With the onset of winter, interest in the Virgin of the hen house begins to ease off a little, and I think we are all relieved. For while she has been less trouble than we anticipated, hen house duty on dark wet afternoons is something we can all do without, and while we have restricted the number of afternoons to two, it is still a commitment.
‘Couldn’t we pack the whole thing in for the winter?’ I suggest to Blossom. ‘After all, there aren’t that many visitors now, and the weather’s awful.’
‘Nope.’ Blossom gives me one of her looks.
‘Just for a couple of months?’ I can’t believe I’m begging favours from someone who, when it comes down to it, is just a hired hand. But this hired hand is in a very powerful position, and she knows it, for without her, Eric and Silas would find it almost impossible to cope.
‘Nope.’ The look becomes dangerous. Blossom is preparing to make trouble.
‘Blossom, we’ve got a lot on. Whoever’s looking after things, it’s always a disruption. Silas still isn’t a hundred percent. He needs a bit of peace and quiet. And Mum and Dad don’t approve —’
‘Not my problem.’
‘No. Maybe not. But you don’t have to live here.’
‘Wouldn’t if you paid me.’
The idea of paying Blossom to live with us is laughable, but I’m in no mood for humour. I decide to try another tack.
‘Well, just until the new year, then. How would that be?’
Blossom pauses, as though to consider.
‘Think about it,’ she concedes.
‘That would be great.’
‘Let you know Thursday.’
I’m too relieved to enquire as to the significance of Thursday. The prospect of even a few weeks without the tramping of strangers past the garden is too good for me to wish to endanger it by pushing my luck any further.
But I shall never know whether Thursday would have brought the anticipated reprieve, for I am not the only one who has been making plans.
The very next day we receive an unexpected visit from Mikey and Gavin. This is not unusual, as Mikey frequently calls in on his travels, and I’m always pleased to see him. But he doesn’t often bring Gavin with him, and has never before brought Gavin in a wheelchair.
‘Oh, dear. What’s happened? Have you broken something, Gavin?’ I ask, when Gavin and his wheelchair have been unloaded from the back of Mikey’s car.
‘We’ve come to visit your Virgin,’ Mikey tells me.
‘What are you two up to?’
‘We’re not up to anything. It’s just that Gavin’s decided to return to the Catholic Church and he wants to see it again.’
‘But what’s wrong with him? Is there something the matter with his legs?’
‘You’ll see.’
It’s a relatively warm Saturday afternoon, the first sunshine we have seen for a couple of weeks, and there is a good gathering of pilgrims admiring the Virgin, praying and taking photographs. They draw back respectfully when they see the wheelchair, and Mikey parks his charge in front of the Virgin, where he and Gavin bow their heads apparently in prayer.
I am puzzled. Hitherto, Mikey has shown little interest in our Virgin, but perhaps Gavin, in returning to his faith, has managed to take Mikey with him. After all, it’s quite possible. I’m sure that Mikey would dance barefoot on hot coals if Gavin asked him to, he is so besotted. On the other hand, why haven’t they explained the wheelchair? Surely Gavin hasn’t suddenly been struck down by some grave and unmentionable disease? Mikey and I have never had any secrets from each other. I would hate to think that he didn’t feel he could trust me after all these years.
Meanwhile, people gather round the wheelchair, asking questions. What’s wrong with Gavin? Has he always been unable to walk? If he’s looking for a miracle, maybe he should try Lourdes. Someone’s aunt came back from Lourdes cured of a tumour. People exchange views and experiences of Lourdes, and the gathering becomes something of a party.
Then quite suddenly, Gavin leaps from his wheelchair, flinging out his arms as though about to embrace some invisible giant.
‘A miracle! It’s a miracle! I can walk!’ he cries, hugging Mikey and turning to the other visitors. ‘Look, everyone! Oh, praise the Lord! I can walk!’
‘Crippled from birth —’ it is now Mikey’s turn — ‘and will you look at him now? Just look at him! He’s walking with the best of us. We came looking for a miracle, and here it is. A miracle! Much better than Lourdes,’ he adds tactlessly (I’m pretty sure that Mikey knows nothing at all about Lourdes).
