Two days later, Blossom turns up with two strange men who, she says, wish to pay their respects to the Virgin. She will escort them herself, she tells us. She knows how busy we all are (Does she? Blossom never seems to have any idea what anyone else is doing, and cares even less, but we let it pass).
But on Friday, we find out who Blossom’s friends were.
MIR-EGG-LE OF THE HEN HOUSE! screams the headline in the local paper, together with what appears to be a craftily airbrushed photograph of Blossom’s Virgin and a half-page article about Blossom herself:
‘Local farmer, Blossom Edgar, has discovered what is believed to be a manifestation of the Blessed Virgin Mary ingrained in the wood of her hen house’, it begins.
Blossom a farmer? Blossom’s hen house? Even Eric and Silas are indignant.
‘Well, really, Blossom. This is a bit much. You could at least have asked us,’ Eric says.
‘You’d have said no.’ Blossom is unrepentant.
‘Yes. We almost certainly would have.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘But Blossom, this is our house and our hen house. We should be the ones to decide whether we want to be invaded by the press.’
‘Should be pleased.’ It would seem that Blossom has returned to monosyllabic mode.
‘Well, we’re not.’
‘Too late,’ says Blossom with a hint of triumph.
‘Well, yes. In this case, it is too late. But please don’t let anything like this happen again.’
‘Oh well. I suppose there’s no harm done,’ Silas says later when Blossom has gone home. ‘And she’s had her moment of glory.’
But the following week, the first pilgrims arrive.
‘Where is she? Where’s the Blessed Virgin?’ The two women who appear at the front door are breathless with excitement.
‘I’m afraid this is private property,’ I tell them. ‘And in any case, the — the manifestation has to be verified. It may take some time.’
‘Oh, we don’t mind about that,’ one of them assures me. ‘We can make up our own minds.’
‘But this is still private property. I’m afraid I can’t invite you in. It’s not my land. And the owners are out.’ Eric and Silas have gone to the feed merchant in town.
‘If it is the Blessed Virgin, then you have no right to keep her to yourself. This kind of thing belongs to everyone.’ She turns to her companion. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Well...’ The other woman looks uncertain.
‘Of course I am,’ she continues. ‘It’ll be round the back. We don’t need to trouble you, and we won’t be any bother. Just ignore us.’
And before I have time to think of a reply, she has taken her companion’s arm and led her round the back of the house towards the outbuildings. They look harmless enough, and as it’s pouring with rain, I decide to leave them to it, although I keep a watchful eye from the kitchen window.
When Eric and Silas return, I tell them about our visitors.
‘Probably just a one-off,’ says Silas. ‘I don’t expect we’ll be bothered again.’
But how wrong can you be. The next day, there are two small parties, and the day after that, four. Blossom, who has had two days off, is delighted when we tell her what’s been happening.
‘A shrine,’ she says ecstatically. ‘A shrine in our own garden!’
‘No, in our garden, Blossom,’ Eric says. ‘We’ve already told you, this is our garden, not yours. And the hen house is ours too. You have no right to invite all these strangers round as though you own the place. It really is too much!’
I have never seen either of my uncles angry before, but obviously the very real threat posed to their privacy is having its effect.
‘Didn’t invite them,’ says Blossom mutinously. ‘Just came.’
‘Yes, because of that stupid article in the paper. Blossom, you knew this would happen, didn’t you?’
‘Might have.’
‘Of course you did. I have a good mind to take the hen house to pieces and destroy that panel. I can always make another.’
‘Can’t do that. It’s holy. It’s a shrine.’
‘Just you watch me.’
‘Your dad’s hen house? Turn in his grave.’
‘He’d get over it.’
Eric and Blossom glare at each other for a moment, then Blossom appears to change tack.
‘I’ll sort it out. See to the visitors. Won’t know they’re there.’
‘I don’t know.’ Eric looks doubtful, as well he might. ‘They’ll disturb the animals. And then there’s the security risk, too.’
‘Leave it to me,’ says Blossom.
‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea. What do you think?’ He turns to his brother.
