November is heralded by the typical cold dank conditions I always associate with this most unpleasant of months. Gone are most of the colours and the fruits of the autumn, and we tramp to and fro over ground thick with a mush of mud and fallen leaves. Most of the chickens have stopped laying, one of the goats has lost her kid (‘wrong time of year,’ said Silas glumly), and despite our best efforts, such vegetables as have survived are rotting faster than we can gather them in the damp conditions. I have had to give up my busking as I find standing around in the cold so tiring, and while I know it was the right decision, I resent having had to make it for reasons beyond my control.
I have always hated November, not least because I loathe fireworks. When I was about five, I was invited to a fireworks party, where a nasty little boy chased me all over his garden with bangers. That, coupled with the horrifying image of someone who looked very much like his father being incinerated on the huge bonfire, instilled in me a terror I remember to this day. I managed to unfasten the gate and run home, crossing two roads on the way, and was eventually discovered hiding in the tool shed, weeping with terror. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards. To this day, I cannot see the point of fireworks. If I want to look at something pretty, I can find it in flowers and scenery and art. If I want surprises, life provides plenty of those without any need for the artificial kind. And I do not enjoy sudden loud noises.
Neither do Eric and Silas’s animals.
You would think that out here in the country, November 5th would pass virtually unnoticed. Not so. There are a couple of houses not far away, both with children, and both apparently hell-bent on commemorating Guy Fawkes and his nefarious activities. Fortunately, Eric and Silas have managed to persuade them to restrict their celebrations to the night in question (in recent years Guy Fawkes, like Christmas, has tended to spread itself over several days), so that some precautions can be taken. But with the best will in the world it’s impossible to persuade a cow that unexpected bangs and bumps and showers of coloured stars aren’t cause for consternation. While the neighbouring households are no doubt oohing and aahing as they fire their rockets and burn their effigies and eat their hot dogs, for us it’s all hands to the pump, trying to offer consolation to the livestock.
We have locked up such animals as we can, but I suspect that for some, this merely compounds their misery. Inside the house, Mr. Darcy is beside himself with terror, the cats are hiding in Mum’s bed, and Sarah, that most independent of animals, has managed to escape from her shed and get into the house, where she has taken refuge in the larder, her anxiety betrayed by the trail of terrified little turds she has left in her wake.
Fortunately, Lazzo has come round to help, and has been a tower of strength, visiting sheds and outhouses, stroking and comforting, and ending up on a kitchen chair with Mr. Darcy shivering in his arms and a can of beer in his hand.
‘Noisy,’ remarks Lazzo, as another shower of sparks lightens the sky outside the window.
‘D’you think fireworks are getting louder?’ Eric asks, of no-one in particular. ‘I’m sure they never used to make so much noise.’
‘It probably just seems like it.’ Silas pours himself some nettle wine (we are having our own party of sorts. I, needless to say, am back on the wagon). ‘It’ll pass.’
‘Should that pig be in the larder?’ Mum is much exercised by the mess (not to mention the smell) which has accompanied Sarah’s visit.
‘She always spends Guy Fawkes in there,’ says Eric.
‘Is it — hygienic? I mean, a pig in a larder...’
‘Probably not.’ Eric grins at her. ‘But it hasn’t done us any harm yet.’
Mum moves her chair nearer the door. ‘If you say so. Though I don’t know what Brian would say.’ (Brian is my father.)
‘Then don’t tell him,’ Silas says.
Mum looks uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure that she still tells Dad most of the things that go on in this household, for old habits die hard, and I wonder how long she can hold out before the inevitable climb-down and return home. I know she’s not happy, suspended as she is between two very different lives; torn between her loyalty to my father and her feelings for me, not to mention her hurt at the minimal effort Dad has made to retrieve her. But what can she do? Poor Mum. With the best will in the world, she’ll never really fit in here. It’s too far removed from everything she’s used to. But having made what is — for her — a very courageous move, will she fit back into her old life again? Only time will tell.
A few days later, all of our minds are taken off our individual worries by a more serious matter.
For some time now, Silas has been researching the long-term effects of rheumatic fever, and we haven’t taken a lot of notice. After all, health issues have always been a major source of fascination for Silas, and most of the time there is little for the rest of us to concern ourselves with. And if he’s been a bit tired of late, perhaps a little breathless, then these things happen at seventy-four, don’t they?