Together, they pirouette round the wheelchair, while their fellow-pilgrims give little cries of astonishment and joy. A couple fall to their knees in thanksgiving, someone murmurs Hail Marys, while the rest gather round and ply Gavin with questions. What does it feel like? Has he really lived his life in a wheelchair? Did he have any kind of vision? Did the Virgin move? Did she speak to him?
But the performance is over. Gavin and Mikey reward their audience with radiant smiles and handshakes all round, before running off toward the house murmuring about having to make phone calls and letting Gavin’s dear mother know the good news (Gavin’s dear mother, I know for a fact, died when he was eleven).
‘How could you, Mikey? How could you?’ I demand, when we get back to the house. ‘That was in the most appallingly bad taste.’
‘It was fun, though, wasn’t it? You have to admit, Ruth, it was a laugh.’ Mikey tries to put his arm round me.
‘It was not a laugh.’ I push him away. ‘It wasn’t fun, either. Not for anybody else. What about all those poor people? They think they’ve just seen a miracle, and it was just you two making fools of yourselves. And of them. It was an unforgivable thing to do.’
‘Oh, get a life, Ruth. Whatever’s happened to your sense of humour?’
‘My sense of humour is perfectly intact, thank you. I just don’t happen to think it’s amusing to play tricks on vulnerable people.’
‘We’re sorry,’ says the newly-healed and now subdued Gavin. ‘We really didn’t mean any harm.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise to her, Gav. We haven’t done anything wrong.’ Mikey is unrepentant. ‘Ruth’s just in a bad mood.’
There are few things more infuriating than being told you’re in a bad mood when, basically, you are not. It comes second only to being told that ‘it must be the wrong time of the month’ (at least he can’t say that to me at the moment).
‘Right. That’s it. Go.’ I point to the door. ‘Just go.’
‘What? No cup of tea?’ Mikey looks astonished.
‘No cup of tea. No cup of anything. Remember, I’m in a bad mood. You said so yourself.’
‘But I didn’t mean —’
‘Just go, Mikey, would you? And take that bloody wheelchair with you.’
After they have gone, I find that I am shaking; shaking with anger, but also with disappointment and hurt. I thought I knew Mikey better. It’s true that he has always enjoyed the odd practical joke, but he has never to my knowledge done anything so lacking in consideration for other people’s feelings. But apparently I have misjudged him. It’s tempting to blame the Gavin effect, but at least Gavin had the grace to apologise. I have to conclude that the whole thing was Mikey’s idea.
My parents have been out for the afternoon with Eric and Silas, bonding over an ancient stone circle (this has been a pleasing development, as hitherto there has been little socialising between them), and they return just as Mikey and Gavin leave.
‘Couldn’t they stay?’ Eric asks (Eric is fond of Mikey, who is always interested in Ark-related developments).
‘No. They had to go.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’
‘I’ll tell you about it later.’
When I finally get Eric and Silas on their own, I tell them about the “miracle”, but they are disappointingly unperturbed.
‘Oh well. No harm done,’ says Silas, examining a dead frog (frogs are a new departure; advanced stuff, so I’m told, and in short supply in the winter, so Silas is pleased).
‘You think so?’ I ask him.
How little my uncles know about the power of miracles! For word spreads rapidly, and before we know it, we are inundated with visitors, with and without tickets. They come at all times of the day, and occasionally even at night, carrying torches. Thursday, the day of Blossom’s decision, comes and goes unnoticed, for there is now no question of closing the hen house; more, the problem of how to manage what is rapidly becoming a crisis.
‘Of course, it’s trespass,’ I say. ‘It’s your land. Surely there’s some law to protect you.’
‘Nowadays, the law seems to be more on the side of the person breaking it,’ says Silas, who knows a man who was prosecuted for chasing a burglar with a sawn-off shot gun. ‘We’ll ask Blossom. She may have an idea.’
Blossom is typically unhelpful, but does refer the problem to Father Vincent, who pays us another visit accompanied by his new curate, with Blossom in the unlikely role of mediator.