‘Let’s give it a few more days, and see what happens,’ says Silas, whose mind is on other things. He has found a particularly pleasing specimen by the roadside on the way home and is obviously longing to deal with it. ‘This may all die down.’
But the pilgrims keep on coming. They arrive in cars and on foot, and they traipse up and down the garden, creating a mud bath as they go. To be fair, they are on the whole respectful and apologetic, they don’t make much noise and they come and go quite quickly, but they are there. And someone has to be around to oversee the proceedings.
A week later, when an entire minibus full of pilgrims has made its way up the track, my uncles are at their wits’ end.
‘The trouble is, they’ll come whether we let them or not,’ says Silas. ‘And the idea of people creeping round the house in the middle of the night to pay homage to our hen house, and disturb the hens, is not a pleasant one.’
‘Creosote,’ says Silas. ‘We’ll creosote the whole hen house, and that will be that.’
‘We can’t. Creosote’s illegal. Cancer risk or some such nonsense,’ Eric tells him.
‘Paint, then. We’ll paint it.’
‘Seems a pity. It won’t fit in with the other outbuildings.’
I open my mouth to suggest that nothing other than total squalor would fit in to the chaos of tumbledown sheds which comprise my uncles’ domain, but then I close it again.
‘Wood preservative, then,’ says Eric.
‘Won’t it show through?’ I ask.
‘Shouldn’t do. And it could do with a spot of weatherproofing, anyway. This way, we’ll kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Or chickens.’
‘This isn’t funny, Ruth. We have a real problem here.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You can help. It shouldn’t take long.’
The following day, Eric drives into town and returns with several large tins of very dark wood preservative, and by the evening, we have the whole job done. The hen house looks very smart, standing out among the other more ramshackle outbuildings, but more to the point, there is no sign of the Virgin. Several disappointed visitors have had to be turned away, and there is now a large sign on the gate to the effect that the Virgin Mary has “disappeared”.
‘Which is true enough,’ says Silas, ‘even if she needed a little help. After all, if these manifestations can appear, then presumably they can disappear. I’m going back to my fox.’
Neither Eric nor I are going to argue with him. The fox in question has been with us now for two days, and is beginning to smell.
‘What do you think Blossom will say?’ I ask Eric, as he and I mix feed for the pigs.
‘She’ll be furious. Apart from anything else, she hates not having her own way.’
‘We did do the right, thing, didn’t we?’
‘Of course we did.’ Eric laughs. ‘You’re not turning Catholic on us are you? It’s a bit late for that.’
‘No. But you must admit, it was odd. It really did look like — well, like something. A bit more than a few knots in the wood, anyway.’
‘I reckon Blossom’s Father Vincent will be relieved,’ Eric says. ‘He didn’t seem at all keen on the idea of a shrine on his patch, and I can’t say I blame him.’ He slops pig feed into a trough. ‘It seems to me that miracles are a lot more trouble than they’re worth.’
But if Eric thinks miracles are trouble, they are nothing compared to Blossom’s reaction when she comes to work the next day and finds out what we’ve done. Shocked silence gives way to hysteria, followed by a torrent of vituperation. What we have done is apparently worse than blasphemy, worse than the blackest of mortal sins. Not only have we looked a spiritual gift horse in the mouth, we have outraged God Himself with our behaviour. We are worse than heathens and idolaters, and are, all three of us, condemned to eternal hell fire.
‘Goodness!’ says Silas, when Blossom has slammed out of the back door to have another look at our handiwork. ‘I didn’t know Blossom even knew half those words. She’s a dark horse, and no mistake.’
‘Why do you let her talk to you like that?’ I ask them, more surprised at my uncles’ reaction than by Blossom’s behaviour, which was more or less what I had expected (Blossom’s vocabulary is all there when she chooses to use it, as I’ve discovered to my cost).
‘We don’t “let” Blossom do anything. She’s a law unto herself.’ The plans for Eric’s Ark are spread all over the table, and he’s engrossed in designing an enclosure for some of his reptiles. He doodles with his pencil and rubs his chin. ‘Do crocodiles eat snakes?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Ring the zoo and ask, Ruth. There’s a pet.’