The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  But then, what right have I to belittle a faith which gives so much comfort, and in which my parents have invested so much of their lives? Isn’t it possible that we are all right, in our different ways?

  I wander outdoors and make my way up to the hen house. A weak winter sun is shining on the Virgin, making her appear even more lifelike than usual, and someone has placed a bunch of Christmas roses on the ground beneath her. I envy the pilgrims their faith. It would be wonderful to believe that our Virgin really is a divine sign, and that the real Virgin Mary is still alive and well and doing good in the world.

  You know what it’s like, I tell her. You didn’t exactly plan your pregnancy, either, did you? You must have had a pretty difficult time. Please help me to cope.

  And please, if you have any influence at all, help me to find Amos.

  Chapter Thirty

  Christmas at Applegarth is very different from any Christmas I’ve experienced before. The house is as full as ever, and Lazzo joins us for the day (Kaz tells us that Blossom doesn’t do Christmas, and probably won’t even notice her family’s absence). The turkey — an ill-tempered bird of enormous proportions who has spent the last few months chasing us round the garden and biting our legs — has been despatched and prepared, Mum has made a Christmas cake, and a real Christmas tree stands in the hallway, decked out with decorations which go back to my uncles’ and Mum’s childhood. Numerous dusty bottles of wine are brought up from the cellar, their labels washed off for identification purposes, and everyone has Christmas stockings.

  ‘What, all of us?’ Mum asked, when she was told what was to happen.

  ‘All of us,’ Silas told her. ‘Eric and I always give each other a stocking, but as there are so many of us, we thought we’d all draw lots and do each other’s.’

  I draw Kaz, and wonder what on earth I can put in it, for Kaz has a mind of her own when it comes to matters of taste. But in the event, she is thrilled.

  ‘I’ve never had a stocking before,’ she tells me, as she unwraps little parcels of chocolate and bath essence and some rather naughty knickers from the market. ‘I always wanted one as a kid, but Mum said no.’

  ‘Didn’t you get presents?’ I ask her. ‘You must have had something?’

  ‘Money usually. And maybe some sweets. Nothing much else, though. If I have kids, they’re going to have stockings just like this one.’ She pops a Malteser in her mouth. ‘What about you, Ruth? Will you give your child a Christmas stocking?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I should think so.’ It occurs to me that the baby should probably have one next year, but what does one put in the stocking of anyone so small? I know nothing at all about babies. Do they eat sweets? Play with toys? Do anything? No doubt I shall find out.

  My parents pay lip service to the stocking ritual (Mum has drawn Lazzo, and Dad, Silas), but I can see their hearts aren’t in it, and they hanker after the kind of Christmas they are used to. After a meal which is more mediaeval banquet than traditional Christmas lunch, they make their excuses, and drive off to spend the rest of the day with some of Mum’s new friends from church. In a way I’m pleased, for at least they are united in their discomfort at the goings-on at Applegarth. I feel for my mother’s situation, but I would hate my parents’ split to be permanent. Maybe it’s something to do with the perversity of my generation, for while we aren’t necessarily too bothered about marriage for ourselves, we nonetheless expect out parents to stay securely within its boundaries.

  After they have left, everyone else continues to make inroads into the home-made wine, until Eric and Silas fall asleep in their chairs. Kaz, who is by now very drunk indeed, is draped across the table singing Jingle Bells, one pert little breast attempting to escape from the confines of her strappy little top. Kent, who says he needs some fresh air, is feeding the chickens. As for Lazzo, he is still admiring the contents of his stocking. Mum’s efforts have been unimaginative — among other things, sweets, socks, and a keyring — but she couldn’t have had a more appreciative recipient. Lazzo has unwrapped all the little parcels, and arranged his gifts in a neat row. I can see he’s longing to open some of the sweets, but doesn’t like to spoil the appearance of his arrangement.

  ‘Go on, Lazzo. Have one. That’s what they’re for,’ I urge him (although after the excesses of lunch time, I personally can’t imagine ever wanting to eat again).

  Lazzo picks up his packet of sweets and turns it over in his hands. Then he puts it back in its place.

  ‘Have one of mine.’ I take pity on him.

  ‘Ta.’ Absently, Lazzo takes a handful of toffees, which vanish without apparently any need for chewing on Lazzo’s part. ‘Never had presents like this,’ he tells me, picking up his keyring and stroking it.

  ‘Have you got some keys you can put on it?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What, none at all?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How do you get into the house when you go home?’

  ‘Key’s under a stone.’

  ‘Oh. Would you like a key?’

  Lazzo’s face brightens, and I forage in my bag and find an old front door key from a long-ago flat, wondering why it is that people never get around to throwing away old keys. Carefully, Lazzo attaches the key to his keyring, then holds it up for me to admire.

  ‘Perfect,’ I tell him.