‘Mitral stenosis,’ says Silas, reading from his medical book. ‘I think that must be it. I seem to have all the symptoms.’ He applies his stethoscope to his chest and listens attentively. ‘But I can’t hear anything. Damn.’
‘Do you know what you’re supposed to hear?’ I ask him.
‘Not really.’ Silas sighs. ‘I’ve read about heart murmurs, but I’ve never heard one, so I don’t really know what I’m looking for.’
‘Perhaps you should let the doctor check you out.’
‘Oh no. Well, not yet, anyway. People don’t usually drop dead from mitral stenosis.’
‘Are you sure?’ It certainly sounds impressive enough to be fatal.
‘Quite sure,’ Silas assures me. ‘This kind of thing can rumble on for years. And my blood pressure’s fine.’
‘Good.’
‘And I’m not a bad colour.’ He examines his reflection in the hall mirror. ‘Or maybe just a little cyanosed. What do you think, Ruth?’
‘What’s cyanosed?’
‘Blue. Pale. It’s caused by lack of oxygen.’
I examine Silas’s face. ‘You look okay to me.’
‘Mm. I’m not sure.’ He examines his hands. ‘It can affect the extremities, too.’
Silas’s hands are so dirty I don’t think it would much matter what colour they were, but if Silas reckons his fingertips are a little blue, he may be right. After all, he’s lived with them for long enough.
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the doctor?’ I ask him. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘Maybe eventually, but there’s plenty of time yet. This was bound to happen sooner or later.’
‘Was it?’
‘Oh yes. Rheumatic fever does this. It goes away for years, and then the effects come back to haunt you in later life.’
And he goes on to give me a detailed explanation. He uses words like haemolytic streptococcus and carditis, sub-cutaneous nodules and erythema marginatum, mitral regurgitation and aortic stenosis. This kind of vocabulary is meat and drink to Silas; to me, it’s double Dutch.
‘Gosh. All that,’ I say weakly, when he’s finished.
‘Yes. It’s a nuisance, but so interesting, don’t you think, Ruth?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘We are fearfully and wonderfully made,’ Silas tells me cheerfully.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to do the pigs now.’
‘Take care.’
A week later, Silas collapses. One minute, he is standing at the kitchen table putting the finishing touches to his latest victim (a weasel; Silas has always wanted a weasel, and has been wildly excited ever since he found it); the next, he’s lying on the floor, looking very pale and rather surprised.
‘Silas? Silas! Are you all right?’ I’m completely panic-stricken. I’ve never seen anyone pass out before, and have always been queasy when it comes to medical emergencies. I also have no idea what to do.
‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’ Silas tries to sit up.
‘No. No. Stay where you are. You mustn’t move.’ Somewhere in that tiny section of my brain which stores my minuscule knowledge of things medical there is the strict injunction not to move the patient. Or is that just in the case of accidents? And what about the recovery position? What is it, and should I put Silas in it now? I have always wondered about the expression ‘in a flap’, but now I understand, because my hands seem to be making involuntary fluttering movements as I panic and dither, and Silas lies obediently on the floor, waiting for me to do something helpful.
‘Fetch Eric,’ Silas tells me.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Eric.’
‘He’s fixing the bedroom window.’
‘Bedroom window. Yes.’ I look down at Silas. ‘Can I — should I —’
‘Fetch Eric. Please, Ruth.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
I fly upstairs and fetch Eric. Together we arrive back in the kitchen, where Silas is still lying on the floor.
‘Well, now.’ Eric creaks down into his knees and places a hand on Silas’s forehead. ‘Mm. You are a bit sweaty. What exactly happened? And how are you feeling?’
‘I had some kind of syncope attack —’ syncope attack? — ‘and I’m feeling a bit — woozy.’ Silas takes his own pulse. ‘Atrial fibrillation,’ he tells us, after a moment.
‘Translate,’ Eric orders. ‘This is no time to show off your medical knowledge, Silas. Ruth and I are worried.’
‘I’ve fainted, and I’m having palpitations,’ Silas explains. He looks calm and untroubled, and the unworthy thought occurs to me that Silas is enjoying this. He now has a real illness with real symptoms. He will be able to spend hours poring over his grisly book analysing his condition.
‘Can you sit up?’ Eric asks (no recovery position, then).