‘Oh, I say! That really is amazing.’ The curate, who appears a great deal more impressed by the Virgin than Father Vincent, crosses himself. ‘She looks so — real. And they say there’s been a healing as well?’
‘No. No healing. Just a practical joke,’ I tell him.
‘But I’ve spoken to witnesses. People who were there at the time. They said there was this man in a wheelchair —’
‘The man in the wheelchair was perfectly able-bodied. He was an accomplice in a particularly cruel trick.’
‘Ah.’ The curate looks disappointed. He is young and fresh-faced and eager, and I feel sorry to have to disappoint him. ‘But if it helps more people with their faith, surely that can’t be bad.’ He turns to Father Vincent for assurance.
‘Faith built on deception isn’t faith,’ says Father Vincent firmly. ‘Let’s go back to the house and talk about it.’
I know from my brief acquaintance with Father Vincent that he is hoping to be offered a drink, and he’s not disappointed. Over mulberry wine (just a cup of tea for the curate, who’s driving) we discuss the problem.
‘You could donate the hen house to the church,’ the curate suggests (we have been invited to call him Father Ambrose, which seems a terribly portentous name for someone so young).
‘No room,’ says Father Vincent, pouring himself more wine.
‘And what about the hens? It’s their home,’ says Silas.
‘Don’t they mind all these visitors?’ Father Ambrose asks.
‘Strangely enough, they don’t. I think they’re getting used to it,’ I tell him. ‘In any case, they run around all over the place during the day time, so they only use it at night and for laying.’
‘Electric fence?’ says Father Vincent. ‘For the visitors, not the hens, of course.’ This is not a very Christian suggestion, but I think the wine is beginning to take effect.
‘Someone would sue,’ says Eric gloomily.
‘We could try to get more volunteers from the church to supervise, and maybe collect money for some kind of cause,’ I suggest. ‘At least that would do some good.’
‘What cause?’ Eric asks.
‘Chickens.’ Blossom who has been silent for some time, speaks up.
‘What do you mean, chickens?’
‘Rescue chickens.’
‘Rescue what chickens?’ Eric is becoming irritated.
‘Battery.’
‘I don’t think a chicken charity would be appropriate for Our Lady,’ says Father Vincent. He has difficulty with the words ‘chicken charity’, and I’m relieved that Father Ambrose is doing the driving.
‘God’s creatures,’ says Blossom piously.
‘No doubt. But a human charity might be more — appropriate,’ says Father Ambrose.
‘Both, then.’
‘It’s certainly a thought,’ says Silas. ‘If we can — police things properly, and Eric and I don’t have to do too much. It might be managed.’
‘Leave it to me,’ says Father Ambrose, who is obviously much taken with the whole Virgin project. ‘Would you let me — organise it?’
‘We’d be absolutely delighted, ‘Silas assures him. ‘If you’re sure you’ve got the time.’
‘There are some things one has to make time for,’ Father Ambrose assures him earnestly. ‘It will be a privilege.’
‘The path’s in a terrible state,’ says Eric, after we have all had time to digest Father Ambrose’s proposal. ‘All those people tramping about have churned it up badly.’
‘Gravel,’ says Blossom.
‘Expensive,’ counters Eric.
‘Lazzo knows someone.’
‘Does he, indeed?’
Eric’s suspicion may be well-founded.
‘Legit,’ Blossom pre-empts him.
‘Not free, though,’ says Silas.
‘Good as.’
So after a lot of discussion and almost two bottles of mulberry wine, the decision is made. Lazzo will get a load of good-as-free gravel from his contact and reinforce the path with it. Father Ambrose will recruit more volunteers from the church to take over hen house duty and try to control the numbers by means of strict notices and more official-looking tickets, and we’ll give it a try.
‘Just a month’s trial, mind,’ says Eric, and Silas nods agreement. ‘If that doesn’t work we’ll have to resort to something drastic.’
‘What’s drastic?’ Kaz blows into the kitchen and helps herself to a glass of wine.
‘It’s a long story,’ I tell her.
Kaz eyes Blossom suspiciously. ‘If it’s anything to do with Mum, I’d say no if I were you.’
‘Too late,’ says Blossom triumphantly.
And I’m afraid she’s right.