  Lazzo nods happily. His capacity for finding pleasure in small things never fails to amaze me, and I feel oddly humbled. Here is someone who has never (as far as I know) experienced much in the way of parental love and appears to have very few possessions, and yet he appears perfectly content with his lot. I have heard Lazzo swear, certainly, and he has a very colourful vocabulary in that department, but I have never heard him complain. Whatever he is doing, he gives the impression that that is the thing he wants to be doing above all else. He may not be particularly clean (I notice that among Mum’s gifts there is a large can of cheap deodorant) and his table manners are appalling, but he is gentle and courteous and, in his own way, chivalrous. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that I have grown to love Lazzo.

  ‘What’s your mum doing today?’ I ask him.

  ‘Bed,’ Lazzo tells me.

  ‘What, all day?’

  ‘Yeah. Always does.’

  ‘What about church?’

  ‘Midnight.’

  Of course. I’d forgotten that that was what Catholics do at Christmas. It always seems to me to be a very sensible arrangement; get the formalities out of the way as early as possible, and then get down to the serious business of celebrating.

  ‘So she’s all by herself?’

  ‘Doesn’t mind.’ Lazzo helps himself to another half dozen toffees.

  ‘Did she — give you anything? A present?’

  Lazzo laughs.

  ‘Nope. Says I get board and lodging. Shouldn’t expect anything else.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Nope.’ Lazzo finishes up the toffees.

  ‘Did you give her anything?’

  ‘No money.’

  This is true enough, for Lazzo never appears to have any money. Although Blossom has cautioned against it, my uncles insist on paying him something for the work he does for them, but I know for a fact that he hands it all over to his mother. She feeds him and buys his few clothes, and if he did have money of his own, he’d probably spend it unwisely.

  ‘Got fags off our Kaz,’ he offers.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Yeah. Five hundred. Keep me going.’

  ‘They certainly should.’

  By now, Kaz appears to have passed out. Lazzo carries her into the sitting room and deposits her on the sofa, where she lies snoring gently. One of her arms dangles over the edge like that of Chatterton in his famous portrait, and her right breast has finally broken free of its moorings, its rosy nipple pointing triumphantly towards the ceiling. Most people in this situation would look dishevelled and decadent. Kaz simply looks beautiful. Nonetheless, I cover
up the rogue breast with a coat, for while Lazzo doesn’t appear to have noticed, I would hate to embarrass Kent on his return.

  By seven o’clock, everyone is beginning to recover, and we receive a Christmas visit from Mikey and Gavin, who come bearing gifts and forgiveness.

  ‘I think I’ve sulked for long enough to make my point,’ says Mikey, giving me a hug.

  ‘I think you have.’ I return his embrace. ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t bought you a present. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  ‘Neither did we. It was a spur of the moment thing. We were going to have our first Christmas on our own, but we got bored and decided we needed a party, so we’ve come to see you.’

  ‘But we’re not having a party.’

  ‘You are now.’ Mikey fetches bags from the car, and unpacks pork pies and crisps and nuts and Christmas crackers, and yet more drink. ‘There! A party! Now, where’s the corkscrew?’

  When my parents return at eleven, they find Mikey’s party in full swing, with a drunken game of charades in progress. Kaz and Kent, together with several cushions, are under an old raincoat pretending to be a camel, with Gavin, his head covered with a tea towel, as its Arab owner and Lazzo some kind of tree. Mikey and I are doing the guessing, but Silas, who is supposed to be on our team, is asleep, and Eric is fretting because he’s realised that he hasn’t accounted for camels on his Ark, and is wondering whether he needs to have dromedaries as well, or will the camels do for both?

  ‘You don’t hear much about dromedaries, do you?’ he says. ‘Camels, yes, but not dromedaries. What do people do with dromedaries?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I tell him.

  ‘Camels drink a lot,’ he murmurs. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘It would seem,’ says my father, taking off his coat, ‘that everyone has been drinking a lot.’

  This strikes Mikey and me as terribly funny, and we roll on the sofa, crying with laughter. Eric merely looks hurt. Both halves of the camel collapse on the floor, Silas wakes up with a start, and the tree wanders off into the kitchen to look for more beer.

  All in all, I think you could say that it’s been a very merry Christmas indeed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It is now January (if anything, even worse than November, with its grey twilight days and penetrating cold), and everyone is tired and grumpy. Meanwhile, I have commenced ante-natal classes.

  After two sessions, I’ve decided that nothing can be quite so smug as a room full of cosily pregnant women lying on cushions on the floor doing their breathing exercises, each cocooned in a warm blanket of reproductive self-satisfaction. While I thought I would welcome the opportunity to talk to women of my own age and in the same condition, I had no idea of the self-centredness of pregnancy, and after two coffee breaks’ worth of conversation about backache and breastfeeding and Braxton-Hicks contractions, I long for talk of anything but babies. What do these women actually do, apart from being pregnant? Have they lives, jobs, interests? It would appear not, or at least not at the moment. Right now, their lives centre round their bumps, the wonder of what’s inside those bumps, and most importantly of all, how it’s going to get out (we are all first-timers. Presumably second-time-round mothers are too busy to bother with all this, or maybe they feel they already know enough. I envy them).

