In the course of the next two days, I manage to contact several people, none of whom have any idea where Amos might be. He has apparently mentioned another cruise ship, in which case he could be anywhere in the world, and also “taking time out”, which could mean much the same.
But before I have time to be seriously disappointed at what is essentially non-news, something happens to turn our household completely upside-down, and take our minds off anything but the matter in question.
It is all Blossom’s fault.
Perhaps I should first explain that Blossom is a fully paid-up rosary-carrying Roman Catholic. Not for Blossom the twice-yearly trip to the confessional; she apparently goes to both Mass and confession every week.
When Silas first told me I was completely stunned. ‘Blossom in confession! I wonder what she says?’
‘So do we.’
‘Probably not a lot as she never admits she’s in the wrong,’ I say, rather unkindly.
‘There is that.’
‘But still.’
‘As you say. But still.’
To be fair, Blossom doesn’t talk about her faith much, but it does go some way to explain her attitude to my condition and to the behaviour of Kaz. I’m not at all sure what it is that Kaz does to incur her mother’s disapproval, but knowing Catholics — and I know quite a few — it’s almost certain to have something to do with sex. I have often thought that the Catholic church would be much happier if there were no such thing as sex; if instead of having babies, people simply divided in two, like those micro-organisms we studied in biology at school. Clean, simple and straightforward, with no messy relationships or the ‘impure’ thoughts and deeds to which my Catholic friends felt obliged to confess.
I wonder why it is that Blossom’s religion has apparently failed to make her a nicer person, but as Silas and Eric point out, she might be a lot worse without it. Silas, ever charitable, says she could well be trying very hard, and have found that this is as far as she can get on her spiritual journey, but I remain convinced that Blossom is a deeply unpleasant person, and that not much can be done to change her.
Be that as it may, it is a very different Blossom from the one we know (if not love) who bursts into the kitchen on a wet Monday morning after feeding the hens.
‘Dear Lord! Oh, dear Lord!’ she collapses into a chair.
‘What? What’s happened?’ Eric asks her. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Dear Lord. Oh, Holy Mother of God.’ There are actual tears in Blossom’s eyes.
Eric gives her a little shake.
‘Come on, Blossom It can’t be that bad.’
‘Bad? Oh, not at all. Not bad. It’s a miracle. A miracle in this house. Praise the Lord!’
‘Miracle? What miracle?’ Silas joins in.
‘The blessed Virgin Mary. In the hen house.’
‘You mean — you mean you’ve had a vision of some sort?’ says Eric carefully. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, no. It’s still there. Oh, praise the Lord!’
‘Are you saying that the — the Blessed Virgin is in the hen house?’
‘No. Yes. Well, sort of.’
‘Tell us, Blossom. Take your time.’
‘Oh, Holy Mother! Bless us all.’ Blossom crosses herself. We all wait.
‘She’s there. She’s right there on the wall. I saw her clear as I’m sitting here.’
‘On the wall.’ Silas repeats the words thoughtfully. ‘Where — where exactly on the wall?’
‘It’s not her herself, of course —’ well, there’s a relief — ‘but her image. With stars.’
‘With stars. My goodness,’ says Eric.
‘Come. Come and see!’ Blossom leaps to her feet and pulls at Silas’s hand. ‘All of you. Come and see.’ She scurries out of the back door and leads the way along the muddy path to the hen house.
The hen house is the oldest of the outbuildings, having been made many years ago by my grandfather. Rather unusually, it is constructed from oak, since, as Eric explained to me, that was the only wood which was to hand at the time. Everyone has always agreed that a lovely piece of oak like that is wasted on the hens, but it has stood the test of time and of many generations of birds, and Eric and Silas are very attached to it. They used to hide in it as boys, and my poor mother once spent a terrifying afternoon in it when her brothers locked her in. It is, in short, a part of family history.
When we catch up with Blossom, her eyes are fixed on the side of the hen house and she appears to be in some kind of trance. I follow her gaze, but can see nothing unusual. I wonder whether you have to be a Catholic to see these things (after all, they always seem to appear to Catholics). Agnostics like myself probably don’t stand a chance.
‘There. There she is.’ Blossom rouses herself and points. ‘There. The Blessed Mother herself. And — stars.’
We all look. After a minute, Eric and Silas move closer.
‘Well — I think I can see something,’ Silas says, but he sounds a bit doubtful. He fishes in his pocket for his glasses, and peers more closely.
‘What? What can you see?’ Blossom cries.
‘It could be — yes, it looks a bit like a figure.’
‘Yes! Yes! Oh, thanks be to God!’ Blossom clasps her hands and lifts her gaze heavenwards.
‘Hang on a minute, Blossom. Maybe we need to calm down a bit.’ Silas says. ‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions.’
‘Can I have a look?’ I ask.
Eric and Silas move back, and I join Blossom.
