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  ‘Can you sit up?’ Eric asks (no recovery position, then).

  ‘I think so.’ Carefully, Silas sits up. The colour immediately drains from his face. ‘Better not.’ He subsides onto the floor again.

  Eric places a folded jacket under his head. ‘Dial 999, Ruth. I think we need help,’ he tells me.

  Burly ambulance men arrive, cheery and reassuring. They ask Silas lots of questions before levering him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. Eric and I follow in the Land Rover, leaving a note for Mum, who is at the hairdresser’s. Eric is pale and quiet, and we don’t speak, although I long to offer some kind of comfort and also to ask whether he’s suffering any of Silas’s symptoms. I’ve read about twins suffering identical pains even when they’re miles apart; is Eric’s pallor due to some psychic twin response, or is it simply anxiety?

  At the hospital, there is a lot of waiting around. Silas is offered an injection for the pain.

  ‘I haven’t got any pain,’ he objects.

  ‘For your distress, dear,’ the nurse tells him.

  ‘I’m not distressed.’

  ‘It’ll calm you down.’

  ‘I’m perfectly calm.’ But in the end, Silas agrees to the injection because, as he says, he’s always wanted to know what diamorphine (‘you’ll know it as heroin, Ruth. Highly addictive’) feels like. And it can’t do any harm, can it? Personally, I think it’s Eric who could do with the injection, but no-one’s asking me.

  Much later, when Silas has had a variety of tests and seen at least three doctors, they tell him he has ‘a little problem with a heart valve’.

  ‘Mitral stenosis. I told you,’ says Silas.

  ‘Well, yes. It could be.’ The doctor looks disappointed. Even I know that doctors don’t like patients to use medical-speak. There is a strict boundary between the medical practitioner and the layman, and Silas has crossed it.

  ‘Rheumatic fever,’ Silas explains, his words still slurry from diamorphine. ‘When I was, when I was...’

  ‘Seventeen,’ Eric says.

  ‘That’s right.’ Silas smiles. ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep you in,’ the doctor tells him. ‘For observation and more tests.’

  ‘Valve replacement?’ Silas asks, his face bright with anticipation.

  ‘It’s much too early to say.’

  ‘But I might have to have one?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Pig or titanium?’ Silas asks (what is he talking about?).

  ‘That would be for the surgeons to decide. If it becomes necessary. But that’s a long way off at the moment.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I say to Eric, when much later we have said our farewells and are on our way home, leaving Silas cosily tucked up in bed. ‘You’d think he was enjoying it.’

  ‘He is enjoying it.’

  ‘How can he?’

  ‘Silas loves to be ill. He’s always been like that.’

  ‘Yes, but this is his heart.’

  ‘So much the better,’ says Eric grimly.

  ‘He must be mad!’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Poor Eric. You must be awfully worried.’

  Eric attempts a smile. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘And you can’t share that with Silas.’ Eric and Silas usually share everything.

  ‘Quite.’

  I put my hand on Eric’s knee. ‘You’ve got us. Mum and me. I know it’s not the same, but at least you’re not on your own.’

  ‘No. I know. Thanks, Ruth.’

  We get home to chaos. Mum, who’s been keeping in touch by phone, has been trying to cope with Blossom, who’s been called in for emergency animal duties. The argument they have been having has evidently turned nasty, and Sarah has taken advantage of the situation by coming in through the open back door and helping herself to an unattended bag of groceries, while Mr. Darcy is chasing a chicken round the living room.

  ‘She can’t tell me what to do,’ Blossom tells us mutinously.

  ‘I haven’t been telling her to do anything,’ says Mum, who is very close to tears.

  ‘Have.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I just asked you — asked you — if you would mind seeing if there were any cabbages left.’

  ‘Not my job.’

  ‘But surely in an emergency that doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Don’t need cabbages in emergency.’

  ‘It’s not for the emergency! It’s for dinner!’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better finish the animals and go home,’ Eric suggests to Blossom.

  ‘Done ’em,’ says Blossom.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look like it. Sarah’s in the kitchen, for a start.’

