Blossom is in triumphant mode. She practically dances round the house with her duster, and even comes in on her days off. She also smiles.
Surprisingly, this is neither a pretty nor a welcome sight. Blossom smiling is not like other people smiling. There is none of the open friendliness one might expect from a normal person; none of the acknowledgement by one well-intentioned human being of the common humanity and good will of another. Blossom’s smile has something sinister about it; a touch of the I-know-something-you-don’t (or perhaps in this instance, I’m-up-to-something-you’re-not-going-to-like).
‘I wish Blossom would stop smiling,’ my poor mother says. ‘I don’t like it.’
I know she feels threatened by Blossom and that her feelings are compounded by this new and terrifying smile, but there’s not a lot we can do about it. We can hardly tell Blossom to stop. As for my uncles, they have other preoccupations than the newly-smiling Blossom. Eric has just arrived at the knotty problem of insects (‘they’re small, of course, but there are so many of them’), and Silas has found a dead whippet.
‘I’ve phoned the police, and no-one knows anything about it,’ he says wistfully. ‘I’ll never get another chance like this. I need to get started on it soon.’
‘What did the police say?’ I ask him.
‘They said I’d better wait, but I can’t. They don’t understand. It’s beginning to smell. And Eric won’t let me to put it in the freezer.’
‘Is it like when you find money?’ I ask him.
‘How do you mean?’
‘If it’s not claimed within a certain period, then you can keep it.’
‘Probably, though I don’t suppose they get many people wanting to keep other people’s dead dogs.’
‘The owners might be quite grateful,’ I suggest. After all, a stuffed whippet has got to be better than a corpse. ‘You could stuff it, and then if someone claims it, drive the car over it so that it looks run over again, and let them have it back. They mightn’t notice the difference.’
‘Do you think?’ His face is so boyishly hopeful that I can’t help laughing.
‘Oh, why not?’
‘I’ll get started, then?’
‘I would. No time like the present.’
Meanwhile, Lazzo is labouring away at the task of moving the hen house. He appears to be incredibly strong, and a very hard worker once he gets going. His triceps bulge and the veins in his neck stand out as he lifts huge sections of timber, and if glimpses of buttocks and an expanse of hairy stomach are less than attractive, then we can always look the other way. I trot to and fro with mugs of strong tea and doorsteps of bread and cheese (Lazzo’s size is matched only by his enormous appetite) and Mr. Darcy watches adoringly from the sidelines. He brings Lazzo his ball and his old rubber bone, and the tattered bedsock he sleeps with at night, and even the treasured half-toothbrush. He lays them all at Lazzo’s feet, then lies down in the long grass, his chin on his paws, following Lazzo’s every move with soulful brown eyes. I’d give a lot to be adored the way Mr. Darcy adores Lazzo.
Blossom’s attitude towards her son is to ignore him.
‘Best left,’ is her only comment, when I mention his presence.
‘You must be proud of him,’ I venture. ‘He’s an amazing worker.’
‘Humph.’ Blossom shrugs.
‘Who does he work for normally?’
‘Doesn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘On benefit.’
‘Why?’
‘Special needs.’ Blossom turns on the vacuum cleaner, her chosen way of terminating a conversation, and I am left to ponder the special needs of Lazzo.
If you discount tea and sandwiches, Lazzo’s needs seem to be few, and certainly not particularly special. Is there something about Lazzo we ought to know, I wonder? Or is he — or more likely, his mother — pulling a fast one? And if so, how does Blossom reconcile that with her faith? The next time I bring Lazzo his tea, I scrutinise his face for clues, but can find none. I would have thought that someone like Lazzo would be eminently employable.
‘Do you have — another job, Lazzo?’ I ask him as he leans against a tree trunk drinking his tea.
‘Nope.’
‘Why not? You seem — very capable.’
‘Not allowed.’
‘Why not?’
‘Born premature,’ explains Lazzo, posting a fist-sized sandwich into his enormous mouth.
‘But wasn’t that rather a long time ago?’ For few people must resemble a premature baby less than Lazzo does.
‘Yeah.’ Lazzo grins. ‘But Mum says I’ve got special needs.’
‘And have you?’
‘Used to have fits,’ he says, swallowing a huge piece of sandwich. I watch in fascination as it makes its journey down a neck so thick that it could be an extension of his head. It’s a bit like watching a snake swallowing an antelope (I saw this once on a television programme).
‘And do you still — have fits?’ I know I’m being impertinent, but Lazzo intrigues me.
‘Nah. Well, little ones.’
‘What kind of fits?’
In reply, Lazzo rolls his eyes and slobbers a bit, shaking his massive frame like a tree in a gale. I try to stand my ground.
‘Epileptic, then?’ I suggest, after a moment. I have an epileptic friend who manages to hold down a very high-powered job with no apparent difficulty.
Lazzo nods, and loads his mouth up with another sandwich.
‘Can’t you have tablets?’
‘Forget to take ’em.’ As he speaks, I can see clumps of bread revolving in his mouth like cement in a mixer.
‘What about your mother? Couldn’t she remind you?’
‘She’d be cross. Thinks I take ’em.’
‘So what do you do with them?’
‘Sell ’em.’
‘Sell them?’
‘Yeah. Got a mate gets high on my tablets.’ Lazzo laughs. ‘Do him more good than me.’
‘And — the benefit people. Won’t they catch up with you?’
‘Haven’t yet. Do a little fit for ’em when they come round. Soon gets rid of ’em. People don’t like fits.’
‘I can imagine.’ If I were a benefit person, I’d soon make myself scarce if I had the misfortune to witness Lazzo doing his special needs act.
‘So you just — stay at home?’
‘S’right.’
‘How do you get on with your mother?’ I’ve been dying to ask him this.
Lazzo laughs. ‘No-one gets on with Mum.’
So it’s not just us, then. Well, I suppose that’s something.
‘That must be difficult. How do you manage?’
‘Just take no notice.’
‘And — Kaz?’
‘She’s all right. Never in, though. Pole dancer.’
‘Really?’ I’ve never met anyone who’s related to a pole dancer. Though I’m not sure why Blossom disapproves of her daughter. After all, pole dancing is perfectly above board, isn’t it?
‘Good money,’ Lazzo explains, picking his teeth with a piece of straw.
‘I’ll bet.’
Lazzo looks me up and down appraisingly. ‘Should give it a go,’ he suggests with a grin.
I make a mental note to try not to become over-familiar with Lazzo. He has a certain charm even though he may be a little odd, but no doubt he’s equipped with the usual complement of hormones and urges, and if there were to be any sort of struggle (perish the thought) there’s no doubt as to who would — literally — come out on top.
As though to drive the point home, half an hour after this conversation, the baby takes the opportunity to remind me of my responsibilities by delivering its first unmistakeable kick. I’ve been told to expect ‘flutterings’ or feelings I might mistake for indigestion, but this is a proper kick; faint, to be sure, but almost certainly delivered by a tiny foetal foot. It may be that there have been other movements, and in my state of semi-denial I have failed to notice them. I shall never know. Whatever may or may not have happened, I now have unequivocal proof that the baby is, quite literally, alive and kicking.