Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (2 page)

*   *   *

He left Daisy and went on towards the village, still deep in thought. He knew other people who had died. Mrs. Fletcher who kept the village shop and post office had died, and Toby's mother had put on a black hat and gone to Mrs. Fletcher's funeral. But Mrs. Fletcher had not been a friend. In fact, Toby had always been rather afraid of her, so old was she, so ugly, sitting, selling stamps like a great black spider. By the time Mrs. Fletcher had passed on, her daughter Olive had taken over the running of the shop, but right up to the end Mrs. Fletcher was there, a brooding presence, munching on her dentures, knitting socks, and keeping a beady eye on everything that took place. No, he had not loved Mrs. Fletcher. He had not missed Mrs. Fletcher. But already he was missing Mr. Sawcombe.

He thought of David. Go and play with David, his mother had suggested, but all at once Toby knew that he was not in the mood for being an astronaut, or going to look for fish in the muddy stream that ran along the bottom of the garden at the back of the pub. He would go and call on another of his friends, Willie Harrell, the village carpenter. Willie was a gentle, slow-speaking man who wore old-fashioned bib-and-brace overalls and a baggy tweed cap. Toby had first made friends with him when Willie came to the house to fit new cupboards in the kitchen, and after that one of his favourite ploys on empty holiday mornings was to walk down to the village and have a few words with Willie in his workshop.

The workshop itself was a magic place, sweet smelling and littered with ringlets of shaven wood. Here Willie constructed farm gates and barn doors as well as window frames and joists and beams. And here, too, from time to time, Willie made coffins, for he was the undertaker as well as the joiner. In this role, he became a totally different person, bowler-hatted and dark-suited, and assuming, with his sombre attire, a hushed and respectful voice and expression of pious gloom.

His workshop door, this morning, stood open. His little van was parked in the littered yard. Toby went to the door and looked inside. Willie was leaning against his workbench drinking a mug of tea from a thermos.

“Willie.”

He looked up. “Hello there, young Toby.” He smiled. “What are you up to, then?”

“I thought I'd just come and talk.” He wondered if Willie knew about Mr. Sawcombe. He went over to Willie's side and leaned against the workbench and picked up a screwdriver and began to fiddle with it.

“Got nothing to do?”

“Nothing much.”

“Saw young David a moment ago, out on his bicycle, wearing a cowboy hat. Not much fun playing cowboys on your own.”

“I don't feel like playing cowboys.”

“Well, I can't stop and talk to you today. I've got a job to do. Got to get up Sawcombe's back of eleven o'clock.”

Toby did not say anything to this. But he knew what it was all about. Willie and Mr. Sawcombe had been friends all their lives, partners in the bowling team, church wardens together on Sundays. Now Willie was going to have to … Toby's mind shied from what Willie was going to do.

“Willie.”

“What is it?”

“Mr. Sawcombe's dead.”

“I thought you knew,” said Willie sympathetically. “Could tell by your face, the moment you walked in.” He set down his tea mug and laid a hand on Toby's shoulder. “You mustn't grieve. You'll miss him, I know, but you mustn't grieve. We'll all miss him, come to that,” he added, sounding suddenly forlorn.

“He was my best friend.”

“I know.” Willie shook his head. “Funny thing, friendship. You a little chap, how old are you? Eight years old. And yet you and Bill Sawcombe got on like a house on fire. We always thought it was because you was so much on your own, being so much littler than Vicky. Like an afterthought. Little afterthought, Bill and I used to call you. Harding's little afterthought.”

“Willie … are you going to make a coffin for Mr. Sawcombe?”

“I expect so.”

Toby thought of Willie making the coffin, choosing the wood, planing the surface, tucking his old friend up in its warm, scented interior, as though he were tucking him up in bed. It was an oddly comforting image.

“Willie?”

“What is it now?”

“I know that when a person dies, you put them in a coffin and carry them to the graveyard. And I know that when people are dead they go to Heaven to be with God. But what happens in between?”

“Ah,” said Willie. He took another draught of tea, emptying his mug. Then he laid his hand on Toby's head and gave it a little shake. “Perhaps that's a secret between God and me.”