  ‘Not my fault. She left the door open.’

  ‘I did not!’ Mum cries.

  ‘Did.’

  ‘Enough!’ Eric’s patience has finally run out. ‘Blossom, would you please put Sarah to bed, and catch that dratted chicken before Mr. Darcy does. Then for pity’s sake, go home. We’ve got enough troubles without all this.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Silas spends several days in hospital, and is in his element. He has a whole range of tests, and talks of, among other things, unpronounceable blood tests, an echo something-or-other, and an ECG. I have just about heard of the ECG, but everything else is shrouded in mystery. We have travelled to and fro fulfilling Silas’s requests for, among other things, clean pyjamas, chocolate, nettle wine and the medical bible. Eric refuses to bring in the stuffed whippet (Silas apparently promised to show it to the nurses) and has to take the wine home (no alcohol allowed), but manages to smuggle in a tiny stuffed mouse “to compensate the nurses for their disappointment”.

  Poor Eric is exhausted. He and Silas have rarely been apart, and he seems somehow depleted without his brother. I know he’s not sleeping well, and the journeys to and from the hospital are both time- and energy-consuming, involving as they do a thirty-mile round trip plus the obligatory search for a parking place and the trek along miles of dismal hospital corridors. Mum and I take it in turns to accompany him, but he won’t hear of us going without him, and I know that he is fulfilling his own needs as much as Silas’s. As for his Ark, that’s had to be put on hold, and I know he misses it. The Ark has become Eric’s treasured hobby, fuel for his brain (not to mention his imagination), and perhaps the only thing which might have taken his mind off his worries. I too miss the Ark; I miss the curious questions and conversations to which it gives rise, and my even more curious dialogues with the people at the zoo as I assist Eric with his enquiries. I have developed quite a cosy relationship with one of the curators, who rashly invited me out on a date, although we have never met. I reluctantly declined out of loyalty to Amos and the seahorse/rabbit.

  Meanwhile, the rest of us are desperately short-handed, and Lazzo and Kaz are brought in to help. Kaz is currently short of work, and Lazzo has nothing better to do, so it suits everyone (except, of course, Blossom).

  The weather continues to be bleakly unpleasant, and the increase in my size is slowing me down. The only person/thing which appears to be thriving is the Virgin, whose followers are growing by the day and who I swear is getting more and more life-like. Eric I know has had more than enough of her and thinks it’s time we called it a day (the hardware store has promised him a preservative which is guaranteed to cover up pretty well anything, supernatural or otherwise), but when he mentioned this to Blossom, she threatened to withdraw not only her own services, but those of her family as well, and as she very well knows, we can’t do without them.

  In addition to all this, Mum is beginning to pine.

  ‘I miss him, Ruth, I really miss him,’ she admits to me, as she slices vegetables for the evening meal. ‘I know he’s awkward, and I don’t expect you to understand, but I — I’m used to him.’

  ‘Then go home, Mum. Go back to him,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll understand.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She pushes her hair out of her eyes, weeping onion-tears. ‘He told me I had
to choose, and I’ve chosen you. You and the baby. I can’t go back on that now. In any case, he mightn’t even have me.’

  ‘Oh, he’d certainly have you.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I know so.’ I crunch a piece of raw carrot. ‘What does the minister say?’ Mum has joined a kind of house church in the nearby town, and seems to derive some comfort from the support it offers.

  ‘He prays with me, of course. He’s been very kind, but I know he thinks I ought to go back to your father.’

  ‘Then go back. You can still see me. It’s not as though I’ve emigrated. And when Dad sees the baby, he may change his mind.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s so obstinate. He always has to be right. He’ll never climb down, even if he secretly wants to. Besides,’ she says, chopping celery, ‘I’m needed here. Eric and Silas are my brothers, and I’m all the family they’ve got. It’s the least I can do, to help out in this crisis. They’ve always been so good to me.’

