The knock at the front door is timid; almost apologetic.
‘Was that the door?’ Eric asks.
‘I’ll go and see,’ I tell him.
‘It’s probably the man about the llamas,’ Eric calls after me (this is a very long story, and I won’t go into it now). ‘Tell him next week. Definitely next week.’
But it’s not the man about the llamas.
‘Mum!’ My mother is standing on the doorstep holding a small suitcase and a collection of bags. ‘What are you —’
‘Can I come in?’ Mum pecks me on the cheek. She looks tired and drained.
‘Of course. Of course you can come in. Here, let me take your bags.’ I usher her into the hallway. ‘Eric! Silas! It’s Mum!’
‘Rosie! How lovely to see you! This is a nice surprise.’ Silas gives her a hug. ‘What brings you here?’
I’d forgotten that my uncles call Mum Rosie (my father always uses her full name), but looking at her now, small and vulnerable beside her big — in every sense — brothers, I can see that she could be a Rosie.
‘I need — I need to speak to Ruth. Is that all right? For a few minutes.’ She turns and then starts as she catches sight of Silas’s fox. ‘Gracious! What’s that?’
‘Oh, don’t mind him.’ Silas drapes a tea towel over the fox’s head. ‘There. Now he can’t see you.’
‘Is he — is he —?’
‘Dead?’ Silas laughs. ‘Oh yes. Very.’ He turns to Eric. ‘We’ll make ourselves scarce, shall we?’
When they’ve left the room, I make coffee, and Mum and I sit together at the kitchen table. She seems ill at ease, twisting a flowery handkerchief in her fingers, her eyes darting round the room as though expecting more foxes to creep out of the woodwork.
‘How — how are you, Ruth?’
‘Fine. I’m fine.’
‘And — the baby?’
‘Fine too, as far as I know.’
‘You look well.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
There is a pause in which Mum stirs sugar into her coffee (she doesn’t normally take sugar).
‘This is difficult,’ she begins. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘Dad? Is it Dad?’ I feel a frisson of fear.
‘No. Well, yes. In a way. Oh, Ruth —’ she turns to me, and there’s a kind of desperation in her eyes — ‘ I’ve left him. I’ve left your father.’
‘You’ve left him?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘This morning. Well, things have been difficult for a while. They came to a head last night, and we had a row. We’ve never had a row before. Not a real one.’ Mum looks as though she still finds is hard to believe. ‘I couldn’t get through to him how I felt. He just wouldn’t listen. So after I’d washed up the breakfast things, I — I left.’
‘But why? How did all this start? You two have always seemed such a — couple.’
‘It’s — complicated.’
‘Tell me. You have to tell me, Mum. If I’m to understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on.’ I reach across and take her hand. ‘Just tell me. It can’t be that difficult.’
‘Oh, Ruth! I can’t — I couldn’t —’ And she bursts into tears.
I let her cry for a few minutes, awkwardly patting her shoulder, wondering how best I can help her.
‘It was — it was about you.’ She blows her nose. ‘Oh, Ruth — I couldn’t bear it. Not knowing how you were, not having anything to do with the — with the baby. I just couldn’t bear it.’
‘But you know I’d have come home any time. You only had to say.’
Mum shakes her head.
‘Your father.’
‘Dad.’ Of course. My father has never been one to go back on a decision, particularly one involving matters of morals (or, as in my case, the lack of them). I was brought up to believe that the man was the head of the family, and therefore Always Right (my father is a fervent follower of the teachings of St. Paul), and it took the outside world and a good dose of common sense to teach me that this was by no means always the case. It could be that my mother is at last beginning to see the light.
‘He didn’t want you to come home. He didn’t even want me to see you. Well not yet, anyway. He loves you, Ruth, in his own way. He really does. But —’
‘On his terms?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. And he really didn’t know how to deal with this — with this situation.’
‘No. I can see that.’ I drink my coffee, which is cooling rapidly. ‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Painting the fence.’
‘Painting the fence?’
‘He thinks I’ll be home to cook his dinner. But I won’t, Ruth. I won’t. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve had enough.’
‘Do you — do you love him?’ I ask, after a moment.
‘I did. I certainly did once. But I don’t know any more. Being married to him was a habit. Our life together is a habit. I care about him. Of course I do. And I’d never wish him harm. But I want more than that. Before it’s too late. I know what I’ve done is wrong — leaving him like this — but you’re my daughter. My only child. This — baby could be my only grandchild. I may not get another chance.’
