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  ‘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 seems 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.

  ‘Oh, well. If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Eric greets our visitor, and offers him a drink.

  ‘I think perhaps I ought to be going.’ I edge towards the door.

  ‘No, no, Ruth. Do stay.’ Eric pours a cloudy liquid into glasses (the label has come off the bottle. I hope it’s not weed killer).

  ‘But this may be private,’ I tell him.

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Eric. ‘Now.’ He turns to Mr. Riley. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ The man looks desperately round him, as though searching for some kind of assistance. ‘Is your name — Purves?’

  ‘Yes. Eric Purves.’ Eric tastes his drink and then holds his glass up to the light. ‘Parsnip, I think. Yes, I’m sure this is the parsnip. Not at all bad, as I recall.’

  ‘Well, I think you might be my father.’

  ‘Ah.’ Eric puts down his glass. He appears amazingly calm. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Mr. Riley explains about his mother, the mystery of his paternity, and the letter.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you with all this, particularly after all this time. It must come as quite a shock to you. But you see, I really need to know.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Eric pauses. ‘And who — who was your mother?’

  ‘Mary Riley. She never married, so if you knew her, that would have been her name.’

  ‘Mary Riley,’ Eric muses, as though mentally going through a check-list of past lovers. ‘Yes. You know, I think there was a Mary Riley. It was a long time ago, of course. A very long time ago.’

  At this moment, Silas comes in. He greets Mr. Riley cheerfully, and then starts hunting for his frog.

  ‘I’m sure I put it down here somewhere,’ he says. ‘Ruth, have you done something with my frog?’

  ‘Silas, I think you’d better listen to Eric,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yes. Silas, Mr. Riley thinks I’m his father.’

  Mr. Riley is still apparently reeling from the identical twin effect, and I can’t help feeling sorry for him. After all, there are just so many shocks someone can be expected to cope with in one afternoon. I refill his glass, hoping this might help.

  ‘And are you?’ Silas asks. ‘Oh, here it is!’ He recovers his frog from under the tea towel and places it on the draining board.

  ‘I suppose I could be,’ Eric says. ‘He’s Mary Riley’s son.’

  ‘Mary Riley, Mary Riley.’ Silas says thoughtfully, ‘Oh, that Mary Riley! I remember. She was a lovely girl. Nice sense of humour.’

  I hope her son has inherited the sense of humour, for I have a feeling he’s going to need it.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Mr. Riley looks pathetically from one to the other.

  ‘Well, we both knew Mary Riley,’ says Silas carefully.

  ‘Oh yes. We both knew her,’ Eric says. ‘Quite well, actually.’

  ‘How well?’ Mr. Riley has decided to be blunt.

  ‘Very well.’ Silas and Eric exchange glances.

  ‘What, both of you?’

  ‘Both of us.’

  ‘You mean you shared — relationships?’

  ‘Oh, not always,’ Eric tells him, ‘By no means always. But sometimes, when one thing ended, another would begin. You know how it is.’

  ‘Are you saying — are you saying that either of you could be my father?’

  ‘I think we’re saying it’s possible.’ Eric refills everyone’s glasses. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Kent. Kent Riley.’

  ‘Why Kent?’

  ‘My mother said I was conceived in Kent.’

  ‘Surrey.’ My uncles speak in unison.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Not Kent. Surrey. If it — you — were anything to do with us, it was definitely Surrey,’ says Silas.

  ‘Perhaps she thought that Kent Riley sounded better than Surrey Riley,’ says Eric.

  There follows a discussion about Kent and Surrey, and what Mary Riley might or might not have been up to in either county.

  ‘You don’t sound very surprised by all this,’ Mr. Riley says, after everyone has decided that Kent is on the whole prettier than Surrey.

  ‘Oh, I think we’re surpr
ised all right,’ Silas says, ‘but nothing’s been proved yet, has it?’

  ‘No. We need proof,’ says Eric.

  ‘Well, I’ve no problem with that,’ says Mr. Riley (Kent, I suppose we should call him, especially as it looks as though he may be family).

  ‘Of course, if you can prove that one of us is your father we’ll have to share you,’ says Silas.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Shared DNA. Our DNA is identical, so while we might find out that either of us could be your father, we wouldn’t know which one.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear.’

  ‘Why? Does it matter?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d resigned myself to having no father at all, and now it looks as though I may have two. It takes a bit of getting used to.’

  ‘And we had resigned ourselves to having no sons at all, and now we’ll have to make do with half each,’ says Eric, who has overdone the parsnip wine and is becoming pink-faced and merry. ‘Have you any children?’ I think this is greedy of Eric. Isn’t a son enough, without expecting grandchildren as well?

  ‘No. I never married.’ No-one points out that it is just been shown only too clearly that marriage is no prerequisite for the fathering of children.

  ‘Oh well. Never mind.’

  ‘I don’t, most of the time,’ Kent says, ‘but I think I’d like to have been a father.’

  ‘It’s not too late.’ Eric laughs. ‘Look at us! We never expected children, and now it looks as though we might have one after all!’

  While this discussion is going on, it occurs to me that Eric and Silas may not be the only ones to have discovered a new relation, for I may be about to acquire a cousin. Never having had a cousin before — never really having had much in the way of family at all — I am very pleased with this idea.

  ‘Mr. Riley — Kent — what do you do?’ I ask him. ‘For a living, I mean.’

  ‘I’m a piano tuner.’

  There follows a long, interested silence.