knowledge done anything so lacking in consideration for other people’s feelings. But apparently I have misjudged him. It’s tempting to blame the Gavin effect, but at least Gavin had the grace to apologise. I have to conclude that the whole thing was Mikey’s idea.

  My parents have been out for the afternoon with Eric and Silas, bonding over an ancient stone circle (this has been a pleasing development, as hitherto there has been little socialising between them), and they return just as Mikey and Gavin leave.

  ‘Couldn’t they stay?’ Eric asks (Eric is fond of Mikey, who is always interested in Ark-related developments).

  ‘No. They had to go.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

  When I finally get Eric and Silas on their own, I tell them about the “miracle”, but they are disappointingly unperturbed.

  ‘Oh well. No harm done,’ says Silas, examining a dead frog (frogs are a new departure; advanced stuff, so I’m told, and in short supply in the winter, so Silas is pleased).

  ‘You think so?’ I ask him.

  How little my uncles know about the power of miracles! For word spreads rapidly, and before we know it, we are inundated with visitors, with and without tickets. They come at all times of the day, and occasionally even at night, carrying torches. Thursday, the day of Blossom’s decision, comes and goes unnoticed, for there is now no question of closing the hen house; more, the problem of how to manage what is rapidly becoming a crisis.

  ‘Of course, it’s trespass,’ I say. ‘It’s your land. Surely there’s some law to protect you.’

  ‘Nowadays, the law seems to be more on the side of the person breaking it,’ says Silas, who knows a man who was prosecuted for chasing a burglar with a sawn-off shot gun. ‘We’ll ask Blossom. She may have an idea.’

  Blossom is typically unhelpful, but does refer the problem to Father Vincent, who pays us another visit accompanied by his new curate, with Blossom in the unlikely role of mediator.

  ‘Oh, I say! That really is amazing.’ The curate, who appears a great deal more impressed by the Virgin than Father Vincent, crosses himself. ‘She looks so — real. And they say there’s been a healing as well?’

  ‘No. No healing. Just a practical joke,’ I tell him.

  ‘But I’ve spoken to witnesses. People who were there at the time. They said there was this man in a wheelchair —’

  ‘The man in the wheelchair was perfectly able-bodied. He was an accomplice in a particularly cruel trick.’

  ‘Ah.’ The curate looks disappointed. He is young and fresh-faced and eager, and I feel sorry to have to disappoint him. ‘But if it helps more people with their faith, surely that can’t be bad.’ He turns to Father Vincent for assurance.

  ‘Faith built on deception isn’t faith,’ says Father Vincent firmly. ‘Let’s go back to the house and talk about it.’

  I know from my brief acquaintance with Father Vincent that he is hoping to be offered a drink, and he’s not disappointed. Over mulberry wine (just a cup of tea for the curate, who’s driving) we discuss the problem.

  ‘You could donate the hen house to the church,’ the curate suggests (we have been invited to call him Father Ambrose, which seem
s a terribly portentous name for someone so young).

  ‘No room,’ says Father Vincent, pouring himself more wine.

  ‘And what about the hens? It’s their home,’ says Silas.

  ‘Don’t they mind all these visitors?’ Father Ambrose asks.

  ‘Strangely enough, they don’t. I think they’re getting used to it,’ I tell him. ‘In any case, they run around all over the place during the day time, so they only use it at night and for laying.’

  ‘Electric fence?’ says Father Vincent. ‘For the visitors, not the hens, of course.’ This is not a very Christian suggestion, but I think the wine is beginning to take effect.

  ‘Someone would sue,’ says Eric gloomily.

  ‘We could try to get more volunteers from the church to supervise, and maybe collect money for some kind of cause,’ I suggest. ‘At least that would do some good.’

  ‘What cause?’ Eric asks.

  ‘Chickens.’ Blossom who has been silent for some time, speaks up.

  ‘What do you mean, chickens?’