He still did not want to play with David. When Willie had departed for Sawcombe's in his little van, Toby set off for home because he couldn't think of anything else to do. He took a shortcut through the sheep paddock. The three ewes who had already lambed were out in the middle of the field, with their children about them. But Daisy had taken herself off into a corner, to the shade and privacy of a tall Scotch pine, where she was sheltered from the wind and the blinking spring sunshine. And beside her, teetering on wobbly legs, tiny as a puppy, stood a single lamb.

Toby knew better than to go near her. He watched her for a little, saw the baby nuzzling the huge woolly body for milk, heard Daisy's gentle voice as she spoke to her baby. He found that he was torn between pleasure and disappointment. Pleasure because the lamb had arrived safely, and disappointment because it was not twins and now Mrs. Sawcombe would not have her two hundred percent lambing. Daisy, after a little, lay cumbrously down. The lamb collapsed beside her. Toby went on up the field, climbed the fence, and went into the house to tell his mother. “Daisy's had her lamb. That's the last one.”

His mother was mashing potatoes for lunch. She turned from the stove to look at Toby. “Not twins?”

“No, just one. It's sucking and it looks all right. Perhaps we'd better tell Tom.”

“Why don't you go and phone him?”

But Toby didn't want to ring Sawcombe's in case Mrs. Sawcombe answered the telephone and he wouldn't know what to say.

“Can't
you
do it?”

“Oh, darling, I can't just now. Lunch is ready and after that I'm going down to see Mrs. Sawcombe and take her some flowers. I'll leave a message for Tom.”

“I think he should know now. Mr. Sawcombe always liked to know right away about the lambs arriving. Just in case, he said.”

“Well, if you feel so strongly about it, get Vicky to phone Tom.”

“
Vicky?
”

“It can't hurt to ask her. She's upstairs, ironing. And tell her lunch is ready.”

He went to find his sister. “Vicky, lunch is ready, and Daisy's had her lamb, and we wondered if you'd ring Sawcombe's and tell Tom. He'll want to know.”

Vicky put down the iron with a thump. “
I'm
not going to ring Tom Sawcombe.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to, that's why. You ring him.”

Toby knew why she didn't want to ring Tom. Because she had been so horrid to him at New Year, and because since that he hadn't spoken to her. “You ring him,” she said again.

Toby wrinkled his nose. “What will I say if Mrs. Sawcombe answers the phone?”

“Well, get Mother to ring him.”

“She's too busy and in a hurry because she's going to see Mrs. Sawcombe after lunch.”

“Why doesn't she leave a message for Tom?”

“That's what she said she'd do.”

“Oh, Toby,” said Vicky, in exasperation, “then what's all the fuss about?”

He said, stubbornly, “Mr. Sawcombe always liked to know
right away.
”

Vicky frowned. “There's nothing
wrong
with Daisy, is there?” She was as fond of Daisy as Toby was, and now she stopped sounding cross and snappy and spoke in her ordinary nice voice.

“I don't think so.”

“Then she'll be all right.” She turned off the switch of the iron and stood it up on its end on the board to cool. “Let's go down and have lunch. I'm starving.”

*   *   *

The sparse clouds of the morning thickened and darkened and after lunch it started to rain. Toby's mother, wearing a mackintosh and carrying an immense bunch of daffodils, set off in her car to visit Mrs. Sawcombe. Vicky said that she was going to wash her hair. Toby, at a loose end, trailed up to his room, lay on his bed, and started to read a new book he had got from the library. It was all about Arctic explorers, but he hadn't got beyond the first chapter when he was interrupted by the sound of a car coming up the lane and stopping with a rattle of gravel outside the front door. He laid down his book, got off the bed and went to the window, and saw Tom Sawcombe's old Land-Rover, and, getting out of it, Tom himself.

He opened the window, and leaned out. “Hello.”

Tom stopped and looked upwards. Toby saw his fair curly head, beaded with raindrops; his face brown and his eyes so blue; his thick, rugger-playing shoulders beneath the patched khaki jacket that he wore for work. Beneath this was a pair of faded jeans, knee-length green rubber boots.

“Your mother told me about Daisy. Came up to have a look at her. Is Vicky about?”

This was surprising. “She's washing her hair.”