  Of course, Silas wanted to come with me, but fathers’ evening (the only time when men are invited) doesn’t happen until later, and in any case, I don’t think it would be appropriate. In the absence of a genuine father, I have been invited to call on the services of a “birthing partner”, but so far, I’ve decided against it, since there doesn’t seem to be a suitable candidate. Silas, who is dying to be chosen, is out of the question, my mother (the obvious choice) seems unsure, and Kaz, who has volunteered for the part, is not in my good books.

  For Kaz is beginning to make headway with Kent.

  She hasn’t told me so. In fact, she hasn’t told me anything at all, but I can tell from her demeanour that something has happened. She sings as she goes about her work, volunteers to do the most unpleasant of jobs and has even made her peace with Blossom, although she continues to live with us. I know for a fact that she has dumped the “boring” boyfriend, and since the latest club didn’t work out after all, she’s short of work, and living here she has little opportunity to meet anyone else.

  Kent, too, has changed. Always a cheerful person, he now literally glows with happiness, and nothing is too much trouble. On several occasions I have intercepted covert glances and smiles between the two of them — the kinds of secret smiles particular to lovers — and wherever possible he and Kaz contrive to work together. Kaz has been teaching Kent to milk the goats, and I’ve even caught her giving him what appeared to be a pole dancing demonstration in the garden, using a long-abandoned telegraph pole by the hedge.

  ‘What on earth is Kaz doing?’ Eric asks, as we watch from the kitchen window. ‘She’s going to hurt herself if she tries to climb that thing. It’s probably rotten by now.’

  ‘She’s not trying to climb it. She’s — dancing with it.’ I know my voice is tight with hostility, but just at the moment, I can’t help it.

  ‘Now I’ve heard everything!’ Eric has never understood the pole dancing thing. ‘Don’t you go trying anything like that, Ruth. You could do yourself serious damage.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  At this moment, Kaz begins to swing effortlessly by one arm, her head thrown back, legs stretched out at an impossible angle, looking as ravishing as ever despite her torn shirt and filthy jeans while Kent watches, apparently mesmerised. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with jealousy. I know this is nasty of me; they are both free and single, and they are both people I’m fond of. I should be pleased for them. But up until now — notwithstanding a possible relationship with Eric and Silas — Kent has been my friend; my almost-relation. He’s been the person I play music with; the one who really understands and shares my passion. And now it seems as though he’s found an altogether different, more exciting kind of passion; something I can’t share in at all. And I don’t like it. Besides, I’m the one who needs a partner, not Kaz. Until recently, Kaz has had putative lovers beating a path to her door, while I, with my impending motherhood, have no-one at all.

  After two weeks of this, I can’t stand it any longer.

  ‘Kaz, how could you?’ I ask her, as we muck out the pigs together. Kaz is doing most of the work since my size (which to me appears colossal but which I’m told is quite normal) prevents me from doing much in the way of bending.

  ‘How could I what?’ Kaz pushes Sarah out of the way with the handle of her shovel (Sarah hates her home being disarranged, and always makes herself as unpleasant as possible).

  ‘Kent.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes. Ah.’

  ‘Well, what’s it to you?’ She stands back and wipes her hands on her jeans.

  ‘I — I’m —’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ Kaz says. ‘He is rather gorgeous, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ I’m in no mood to collude in this kind of conversation. ‘Anyway, when did it all start?’

  ‘I suppose — inside the camel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know. At Christmas, when we were playing charades, and Kent and I were a camel. Under a rug. We — kissed.’

  ‘How romantic.’ If I wasn’t so cross, I’d laugh.

  ‘Yes. It was rather. I was going to tell you, but I knew you’d be like this.’

  ‘I’m not being like anything. It’s just — I don’t like seeing him being taken advantage of.’

  ‘Ruth, no-one’s taking advantage of anyone. We just — like each other. We get on.’

  ‘But you’ve got nothing in common!’

  ‘Oh yes we have.’ Kaz winks. ‘More than you think.’

  ‘Have you — well, have you —?’

  ‘Not yet. No. But we
probably shall.’

  ‘And you’ve got a cosy little love nest waiting for you in the caravan, haven’t you?’

  Kaz closes the door of the sty and leans against it. ‘Ruth, do you have to be like this? I thought we were friends.’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ And to my horror, I burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. It’s just that I’m fat and tired and unlovely, and you’re young and beautiful, and — and I feel so alone!’

  Kaz puts her arms round me and pulls me into a hug, and for a few minutes we stand there in the drizzle as I sob into her shoulder and she pats my back and makes the kinds of soothing noises that Lazzo makes for the animals.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, pushing me gently away. ‘It’s freezing out here. Let’s go back into the house and I’ll make us some tea. And Ruth?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t tell the boys about — about me and Kent yet, will you? It may come to nothing, and it’s early days.’

  I promise that I won’t.

  Later on in bed, I am awakened by the activities of the baby, who seems to be playing football with my liver, and my thoughts turn again to Kaz and Kent. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. Neither of them seems to have had it easy so far, and don’t they both deserve a little happiness? If Kent turns out to be my cousin, and he and Kaz stay together, then Kaz will be a kind of cousin, too, and I’ve always wanted more relatives. Kaz would make a good relative; maybe even the next best thing to a sister. She’s kind and funny and loyal. I reflect that I could do a lot worse.