  I gaze out of the window. Through the drizzle, I can make out Eric’s stooping figure bent over some ancient piece of machinery, and I fight back sudden tears. Eric is miserable, Mum is unhappy and guilt-ridden, the animals, those most reliable barometers of emotional climate, are restless and jumpy, and I am suffering from backache and indigestion. And there is still no sign of Amos.

  ‘Ruth? Are you okay?’ Mum looks up from her vegetables.

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Everything’s suddenly — horrible.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘I just wish something nice would happen.’

  Two days later, something nice does happen in the form of another surprise visit from Mikey.

  ‘Oh, Mikey! Am I glad to see you!’ I practically leap into his arms.

  ‘Hey! Hang on! You nearly knocked me over! What’s all this about, then?’ Mikey laughs as he disentangles himself and kisses me warmly on the cheek.

  I sit him down and tell him about Silas and how worried we all are and how miserable life has become since his admission to hospital. I tell him about Mum, about Blossom (who is now ruling not just the roost, but the house, and just about everything else, and loving every minute of it) and about the abundance of unwanted pilgrims. I tell him that I shall be thirty-seven next year and life is passing me by, that my violin-playing has deteriorated so badly that no-one will ever want me to play for them again, and that I still haven’t managed to find Amos. And I finish by bursting into tears.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mikey pats and soothes and makes sympathetic noises.

  ‘I know I’m wallowing,’ I say, when I can get the words out, ‘but just for once — for once —’

  ‘It’s good to have a wallow?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes.’ I take the not-very-clean hanky Mikey has offered and blow my nose.

  ‘I’ve brought Gavin to meet you,’ Mikey says, when I’ve calmed down a bit. ‘But maybe now’s not the best time.’

  ‘Why? Where is he?’

  ‘In the car. I thought I’d make sure it was a good time before bringing him in. Just as well, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh, do bring him in. Please. I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. Just give me a minute to mop up.’

  Five minutes later, Mikey introduces me to Gavin.

  In my time, I have come across many attractive men, but I have never met one I would describe as beautiful. Gavin is beautiful. He is tall and slim and blond, with completely even perfectly-formed features, the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and the kind of smile that bathes you in warm sunshine. For a moment, I’m completely lost for words.

  ‘Ruth? Ruth!’ Mikey wrenches me out of my trance. ‘This is Gavin.’ His pride is so transparent that I almost laugh.

  Gavin smiles, and holds out a hand.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Hi.’ I shake the hand, which (of course) is warm and firm and smooth. ‘I’m so sorry you had to wait all that time in the car.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Ruth’s my oldest friend,’ Mikey says (am I? I’d no idea. The thought of being Mikey’s oldest friend is ridiculously cheering).

  ‘Any oldest friend of Mikey’s has to be a pretty good friend of mine,’ says Gavin, with another radiant smile.

  ‘Tea? Coffee? Er — mulberry wine?’ I ask them, examining the label on the currently open bottle.

  ‘Tea, I think. We’re sharing the driving,’ says Gavin.

  Sharing the driving. It sounds so cosily domestic I want to weep.

  For few minutes we make small talk; the household, the animals, my violin-playing, Gavin’s job as an estate agent. This seems a terrible waste, but I resist the temptation to ask him whether he’s ever thought of a career on the stage or perhaps as a model, as I’m sure he’s been asked this many times before. But I bet he sells a lot of houses.

  The back door opens and Kaz comes in. She stops short, and takes a long, astonished but practised look at Gavin.

  ‘Fucking hell!’

  ‘Kaz!’ I feel instantly ashamed, although strictly speaking, Kaz is nothing to do with me.

  ‘Sorry. But you have to admit he’s a bit of a stunner.’ Kaz appears unabashed by the fact that the stunner is almost certainly within earshot. She crosses the kitchen and holds out a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Kaz.’

  Gavin introduces himself, and they chat for a moment or two. Gavin tries to bring Mikey into the conversation, but Kaz ignores him, for she is doing what she obviously does best. Kaz is flirting.

  Now of course, I’ve seen people flirt, many times. I have flirted myself, and enjoyed it as much as anyone. But I have never seen a professional at work.

