We arrive at my uncles’ house late, since my father has had to stop the car twice for me to be sick. My copious vomiting took place without comment from either of us, which was probably just as well. My father has never felt comfortable with illness of any sort.
It always amazes me that the open countryside inhabited by my uncles can exist so near to relative civilisation. It is hard to believe that these sweeping hills and wide skies and lack of any neighbouring habitation are a mere three miles from a respectably-sized town, but so it is. The house itself, known as Applegarth, is situated at the end of a rutted track. It is well-built but run down, with a wilderness of a garden adjoining a paddock occupied by what look like several broken-down agricultural implements and a variety of livestock. Eric and Silas call it a smallholding. My father calls it a mess.
‘What would their dear mother say?’ he mutters, as he drives cautiously round bumps and through puddles. ‘She was so fond of this place.’
‘I expect Silas and Eric are fond of it too, in their own way,’ I say.
‘In that case, they should look after it.’ My father stops the car so that I can get out to open a gate, causing several chickens to run squawking into the bushes. ‘I suppose that’s what you call free range,’ he remarks. ‘It’s a wonder they don’t get stolen or run over.’
‘They’re more likely to be eaten by foxes here,’ I point out.
When we reach the house, Eric and Silas greet us on the doorstep.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ They kiss me and shake my father’s hand. ‘Come on in. We’ve made soup.’
‘Ruth probably won’t have any. She’s got an upset tummy.’ Dad has obviously decided not to acknowledge the cause of my indisposition. He scrapes something unpleasant off his foot and then, after hesitating for a moment, takes of his shoes.
‘I’m fine now, and I’d love some soup.’ I deposit my case in the entrance hall, and look around me. Coats and caps hang several deep on hooks inside the porch and some, having given up the unequal struggle, are lying in heaps on the floor. There are wellingtons and walking boots, sticks and galoshes, and even a rifle propped up casually in a corner.
‘Is that safe?’ Dad asks, indicating the rifle.
Silas (or Eric) laughs.
‘It’s not loaded. And we only use it for rabbits.’
‘How comforting,’ my father mutters.
In the large kitchen, every available surface is occupied with clutter. There are unwashed pots and pans, old newspapers, tools, clothes and bags of animal feed. A large dog is sleeping by the very grimy Aga and two cats are curled up on the draining board. Something which could be soup is bubbling away in a kind of cauldron. It smells interesting.
‘I’ll have to say no to the soup,’ Dad says, backing away nervously, as though he might catch something. ‘Rosemary’s expecting me home.’
I know this isn’t true since today is Mum’s day for doing meals on wheel, and I’m surprised. Dad glances at me, and there is mute appeal in his eyes. He looks out of place and rather pathetic standing there in his stockinged feet, and I take pity on him.
‘Yes. She did tell him to hurry home,’ I say. My father looks at me suspiciously, and I smile at him. ‘Mustn’t keep her waiting.’
‘No. No. I’d best be going.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Thank you for having Ruth.’
‘No problem.’ Eric/Silas grins. ‘It’ll be nice to have a woman around the house.’
I walk back down the track to open the gate for Dad, and he winds down the car window.
‘We’ve done the right thing.’ He hesitates. ‘Take care of yourself.’ This is the nearest he gets to an endearment, and I’m touched.
‘You too. Love to Mum.’
As I watch the car making its cautious way back down the track, its usually gleaming paintwork now generously splattered with mud, there’s a lump in my throat. Poor Dad. While I find his attitude hard to understand, I am his only child, and such a disappointment. Perhaps families are destined to disappoint each other; all those expectations, those cosy stereotypes, those impossible hopes. How can anyone begin to live up to them?
Back at the house, Eric and Silas are glowing with good cheer. They introduce me to the dog (‘we call him Mr. Darcy’) who opens one eye in acknowledgement, and the cats, who appear to have no names and who ignore me. The soup (‘Nettle and rabbit. Don’t worry — it’s much nicer than it sounds!’) is delicious, and I have two helpings. Afterwards, we eat early cherries from the garden and slices of rather stale bought cake, after which I’m taken on a tour of the grounds.