“Go and get her, will you? I'm not sure there's not another lamb there, and I'll need help.”

“I'll help you.”

“I know, boy, but you're a bit little to hold an old ewe like Daisy. Better get Vicky.”

Toby pulled his head in from the window and went to do as he was told.

*   *   *

He found Vicky in the bathroom, with her head in the basin, rinsing her hair with a rubber shower.

“Vicky, Tom's here.”

Vicky turned off the taps and straightened up, her pale hair dripping all over her T-shirt. She pushed it out of her face, and her eyes were on Toby's face.

“Tom? What does he want?”

“He thinks maybe Daisy has another lamb inside her. He says he needs help, and I'm not big enough to hold her.”

She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her head. “Where is he?”

“Downstairs.”

Already she was out of the bathroom, running down the landing, down the stairs. Tom was waiting for them, having let himself into the house, as he had always done in the old days before he and Vicky had had their quarrel.

“If there's another lamb,” said Vicky, “won't it be dead by now?”

“We'll have to see. Get me a bucket of water, there's a good girl, and some soap. Bring it down to the field. Come on, Toby, you come with me.”

Outside, it was now pouring with rain. They went down the lane and crossed the long, wet grass by the rhododendrons, then climbed the fence. Through the downpour, Toby could see Daisy waiting for them. She was on her feet again, sheltering the single lamb, keeping her head towards them. As they approached she made a sound, deep in her chest, but it in no way resembled her usual healthy bleat.

“There, girl. There.” Tom spoke gently. “There she is.” He went right up to her, and with no fuss took hold of her horns. She did not struggle as she usually did when someone did this. Perhaps she knew that she had to have help and that Tom and Toby had come to help her. “There, girl, quietly now.” Tom passed a hand down her back, down the thick, rain-sodden fleece.

Toby watched. He could feel his heart beating, not so much with apprehension as excitement. He was not afraid, because Tom was there, just as he had never been afraid of anything if Mr. Sawcombe stood beside him.

“But, Tom, if she's got another lamb inside her, why hasn't it come out?”

“Maybe a big fellow. Maybe hasn't got himself in the right position.” Tom looked towards the house, and Toby followed his gaze and saw Vicky, with her long spindly legs and her seal-wet hair, coming down across the field towards them, weighted sideways by a slopping bucket. When she reached their side and had dumped the bucket down, Tom said, “Good girl. Now, you hold her, Vicky. Firmly, but quite gently. She won't struggle. Keep your fingers tight in her fleece. And Toby, you take her horns, and keep talking to her. Reassuring like. Then she'll know she's in good hands.”

Vicky looked as though she were about to burst into tears. She knelt, right there in the mud, and put her arms around Daisy and pressed her cheek against Daisy's woolly flank. “Oh, poor Daisy. You've got to be very brave and it will be all right.”

Tom stripped off. His jacket, his shirt, his white T-shirt. Naked to the waist, he soaped his hands and arms.

“Now,” he said. “Let's see what's going on.”

Toby, clinging to Daisy's horns, wanted to close his eyes. But he didn't.
Keep talking,
Tom had told him.
Reassuring like.
“There, there,” said Toby to Daisy because that was what Tom had said and he could think of nothing else. “There, there, Daisy dear.” This was birth. The eternal miracle, Mr. Sawcombe used to call it. This was life starting, and he, Toby, was helping it to happen.

He heard Tom. “There we go. There we go … take it easy, old girl.”

Daisy gave a single moan of discomfort and displeasure, and then Tom was saying, “Here he is! What a whopper, and he's alive.”

And there it was, the little creature who had been the cause of all the trouble. A white ram with black spots, smeared with blood and lying flat on its side, but still a sizey, healthy lamb. Toby let go of Daisy's horns and Vicky eased her loving stranglehold. Released, Daisy turned to inspect the new arrival. She made a soft, maternal sound, and stooped to lick it. After a little, she nudged it gently with her nose, and before very long, it began to move, to raise its head, to struggle, amazingly, to its long and unsteady legs. She licked it again, recognising it as her own, taking responsibility, loving and caring. The little lamb took a drunken step or two, and, before very long, with some encouragement from his mother, started to suck.