  Kaz is a professional.

  I watch in admiration the lowered eyes followed by the coy Princess-Diana peep through the lashes; the tilt of the body which reveals just enough décolletage; the pout of the lips and the little-girl voice. This is a new Kaz; one I haven’t seen before. Hitherto the only men around here have been Eric and Silas, who are obviously too old for this kind of treatment. The pilgrims, Kaz has told me more than once, have their minds on other things, and aren’t worth the bother. Unfortunately, she appears to be unaware that Gavin is also not worth the bother, if for an entirely different reason, but I’m unable to catch her eye.

  Mikey, unintroduced and ignored, is enjoying all this hugely, and he returns my despairing glance with a wink.

  Eventually, Gavin manages to affect an introduction. ‘Kaz, have you met Mikey?’

  Mikey and Kaz nod to each other.

  ‘I’m Gavin’s partner,’ Mikey says, dropping his tiny bombshell with impressive insouciance.

  Kaz pauses for a moment, then shrugs and laughs. ‘Well, that was a waste of time, then, wasn’t it?’ she says, returning to her normal spiky self. ‘Worth a try, though,’ she adds with just a hint of wistfulness.

  ‘Certainly worth a try,’ says Gavin graciously. ‘And I’m honoured.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Can I have some of that wine?’ Kaz reaches for the bottle. ‘I reckon I’ve earned it. I’ve finally got the hang of that bloody goat. Milking a goat,’ she says, to no-one in particular, ‘is a bit like sex. Once you get going, it’s difficult to stop. It’s sort of — compulsive.’

  I have never felt that milking a goat is remotely like sex, and since over the past few months I’ve had a great deal of the one and none at all of the other, it is difficult not to feel just a little sour.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I mutter to her, ‘next time I —’

  ‘Milk a goat?’ Kaz grins at me.

  ‘Something like that.’

  But generally, it’s been a very pleasant visit, and culminates with a tour of the hen house. It appears that Gavin is a lapsed Catholic, and is especially intrigued by the Virgin. I have met lapsed Catholics before, and have always been puzzled at their extraordinary loyalty to a church which, by definition, has let them down in some way. At least one friend of this persuasion (or perhaps it should be dissu
asion) has told me that while she doesn’t attend Mass any more, she will certainly require the services of a priest on her death-bed, and most Catholics won’t hear a word against the Church they have (if only temporarily) deserted.

  ‘It’s the gay thing,’ Gavin tells us, as we toil up the muddy path. ‘I know God doesn’t mind about it. He’s much too broad-minded. But the Catholic Church is terribly hung up on sex. Always has been.’

  ‘Then join another church; one which is as broad-minded as God.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Gavin tells me.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because it’s the One True Church,’ Kaz pipes up with a wink. I imagine Kaz has long since passed the lapsed Catholic stage on her journey to her present state of cheery godlessness.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Gavin says. ‘It’s just that a Catholic is what I am.’ He negotiates a puddle, splashing his immaculate trousers. ‘You know when you have to fill in those hospital forms, and they ask you your religion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I always put RC. I simply can’t imagine putting anything else.’

  ‘And if you’re dying, you’ll want a priest to come with one of those little bottles of oil?’

  ‘Oh, definitely. Little bottles of oil are de rigeur.’

  ‘And last confession?’

  ‘Definitely last confession.’

  ‘Will you have to confess to being gay?’

  ‘God knows I’m gay. He’s fine about it.’ He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it. I certainly don’t.’

  But lapsed or not, Gavin is impressed by the Virgin of the hen house.

  ‘This is amazing,’ he tells Mikey. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it before?’

  ‘It’s just a few scratches.’ Mikey is not only an atheist; he also has no imagination. ‘I didn’t think it was really worth mentioning.’

  ‘Mikey, this is more than a few scratches.’ Gavin squats down to examine it more closely. ‘It really does look, well, it looks...’

  ‘Virgin-like?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yes.’ Gavin agrees. ‘I’m not usually one for signs and miracles, but this is something else.’