The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Yes. He’d have been so interested in all this, wouldn’t he? It seems such a waste that he’s not awake to — I don’t know — to enjoy it.’

  ‘Yes. He would have loved it, wouldn’t he? All the attention; all those drugs and machines and things. I’ve been keeping notes, you know.’

  ‘What notes?’

  ‘A kind of diary. What happened when; which doctors came to see him and what they did and said. That kind of thing. In case … well, for when he gets better.’

  ‘That’s such a nice idea, Eric. He’ll love it.’

  Eric smiles, as though for a brief moment he’s actually forgotten the seriousness of Silas’s condition, then I watch his expression change as reality kicks in again.

  ‘Oh Ruth. What would I do without him? Or if he’s damaged; if he’s unable to speak or understand. How will I bear it?’

  I give Eric a hug. ‘I think you have to do the “one day at a time” thing,’ I say. ‘I’ve always hated that expression, but there’s no other choice, is there? We have to — oh, I don’t know — keep the home fires burning for Silas. For when he comes home. Whatever condition he’s in. There’s not a lot we can do for him at the moment, but we can do that.’

  ‘You’re right, Ruth. Of course you are. And I found this amazing hare on my way back from the hospital this afternoon. He’s never done a hare before. You don’t often see them near the road, do you? But this one’s enormous, and absolutely perfect, although it must have been knocked down.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful. What — what have you done with it?’

  ‘I put it in the freezer. Double wrapped. Right at the bottom. Underneath Dorothy.’ (Dorothy was a daughter of Sarah’s, who having proved to be barren has recently been despatched and butchered into neat little packages). ‘She’ll never find it there.’

  We exchange complicit smiles. Mum accepts most of the things which go on at Applegarth, but draws a line at Silas putting his specimens in the freezer where we keep the food. I don’t suppose even she would object under the present circumstances, but Eric’s right. It’s better that she shouldn’t find out.

  There is the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and Mum joins us in the kitchen. I notice for the first time that she seems to have aged since Silas’s illness.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ she asks, surprised.

  ‘Tea and sympathy,’ Eric tells her. ‘Like some?’

  ‘What, tea or sympathy?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘A bit of both, I think.’ Mum puts her arms around Eric and for the first time I notice how alike they are. I suppose that because of the twin thing, I’ve never considered that my mother might resemble her brothers, but now I see that she shares their eye colour, and her expression — one of sadness and concern — is very like Eric’s.

  We sit round the table together talking softly, trying to reassure each other that “everything will be all right”. While I join in, I still wonder why it is that people always say this to each other in times of crisis, as though defying fate to deal the blow they fear, while as often as not it’s perfectly obvious that things are very far from all right, and moreover, are unlikely to become so.

  There’s a knock at the back door, and I unlock it to find Kent, wearing a coat over his pyjamas.

  ‘I saw the kitchen light on. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Well, nothing’s new, if that’s what you mean.’ I fetch another mug from the cupboard.

  ‘I’m not — intruding?’ He takes off his boots and places them side by side on the doormat.

  ‘Of course you’re not. Come and join the party.’

  Poor Kent. One of the family, and yet not one of the family, this must be so hard for him. Mum still doesn’t know his full story, although I think she may have her suspicions, and Dad certainly knows nothing. And while I’m sure he must have told Kaz about it, his real position, whatever that might be, is as yet unknown and unacknowledged. He must be in an emotional no man’s land at the moment, but is too sensitive and thoughtful a person to draw any kind of attention to himself.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ he asks now.

  ‘No. No-one can do anything. That’s the trouble,’ Eric says. ‘The not doing anything.’

  ‘Who’s not doing anything?’ Kaz wanders into the kitchen, ruffled and bleary-eyed, her skimpy nightie ill-concealed beneath a kind of giant cardigan. She and Kent exchange one of their glances, but I no longer mind. Now is not the time for petty jealousy.

  ‘All of us,’ I tell her. ‘For Silas.’