‘There! There she is,’ Blossom says, pointing a grubby finger.
Sure enough, in the grain of the wood it is possible to make out a vague figure; tall, wearing a kind of long garment, with what could be outstretched arms.
‘I see what you mean,’ I say.
‘And stars? Can you see the stars?’
There is a circle of speckles round the head of the figure. Certainly, with a bit of imagination, they could be taken for stars.
‘I think I can.’
‘There! Told you! Even Ruth can see her.’
Even Ruth. Thank you, Blossom.
Eric and Silas carry out another inspection, and agree that there certainly is something that looks a bit like a figure.
‘But even if it is a person, how can you tell who it is?’ Eric asks.
Blossom looks at him pityingly.
‘The Blessed Virgin likes to appear. That’s what she does.’
This seems true enough. I have read of Virgins appearing, variously, on hillsides, in skyscapes and even on pieces of toast. Why not on the side of our hen house?
It is a strange phenomenon that once you see a figure or an object in a piece of wood (or in anything else, come to that) it becomes impossible not to see it. I myself have found the head of a fox and a lop-sided dragonfly in the knotted wood of the bathroom floor, and there are lots of faces in the floral material of the curtains in my old bedroom at home. Thus the curtains are no longer flowery, but peopled with little pink and white strangers, and whichever way I look at them, I can’t turn them back into flowers.
So it is with Blossom’s Virgin. Now that I have seen her, I can’t not see her. She is there. And the more I look, the more Virgin-like she becomes. I fancy I see features, hair, even a veil. The outstretched arms bless, the tiny stars twinkle. I am almost convinced. I try looking away, and then looking back again, but she is still there. I can almost imagine that the garment she is wearing is blue. Whatever happens, from now on every time I look at the hen house, I too will see the Virgin Mary.
‘I’ll phone Father Vincent. That’s what I’ll do,’ Blossom says.
‘What can he do?’ Eric asks.
‘Father Vincent will know.’
Father Vincent doesn’t know. When summoned to inspect Blossom’s miracle, he seems far more concerned about the mud on the route to the hen house and the lively and unwelcome attentions of Mr. Darcy than the possibility of any miraculous manifestation.
‘Hm.’ He stands at the side of the hen house, looking thoughtful.
‘Well? Well, Father?’ Blossom is almost skipping up and down in her excitement. I am amazed, not only at Blossom’s unusually high spirits and the sudden loosening of her tongue, but also by her demeanour. I have never seen Blossom showing respect for anyone before, but she is almost grovelling in her behaviour towards Father Vincent.
Father Vincent puts on his spectacles and leans down, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
‘Hm,’ he says again.
We all wait. It would appear that without Father Vincent’s imprimatur, Blossom’s miracle isn’t a miracle at all, so a lot hangs on his verdict.
‘You can see her, can’t you, Father? There she is, bless her, with all those little stars.’
‘Well...’
‘Yes? Yes, Father?’
‘I suppose it could be. Just could be. But it’s very hard to tell.’
‘Perhaps we should pray, Father? Shall we pray?’ Blossom makes as though to kneel down in the mud.
‘No need to kneel,’ Father Vincent says hastily. ‘We can pray standing here quietly.’
Father Vincent and Blossom stand for several minutes with their eyes closed, and once again, we all wait. When they open their eyes, I find that I’m holding my breath, as though their verdict is of great importance.
‘It is the Blessed Virgin, isn’t it, Father? Please say it’s her!’ Blossom says.
‘It’s not for me to say whether or not this is the Blessed Virgin.’ Discreetly, Father Vincent wipes his shoes on a clump of grass.
‘Who then?’ I ask, unable to contain my curiosity. ‘Who decides what’s real and what isn’t?’
‘We need a miracle or two,’ says Father Vincent. ‘Yes. That’s what we need. A miracle.’
‘What sort of miracle?’
‘A healing, perhaps. Yes. A healing would certainly help.’
I cast about in my mind for someone who needs healing.
‘Sarah has a touch of mastitis,’ Eric suggests.
‘Sarah?’ Father Vincent turns to him.
‘Our sow.’
‘Oh, no. Not a sow. That would not be appropriate.’ Father Vincent sighs. I feel that he is not really entering into the spirit of the occasion. ‘I’ll need to talk to the bishop.’
Even I know that people like bishops are busy and take a long time to answer things, and as we all troop back into the house for a cup of tea, I feel quite sorry for Blossom. After all, does it really matter whether her Virgin is real or not? If it makes Blossom happy (and it would seem that it does) then where’s the harm?
But despite her disappointment, Blossom seems strangely cheery, stirring Father Vincent’s tea for him and getting out chocolate biscuits and even cracking a little joke or two. I have the distinct feeling that Blossom is up to something, and I wonder what it can be.
In the event, I don’t have long to wait.