  ‘Rescue chickens.’

  ‘Rescue what chickens?’ Eric is becoming irritated.

  ‘Battery.’

  ‘I don’t think a chicken charity would be appropriate for Our Lady,’ says Father Vincent. He has difficulty with the words ‘chicken charity’, and I’m relieved that Father Ambrose is doing the driving.

  ‘God’s creatures,’ says Blossom piously.

  ‘No doubt. But a human charity might be more — appropriate,’ says Father Ambrose.

  ‘Both, then.’

  ‘It’s certainly a thought,’ says Silas. ‘If we can — police things properly, and Eric and I don’t have to do too much. It might be managed.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ says Father Ambrose, who is obviously much taken with the whole Virgin project. ‘Would you let me — organise it?’

  ‘We’d be absolutely delighted, ‘Silas assures him. ‘If you’re sure you’ve got the time.’

  ‘There are some things one has to make time for,’ Father Ambrose assures him earnestly. ‘It will be a privilege.’

  ‘The path’s in a terrible state,’ says Eric, after we have all had time to digest Father Ambrose’s proposal. ‘All those people tramping about have churned it up badly.’

  ‘Gravel,’ says Blossom.

  ‘Expensive,’ counters Eric.

  ‘Lazzo knows someone.’

  ‘Does he, indeed?’

  Eric’s suspicion may be well-founded.

  ‘Legit,’ Blossom pre-empts him.

  ‘Not free, though,’ says Silas.

  ‘Good as.’

  So after a lot of discussion and almost two bottles of mulberry wine, the decision is made. Lazzo will get a load of good-as-free gravel from his contact and reinforce the path with it. Father Ambrose will recruit more volunteers from the church to take over hen house duty and try to control the numbers by means of strict notices and more official-looking tickets, and we’ll give it a try.

  ‘Just a month’s trial, mind,’ says Eric, and Silas nods agreement. ‘If that doesn’t work we’ll have to resort to something drastic.’

  ‘What’s drastic?’ Kaz blows into the kitchen and helps herself to a glass of wine.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I tell her.

  Kaz eyes Blossom suspiciously. ‘If it’s anything to do with Mum, I’d say no if I were you.’

  ‘Too late,’ says Blossom triumphantly.

  And I’m afraid she’s right.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Within a week, Father Ambrose has taken over responsibility for the Virgin of the hen house, and things have improved enormously. Lazzo has laid down his gravel, collecting boxes have been put in place (Battery Rescue, the chicken charity, to appease Blossom, and Oxfam for those pilgrims who prefer human beings to chickens), and some very official-looking reusable tickets have been produced. Pairs of volunteers, complete with shiny badges, supervise the hen house during agreed opening hours, and on the whole, the punters are co-operative.

  December is if anything worse than November. There is no Christmas-card frost twinkling in the trees; no bright sharp wintry mornings; and not a trace of snow. There is just more rain and more mud, dark afternoons followed by nights of penetrating cold. The house is not what you’d call cosy, since the heating system is erratic and the rooms are large with high ceilings. I have always wondered about high ceilings. Why is it that big houses built before the luxury of central heating invariably have these lofty rooms, where (presumably) what little heat there is rises ceiling-wards to hover unhelpfully above the heads of those it is intended to keep warm, while the draughts sweep unchallenged under the ill-fitting doors?

  And then there is the prospect of Christmas.

  Out of a sense of duty, I have always tried to spend Christmas at home with my parents. This is another of the many downsides of being an only child: without me, my parents will not have a family Christmas, since (apart from Eric and Silas) they have no other family to have it with. Our Christmases are never the jolly occasions enjoyed by other families. There are no crackers and paper hats; none of the drinking and merrymaking enjoyed by so many of my friends. We all go to church, after which my mother cooks a capon since, as she points out every year, there’s no point in roasting a whole turkey for just the three of us. (For my own part, I have never been entirely sure what a capon is, except that it is a sort of inferior turkey substitute which only appears at Christmas, having undergone some kind of intimate operation). After lunch, we gather by the startling bright green plastic Christmas tree (Woolworths, circa 1980) to listen to the Queen and exchange presents.