‘And God? What about God?’ I know this is cruel, but I genuinely want to know. I feel that all my life I’ve come second to God, as far as my parents are concerned. Is my mother really willing to compromise her beliefs for me?
‘God. Yes.’ Mum fiddles with her teaspoon. ‘I think there’s room for Him, too. Somewhere. But maybe my God isn’t the same as your father’s any more. Can you understand that?’
I have always thought of my father’s God as the God of the Old Testament; a God who often seemed to me more concerned with battles and sacrifice and punishment than forgiveness and love.
‘Yes. Yes, I can.’ I stand up and look out of the window, where I can see Eric and Silas hovering at a tactful distance, pretending to be busy. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘That’s the other problem. And you may not like this either, Ruth. But I thought I might ask if — well ask whether I could stay here. Just for a while. Until I’ve got myself sorted.’
‘Oh.’ Of course I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. I was more or less compelled to come here, and at the time I didn’t really want to. Now, it would appear that my mother wants to gatecrash my comfortable new life and join in. ‘Well...’
‘I knew you wouldn’t be pleased, Ruth. And I can understand how you must feel, after what — well, after what your father and I have done. But I’ve nowhere else to go.’ She spreads her fingers in a little lost gesture, and I feel sorry that I ever made her feel unwelcome. Poor Mum. Trapped in a life where she is bound to my father and God (probably in that order), she has never had time to make a life of her own. She hasn’t had a job since I was born, and such friends as she has are from the church or the voluntary organisations to which she belongs. They are all nice enough, but I think it unlikely that any of them would stand by her in this crisis.
‘Of course I don’t mind. It would be good to have you here, though it’s not exactly what you’re used to.’
‘I know that. Silas and Eric have always lived in a bit of a muddle, but they’re family. My family. We used to be — well, we were very close before I got married, but — but —’
‘Dad didn’t really approve of them?’
‘Something like that. I think he likes them. Well, he hasn’t anything against them, anyway. But he doesn’t understand them. Their way of life, the fact that they’ve never really had proper jobs, the way they’ve turned their back on God.’
‘I think if Dad took the trouble to get to know them better, he’d be surprised. They’re good people, which is what really matters, and they’ve been wonderful to me.’
‘I knew they would be.’ For the first time, Mum smiles, looking almost pretty. I’ve never thought of my mother as pretty, but when I come to think of it, I haven’t often seen her smile. ‘I knew we could trust them to look after you.’
Of course, when she asks them, Eric and Silas both say they are delighted to have Mum for as long as she likes. She can have the room she slept in as a child. It will need a bit of a tidy (this, I happen to know, is an understatement), but they’re sure she’ll be comfortable.
‘We thought it might come to this, one day,’ Silas tell me some time later, when a large pile of assorted junk has been moved from Mum’s room and she’s has taken her things upstairs. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this to you, Ruth, but we never thought the marriage was — quite right for her. Not that we have anything against your father,’ he adds, glancing at his brother, ‘but they seemed so — unsuited somehow.’
‘How, unsuited?’ I ask him.
‘Well, your mum was quite a girl when she was young. She had lots of boyfriends and she liked a good time. Your father...’
‘Wasn’t so much one for a good time?’ I suggest.
‘I suppose you could say that. But he was serious and steady, and maybe that’s what your mum needed. And after all, it seems to have worked so far, doesn’t it? And may well do again.’
‘Do you think she’ll go back to him?’ I ask him.
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps she needs a bit of time to — well, to find herself. Sort herself out. But there’s no hurry. We’re happy to have her.’
When Mum comes downstairs some time later, she has changed and freshened up, and looks more in control.
‘Would you like a guided tour?’ I ask her.
‘Yes. That might be a good idea,’ she says. ‘Then at least I can be of some use.’
I find her a pair of old wellingtons and we walk round the garden and outhouses. I introduce Mum to Sarah and her fast-growing family, and she admires some new fluffy chicks and a beautiful Jersey calf. She makes no comments about the state of the place, and I’m grateful; for seeing things as it were through her eyes, I can’t believe that Silas and Eric have managed to function so well for so long in all this chaos. I refrain from telling her about the Virgin of the hen house; it’s too soon for anything quite so outré. My parents see Roman Catholics as idolaters; unworthy to be called Christians, and under no circumstances to be trusted. Visions of the Virgin are most certainly to be avoided at all costs.
‘Well, that’s it,’ I say, as we end up back at the house. ‘What would you like to do now?’
‘I think,’ says Mum, ‘I’d better phone your father. To tell him he’ll have to cook for himself this evening.’