‘I think so.’ Carefully, Silas sits up. The colour immediately drains from his face. ‘Better not.’ He subsides onto the floor again.
Eric places a folded jacket under his head. ‘Dial 999, Ruth. I think we need help,’ he tells me.
Burly ambulance men arrive, cheery and reassuring. They ask Silas lots of questions before levering him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. Eric and I follow in the Land Rover, leaving a note for Mum, who is at the hairdresser’s. Eric is pale and quiet, and we don’t speak, although I long to offer some kind of comfort and also to ask whether he’s suffering any of Silas’s symptoms. I’ve read about twins suffering identical pains even when they’re miles apart; is Eric’s pallor due to some psychic twin response, or is it simply anxiety?
At the hospital, there is a lot of waiting around. Silas is offered an injection for the pain.
‘I haven’t got any pain,’ he objects.
‘For your distress, dear,’ the nurse tells him.
‘I’m not distressed.’
‘It’ll calm you down.’
‘I’m perfectly calm.’ But in the end, Silas agrees to the injection because, as he says, he’s always wanted to know what diamorphine (‘you’ll know it as heroin, Ruth. Highly addictive’) feels like. And it can’t do any harm, can it? Personally, I think it’s Eric who could do with the injection, but no-one’s asking me.
Much later, when Silas has had a variety of tests and seen at least three doctors, they tell him he has ‘a little problem with a heart valve’.
‘Mitral stenosis. I told you,’ says Silas.
‘Well, yes. It could be.’ The doctor looks disappointed. Even I know that doctors don’t like patients to use medical-speak. There is a strict boundary between the medical practitioner and the layman, and Silas has crossed it.
‘Rheumatic fever,’ Silas explains, his words still slurry from diamorphine. ‘When I was, when I was...’
‘Seventeen,’ Eric says.
‘That’s right.’ Silas smiles. ‘Seventeen.’
‘We’ll have to keep you in,’ the doctor tells him. ‘For observation and more tests.’
‘Valve replacement?’ Silas asks, his face bright with anticipation.
‘It’s much too early to say.’
‘But I might have to have one?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Pig or titanium?’ Silas asks (what is he talking about?).
‘That would be for the surgeons to decide. If it becomes necessary. But that’s a long way off at the moment.’
‘Goodness,’ I say to Eric, when much later we have said our farewells and are on our way home, leaving Silas cosily tucked up in bed. ‘You’d think he was enjoying it.’
‘He is enjoying it.’
‘How can he?’
‘Silas loves to be ill. He’s always been like that.’
‘Yes, but this is his heart.’
‘So much the better,’ says Eric grimly.
‘He must be mad!’
‘He is.’
‘Poor Eric. You must be awfully worried.’
Eric attempts a smile. ‘Of course I am.’
‘And you can’t share that with Silas.’ Eric and Silas usually share everything.
‘Quite.’
I put my hand on Eric’s knee. ‘You’ve got us. Mum and me. I know it’s not the same, but at least you’re not on your own.’
‘No. I know. Thanks, Ruth.’
We get home to chaos. Mum, who’s been keeping in touch by phone, has been trying to cope with Blossom, who’s been called in for emergency animal duties. The argument they have been having has evidently turned nasty, and Sarah has taken advantage of the situation by coming in through the open back door and helping herself to an unattended bag of groceries, while Mr. Darcy is chasing a chicken round the living room.
‘She can’t tell me what to do,’ Blossom tells us mutinously.
‘I haven’t been telling her to do anything,’ says Mum, who is very close to tears.
‘Have.’
‘No, I haven’t. I just asked you — asked you — if you would mind seeing if there were any cabbages left.’
‘Not my job.’
‘But surely in an emergency that doesn’t matter?’
‘Don’t need cabbages in emergency.’
‘It’s not for the emergency! It’s for dinner!’
‘Perhaps you’d better finish the animals and go home,’ Eric suggests to Blossom.
‘Done ’em,’ says Blossom.
‘Well, it doesn’t look like it. Sarah’s in the kitchen, for a start.’
‘Not my fault. She left the door open.’
‘I did not!’ Mum cries.
‘Did.’
‘Enough!’ Eric’s patience has finally run out. ‘Blossom, would you please put Sarah to bed, and catch that dratted chicken before Mr. Darcy does. Then for pity’s sake, go home. We’ve got enough troubles without all this.’