When I was a child, I used to stay regularly with my uncles. My parents’ apparent ambivalence about the domestic set-up was countered by their need to pursue various church activities for which at the time I was considered too young. Since my only grandparent lived two hundred miles away, Eric and Silas were the obvious people to have me, and they were always more than willing. They didn’t put themselves out or make any special arrangements; they simply absorbed me into their way of life, treating me as an equal (and expecting me to behave like one), and I adored my visits. Free from any injunctions to keep my clothes clean, wash my hands before meals or go to bed at seven, I ran wild (as much as one little girl on her own can do such a thing). I helped with the animals and the cooking, I climbed trees and paddled in the stream and rode the one-eared donkey in the orchard before returning home with a healthy suntan, scratched and bruised knees, filthy clothes and a head full of interesting information. I may not have known where human babies came from, but the provenance of piglets and kittens was no longer a mystery to me, and if my parents objected, there wasn’t much they could do about it. As I once heard Silas explaining to my mother, ‘The child sees what she sees. It’s only nature.’ And they had to put up with it.
The grounds surrounding the house haven’t changed much, although the quantity of livestock has increased. There is now a pretty doe-eyed jersey cow, two goats, some sheep and several pigs, including a very pregnant sow called Sarah. There are also at least two dozen chickens, four beehives, some ducks in a very muddy pond and a peacock. The peacock just arrived one day, I’m told, and is ornamental rather than useful. A selection of ramshackle sheds and outhouses provides shelter for the animals, and while their surroundings leave a lot to be desired, the animals look well-cared-for.
The garden is a riot of flowers, weeds and vegetables, all coexisting in apparent harmony. There are cabbages and nettles, broad beans and nasturtiums, roses and tomatoes. The white bells of bindweed can be seen flourishing among the raspberry canes and there are fruit trees and brambles in the orchard.
‘It’s like the Secret Garden,’ I say, as I pick my way across this jungle while Mr. Darcy, who has woken up and joined us, chases exciting smells among the bushes.
‘Yes. It’s a bit of a mess,’ admits Silas/Eric.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that.’
‘We don’t mind.’ He pauses, ‘One day we’ll have to sort it all out, but we always seem to run out of time.’ They both laugh, as though at some private joke. ‘I hope you’ll be able to put up with us.’
Back at the house, I feel a bit like Snow White entering the home of the seven dwarfs. She didn’t have to do all that cleaning (although with a merry band of Disney rabbits and birds to help her she seemed to make light work of it), but I can understand why she did it. I have a feeling that I shall have Snow White urges before I’ve been here long, for while I’m not a particularity tidy person, I think I’ll find it hard to live in this chaos. Will my uncles mind if I do a bit of tidying up? I’ll leave it a day or two before I suggest it, since I would hate to do anything which implied criticism of my hosts.
‘Oh, you’ve brought your violin with you!’ Eric/Silas cries, as we re-enter the house. ‘How lovely! We’ve got an old piano, but we can’t play it. Silly, isn’t it? But you will play for us, won’t you, Ruth? We love a bit of live music, don’t we, Silas?’
His brother nods and smiles, and I notice again the slight dimple in Silas’s chin and the way Eric’s eyebrows sweep up at the corners, and resolve to make sure that from now on I shall remember who is who.
When I am shown up to my room, I find that I have been promoted from the tiny attic bedroom I slept in as a child to the big front bedroom, with its heavy dark furniture, worn carpet and ancient brocade curtains.
‘We were born in this room,’ Silas tells me, as he brings up my suitcase. ‘In this bed, actually.’
The bed is huge, with an elaborately carved headboard and great sunken mattress which dips alarmingly in the middle. It has probably hosted the couplings and births of whole generations of my mother’s family, and I try to look enthusiastic.
‘We thought about buying a new mattress,’ he adds. ‘But I’m told the this one’s quite cosy.’
The mattress certainly turns out to be cosy, for once I’ve given up any attempt to climb out of the dip in its middle, I find that it envelops me like a womb, and that first night I sleep better than I have in weeks. It occurs to me that it would have been very hard to keep up even the most severe of marital disputes if the protagonists had to retire to this bed afterwards, because close — not to say intimate — physical contact must be unavoidable if both parties were to get any sleep. Maybe all beds should be like this, in the interests of domestic harmony.
When I awake the next morning to the sounds of birdsong and the insistent crowing of a cockerel, I wonder whether I shall ever have someone to roll into a dip with me; someone to cuddle up to at night and laugh (or cry) at the day’s happenings; someone to share my life, and be a father to the baby. Even Snow White got her man in the end, and with very little effort on her own part. I, however, am unlikely to find myself a prince (or anyone else, come to that) so long as I remain hidden away in this outpost of civilisation.
I determine that at the earliest opportunity, I shall start looking for a more permanent place to live.