  ‘Well, we can cheer up for a start. Silas would hate all this.’ She stifles a yawn, and treats us to one of her infectious smiles. ‘While there’s life, and all that. What you all need is a drop of this in your tea.’ She fetches a bottle of brandy left over from Christmas, and pours a generous measure into everyone’s mug (except mine). ‘Warm you up,’ she explains. ‘It’s freezing in here.’

  Only Kaz could get away with such inappropriate jollity, and I could hug her for it. Her good humour (fuelled, I suspect, by the effects of love) infects us all, and soon everyone’s mood improves. Eric even manages a laugh, and Mr. Darcy, who has been sleeping by the Aga, wakes up and thumps his tail on the stone floor.

  ‘That’s better,’ says Kaz with satisfaction. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s already here,’ I tell her. ‘You ought to get back to bed, Eric. You need to get some sleep, or you’ll be in no fit state to go and see Silas.’

  But as the clock in the hall strikes the hour, the telephone rings. For a few seconds we sit staring at one another, frozen into immobility. Time seems to stand still. I hear my heart thumping in my ears, and am aware of everyone holding their breath, as though waiting for something to happen.

  Then Eric clears his throat.

  ‘Answer that, could you, Ruth?’ he says, and I notice that his hands are shaking. ‘I don’t think — I don’t think I can bear to.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Pneumonia. Such a pretty word, I’ve always thought; a girl’s name, perhaps, or some kind of flowering shrub.

  But of course, in reality, not pretty at all. Potentially deadly. I believe they used to call it “the old man’s friend” because it often provided merciful release from some lingering painful illness, or perhaps from a life which had outlived both comfort and purpose. But not Silas! Not Silas’s life. Not after all he’s already been through.

  ‘How?’ Eric asks. ‘How did he get pneumonia in here? He should have been safe. We thought he’d be safe!’

  ‘He’s a very sick man. You have to understand that.’ The doctor looks very young, exhausted, ruffled from sleep.

  ‘We know he’s a sick man. But we didn’t expect him to get even sicker.’ Eric is beside himself. ‘How — did — this — happen?’

  ‘Please sit down. The nurse will make you some tea.’

  ‘I don’t want tea. I’ve done nothing but drink tea for days now. Tea isn’t the answer!’

  ‘Sit down, Eric.’ Mum pulls gently at his sleeve. ‘Sit down and listen to what the doctor has to say.’

  Eric crumples into a chair, and the doctor explains. The pneumonia has developed suddenly and rapidly; Silas’s resistance is lowered due to his illness; they are doing all they can. He talks of x-rays and antibiotics, of more drips and further tests. Silas’s chances are not good, but he is “holding his own”. The next couple of days will be crucial.

  Afterwards, when the doctor has gone, Eric sits with his head in his hands.

  ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take,’ he says to no-one in particular.

  ‘You have to, Eric. You just have to,’ Mum tells him. ‘For Silas. We’ll go and see him, shall we? I’ll come with you. You stay here, Ruth, and phone home. Everyone will be wondering what’s happening. It’s not fair to keep them waiting.’

  I go outside to use my mobile, and phone Applegarth, where Kaz, Kent and Dad are waiting for news, then I fetch myself coffee from
a machine. I feel exhausted beyond any tiredness I have ever felt before. The baby has reduced (hardly the right word, but I can’t think of another) me to a lumbering elephant of a woman, and as I cart my exhausted body and its small passenger back to the relatives’ room and find myself a chair, I wonder how it is that many women go back and do the whole pregnancy thing over and over again, ending up sometimes with three, four or even more children. For whatever I may feel about my own child, now or when I get to meet it, I know for a fact that I shall never want another. I’ll have done my bit; I shall have replaced myself on the planet, and formed the next link in the family chain. I certainly don’t need to do it again.

