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  ‘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.

  As I rearrange my pillows and turn onto my back, I conclude that my problem is that I’m now surrounded by couples. Eric and Silas have each other, as do Mum and Dad. Even Sarah has what might be called a gentleman visitor, who is delivered from time to time from the back of a very dirty truck and stays just long enough to guarantee another litter of piglets. I have only met him once, and he is if possible even more ill-tempered than she is, but none the less, he is her mate (although no doubt the mate of many others, besides), and he seems to do the business to the satisfaction of both parties. I’m the only one who’s alone.

  Mikey has heard from his contact in Barbados, who has made a few enquiries but come up with nothing in the way of news of bearded trombone players, or indeed any trombone players at all. It seems that Barbados is bigger than I had imagined, and any search for Amos would be of the needle and haystack variety. Amos may even have already tired of it and left. As I drift off to sleep, I dream of Amos and me running towards each other across a palm-fringed beach, like a Caribbean Cathy and Heathcliffe.

  ‘Ruth! Ruth!’ Amos calls, but his voice and image become fainter and fainter until I find myself alone, and when I awake again, my pillow is damp with my tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It’s becoming increasingly apparent that Silas is unwell again. He is breathless and pale, tires easily and complains of swollen ankles and palpitations.

  ‘I think it’s come back,’ he tells us, leafing through his health bible. It is a new one, which Eric gave him for Christmas since the old one was falling to pieces. It was not something Eric wanted to buy, since he had had more than enough of the last one, but he had to agree that Silas would only fret without what he sees as an essential aid to living. The new book is big and shiny and up-to-date, illustrated with the kinds of photographs that most people would do a great deal to avoid, and Silas loves it.

  ‘Look.’ Silas jabs a finger at a diagram of a heart valve. ‘That’s what it’s supposed to look like. I think mine must be shot to pieces.’

  ‘But you don’t know what your heart looks like,’ I object. ‘How can you possibly tell?’

  ‘I can feel it.’ Silas places a hand on his chest. ‘It’s fibrillating again. The valve just isn’t working properly. Look, Ruth.’ He shows me a picture of a non-functioning valve. ‘That’s what’s happened to it. I think I’m in mild heart failure.’

  He goes on the explain about “mitral regurgitation” and “oedema” and says that this almost certainly means he should have an operation.

  ‘Anyone would think you wanted an operation,’ I object. ‘No-one wants operations.’

  ‘Well, of course I don’t actually want one,’ Silas says, just a little too cheerfully. ‘But if I have to have one, then so be it.’

  ‘You should see the doctor anyway,’ Eric says. ‘You need a thorough check-up.’

  ‘All in good time, all in good time,’ Silas says, opening his book again. ‘I want to make quite sure I know all the facts before I start seeing doctors again.’

  ‘But the doctor will know all the facts. You don’t have to,’ I object.

  Silas regards me gravely over the top of his spectacles.

  ‘You can’t be too sure,’ he says. ‘And it’s my body. I think I should be the one to decide what to do with it.’

  Since none of us can argue with that, we have to leave Silas to get on with it, but I know that poor Eric is terribly worried, and I feel for him. In matters of his own health, Silas, usually the most thoughtful of men, can be very inconsiderate, for surely he, more than any of us, should understand how Eric is feeling.

  ‘You must be awfully worried,’ I say to Eric, when we are alone together.

  ‘Of course I am. But what can I do?’ He is currently preoccupied with the subject of koala bears and eucalyptus, and for once I’m grateful for Eric’s Ark, because at least it’s something to help keep his mind off his brother. ‘He’s so stubborn. It would be easier if he didn’t enjoy all this so much. He’s having a wonderful time with that bloody book of his. I wish I’d never given it to him. It only encourages him.’

  ‘He would have bought it for himself anyway,’ I remind him. ‘You know what Silas is like.’

  ‘True.’ Eric puts down his pen. ‘Did you know that the koala bear is a marsupial? Isn’t that interesting?’

  The following day, Silas collapses at the lunch table. As we once again await the arrival of the ambulance, Eric curses himself for not doing something sooner. It should never have come to this, he says wretchedly. We should have bundled
him into the car and shipped him off to the doctor with or without his permission. If anything happens to Silas, he tells us, he will never forgive himself. Mum, too, feels responsible; even I feel responsible. In fact, it seems to me that everyone feels responsible except the patient, who is lying serenely on the kitchen floor issuing instructions through lips the colour of damsons.

  ‘Don’t talk, Silas,’ Eric tells him, ‘You’re just tiring yourself out.’

  ‘Take — my — pulse,’ whispers Silas.

  I take his pulse. I can barely feel anything, and what I can feel is thin and thready and very irregular.

  ‘What — is — it?’

  ‘Difficult to tell. A bit irregular.’

  Silas nods. ‘As — I — thought.’ He smiles, and I find myself actually feeling angry with him. How could he? How could he be so cheerful when everyone else is so worried? Doesn’t he spare a thought for Eric? For Mum? Apparently not. Silas is doing what he does best; he is Being Ill. And don’t we all enjoy doing what we do best?

  In hospital, Silas has all the tests he had last time, and is fully vindicated. His mitral valve has become virtually useless, and he needs a new one.

  ‘There,’ he says, sitting up in bed and talking through a plastic oxygen mask. ‘I was right all along.’

  ‘So you were,’ says Eric, who is by now paler than Silas.

  ‘They say they’re going to operate as soon as possible,’ Silas tells us. ‘I’m not sure what kind of valve they’re giving me. Apparently the organic ones are very good, but the metal ones last longer.’ I notice that his bible has managed to get into the hospital with him, and sits proudly on his bedside locker beside a bowl of fruit and the stuffed frog, which Silas considers to be his finest work. The nurses do not like the frog, and the words “bacteria” and “cross-infection” have been mentioned, but no-one has had the heart to remove it. ‘They can sometimes repair valves, but mine has gone too far.’ He pauses for breath. ‘I — told — you — so,’ he adds, ‘only the other day. Didn’t I tell you,’ he pauses again, panting through the steady hiss of oxygen, ‘it was shot to pieces?’