  When I was small, I always had a Christmas stocking, although there was never any pretence as to the existence of Father Christmas, since my father considered it ‘wrong to tell lies to a child’. Nor for me the visit to Santa’s grotto in the local department store, the excitement of waiting for a festive old man to clamber down the chimney, or the carefully prepared sherry and mince pies set out on the hearth. It was made absolutely clear to me from the start that Father Christmas was a myth, together with the munificent tooth fairy who frequented the homes of my more fortunate friends. If I have anything to do with it, the baby is going to believe in Father Christmas until it’s at least eighteen, and will make a small fortune from the teeth placed under its pillow.

  As I trudge back and forth with buckets of animal feed, I wonder what Christmas will be like here at Applegarth. My parents are still staying despite knowing full well that the insurance people are willing to pay for accommodation (I suspect that removal to an hotel would be seen to constitute some kind of climb down on the part of one or other of them); the rift between Blossom and Kaz has, if anything deepened, so Kaz is still living here; and Lazzo, who apparently misses his sister, is spending increasing amount of time with us, although he still goes home to sleep. If things carry on like this, I foresee a very full house at Christmas, not to mention a disconcerting clash of customs and beliefs.

  But two weeks before Christmas, we receive a visitor.

  It seems to be my lot to find unexpected visitors on the doorstep, but this is probably because I am nearly always in. My parents are increasingly out, seeing people about repairs to their house or attending prayer meetings with their new church friends, and Eric and Silas never answer the door if they think someone else is around to do it. As for Blossom she rarely answers doors at all, as she says it is not in her job description.

  The man on the doorstep is middle-aged, lean and rather good-looking, with nice eyes and an anxious smile.

  ‘My name is Kent Riley. I’m looking for my father,’ he tells me, fending off the advances of Mr. Darcy.

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Yes. Ridiculous, isn’t it? At my age, I mean. It’s taken me ages,’ he adds, and I notice that he looks frozen.

  ‘You’d better come in.’ I hold the door open for him, ‘although I’m not sure you’ll find your father here.’

 
; ‘Well, it’s worth a try.’ Mr. Riley takes off his muddy shoes and looks round the hallway with interest, as though expecting to be presented with an identity parade of missing fathers. ‘I never met him, you know.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you?’

  ‘My mother wouldn’t even tell me who he was.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘She died six months ago.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Who is — your father?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I think his name was Purves, and I know he lived here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Purves is the surname of Eric and Silas, and they have lived here all their lives. I take a couple of deep breaths. Eric? Silas? Eric or Silas a father? Surely not.

  ‘You don’t have another name for — your father?’ I say, leading the way to the kitchen. Silas’s frog is spread-eagled on the kitchen table. I quickly cover it with a tea towel.

  ‘No. My mother used to get so upset at the thought of my getting in touch with him, that I gave up asking her about him. After all, I’ve done okay without a father so far. But she left me a letter at the solicitor’s saying that I might find my father at this address. So I thought I’d come and see if — well, if he’s still alive.’

  While we are having this conversation, my thoughts are spinning. What do I do? Silas mustn’t be upset at the moment, as it’s bad for his heart. My parents certainly shouldn’t be involved due to the private nature of the business in hand. Kaz would certainly say something tactless. This leaves Eric.

  ‘I’ll just fetch my uncle,’ I say. ‘He might be able to help.’

  Eric is very preoccupied with the problem of bamboo shoots and pandas, and is reluctant to leave his investigations.

  ‘Can’t you see to this man, Ruth?’ he asks me, looking longingly at his charts and notes.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. This is a personal matter, and nothing to do with me. I probably shouldn’t even know about it,’ I tell him.