  It’s funny how thoughts of my imminent motherhood, occasional at the best of times, have gone out of the window since Silas’s illness. The baby is there, and presumably it will eventually emerge (apparently in about five weeks’ time), but I have put it to the back of my mind. I have received a reproachful phone call from the midwife enquiring as to why I’m no longer attending her classes, but it seems self-indulgent to spend time huffing and puffing on a cosy nest of cushions while the rest of my family are going through all this. No doubt when the time comes, I’ll push the baby out. People do it all the time. Apparently, it’s impossible not to push babies out when the time comes. So why all the fuss?

  For the moment, all that matters is that Silas should get better. It may be that a part of me is only too willing to be relieved, if only temporarily, of thoughts of the future, or simply that I am still maintaining a degree of denial. I shall never know. What I do know is that if Silas recovers, I shall be willing to cope with anything. I will go to ante-natal classes every day if required to do so; I’ll be a model mother and even a model daughter; I’ll even sacrifice any hopes of seeing Amos again, if only Silas will get better. Please, Silas. Please, please, please get better.

  ‘Are you okay?’ A nurse comes into the room, and I realise that I’ve been crying.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look it.’ She closes the door behind her. ‘Are you his daughter?’

  ‘No. He’s my uncle.’

  ‘You’re close, are you?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose we are.’ I’d never thought about it before. ‘I live with him — them.’

  ‘That must be hard. Especially with a baby on the way.’ She touches my hand. ‘When’s it due?’

  ‘Due?’

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘Of course. The baby.’ I push my hair out of my eyes and blow my nose. ‘About a month, I think.’

  ‘Not long to go, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  Tea again. Where on earth would we be without tea? I suppose the French and the Italians have coffee on these occasions, but what about, say, the Americans? What do they drink in times of crisis? Iced tea, perhaps, at least in the summer. I’ve read about iced tea, but never actually tried any. Iced tea, lemon tea, herbal tea... My thoughts drift and swirl, and I see people — lots of people — drinking tea; Japanese women cross-legged on the floor, sobbing as they pass round tiny decorated cups; people queueing by the huge shiny urn used by one of Mum’s women’s groups; I see teapots, kettles, tea bags, tea leaves. The seahorse/rabbit appears and tells me it hates tea, and why can’t I give it milk like a normal mother? Normal mothers don’t give tea to babies, it tells me. Why can’t I behave like a normal mother? It fades away, weeping, and now I am in a boat going to look for Amos. The boat is operated by pedals, but my feet won’t reach them and there’s no-one around to help. I panic as the boat begins to quiver and tremble, as though tossed by a succession of tiny waves.

  I wake up whimpering to find Mum gently shaking my shoulder.

  ‘Ruth? It’s all right, dear. Don’t cry.’ She touches my cheek. ‘Come on. It’s time to go home.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened? How’s Silas?’ The anxiety of my dream is still with me. ‘He hasn’t died, has he?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t died. He’s — stable.’

  ‘Hospital-speak,’ I tell her, now fully awake, and I think of all those other hospital clichés: “as well as can be expected,” “fighting for his life” (how can anyone who is seriously ill fight?), “comfortable”. It’s almost as though hospital staff are issued with a list of words and phrases which are supposed to give comfort but which fool nobody. ‘How is he really?’

  ‘Unconscious, of course, but they say his chest is a bit clearer. Eric’s staying on. I’m going home to have a bath and a nap. I’ll come back later.’

  ‘What about me? When can I see him?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could pop in quickly now. Just for a couple of minutes. We’ll ask.’

  I’ve hardly been inside the Intensive Care Unit up until now, leaving the visiting to Mum and Eric. It’s a strange place, with an atmosphere and rhythm of its own, isolated and apart like a womb; a world within a world. Staff move around in theatre scrubs, speaking softly, attending to the recumbent forms around them. They look smoothly efficient, more like technicians than nurses, but then I suppose in these circumstances efficiency is more important than the touchy-feely nurses of my imagination.

  I remember Eric describing his brother as looking ‘so not Silas’, and he’s right. It’s hard to connect the still figure beneath the clinical white sheet with the Silas I know. This figure breathes — in-out, in-out — fluids are dripped in and others drain away, but everything is mechanical; everything is not Silas. Eric is sitting beside him holding his hand, but his eyes are closed, and we don’t disturb him.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Mum whispers, as though we are in church.

  I nod, too choked to speak, and together we tiptoe from the room. As we leave the building and make our way to the car park, the grey wintry sky threatens rain, bleak skeletons of trees reaching out towards it as though in supplication. Like those other memories of the day of Silas’s operation, I know that whatever happens, I’ll always remember these things; this sky, these trees, the echoing of our footsteps along the deserted walkway; even the car park, which is half empty. Only the workers and the wounded and the families of the seriously ill visit hospitals at night.

  We drive home together in silence. Dad and Kent have gone back to bed, but Kaz has stayed up to wait for us, and is dozing in a chair. Wordlessly, she gets up and holds out her arms to me, and I stumble into them.

  ‘Oh, Kaz,’ I sob. ‘He looks so awful.’ Kaz’s arms scarcely reach around me now, but the closeness of her and the familiar smell of her perfume (something expensive; a gift from a boyfriend?) is infinitely comforting.

  ‘I’ve made porridge,’ she tells us.

  ‘Porridge?’ Mum looks puzzled.

  ‘Porridge,’ says Kaz, ‘is what you need. With brown sugar and lots of cream.’

  ‘Porridge? At a time like this?’

  ‘Especially at a time like this.’ Kaz fetches bowls and spoons, and a big jug of cream from the fridge. ‘Comfort food,’ she explains. ‘Plus, you need something to soak up all that tea.’

  ‘How did you know about the tea?’ I ask her.

  Kaz laughs. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Well, then. Be good girls and eat up your porridge. It’ll do you good.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  To add to our troubles, we have a chicken crisis.

  Somewhere, somehow, news of our chicken charity collecting box has been translated into an appeal for actual chickens. It is probably a simple case of Chinese whispers; after all, the leap from chicken charity to chicken sanctuary is a relatively small one. But whatever its provenance, in the course of the past couple of weeks, we have found ourselves suddenly inundated with unwanted chickens. There are rescued chickens, hen-pecked chickens, neglected chickens and even a few happy healthy chickens. There are also two vicious cockerels, and, oddly, a small white duck.

  ‘Chickens are us,’ remarks Eric, in a
rare moment of humour. ‘And they aren’t even laying. What on earth are we going to do with them all? And those half-naked ones — they must be freezing.’

  ‘We could knit them little jackets,’ says Kaz.

  ‘Not funny, Kaz,’ I tell her.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘But at least we can eat one of those cockerels before they eat each other.’

  The bird in question is duly despatched and casseroled, leaving his fellow to take out his fury on Mr. Darcy and any human being who comes his way. Meanwhile, the cockerel in residence — an unassuming, harmless little bird called Henry, who has been in sole charge at Applegarth for years and has successfully fathered generations of fluffy yellow offspring — becomes withdrawn and depressed, and the resident chickens, who all know each other and have their place in the pecking order (what else?) are confused and disrupted by so many uninvited guests. There isn’t room for them all in the hen house, so at night such newcomers as we can find are rounded up and herded into a small leaky shed. The rest have to fend for themselves and run the gauntlet of the neighbouring foxes. It is not a happy situation.

  Fortunately, food isn’t a problem, for pilgrims come bearing offerings of corn and scraps (perhaps since the Virgin herself is not in a position to accept gifts, it’s felt that the chickens might like to do so on her behalf), but the sheer numbers of chickens are becoming a considerable problem. Chickens escape into the road and are run over; chickens leak out into the fields and outbuildings and even into the house; chickens roost in the greenhouse. There seem to be chickens everywhere.

  ‘How about a sort of chicken exchange?’ suggests Kaz, having discovered another feathery corpse in the driveway. ‘Like a bring and buy, only chickens rather than white elephants.’

  ‘So long as the buy outnumbers the bring,’ says Eric. ‘We certainly don’t want any more chickens.’

  ‘I’ll organise it,’ Mum says suddenly. ‘Why don’t you leave it to me?’