The Barn by Jennie Hart

It was from their old East Yorkshire farmhouse that Lois disappeared. The house needed some repairs but was envied by all the mums and dads who brought their children to Rachel’s kindergarten. Across the farmyard were outbuildings including a fine old barn, fully weather-proof with a solid oak frame, mainly used for storing Tom’s bikes. It also housed a few bits of furniture cleared from the house when Rachel set up the nursery; a handy chest of drawers where Tom kept all things bicycle-related; a pretty wooden cot, painted in pale yellow and decorated with tiny flower fairy motifs, and a couple of kitchen chairs. It was Rachel’s daughter’s cot when she and Tom moved to the farm twenty years ago. Lois was not Tom’s daughter and five years ago she simply left in the night.

It had been a magical house but lost its charm after Lois left.

Tom, a mechanic by trade and very practical, had imagined spending his leisure hours repairing and renovating after he was made redundant, but Lois leaving was like a bereavement for Rachel and he somehow lost heart. Rachel in the early years had been a nursery nurse and would take her baby daughter to work, but in recent times she had set up her own pre-school on the ground floor of the farm. She was devoted to the children in her care and it was cathartic for her to immerse herself in the well-being of these young ones.

Tom didn’t hear Rachel get up; she slept lightly and would often wake soon after dawn and creep silently to the garden. If there was a frost, she would slip a fleece over her dressing gown and sit on the garden bench and watch and enjoy the birds. Often it was the pigeons, not peaceful creatures but she adored their iridescent plumage; shades of lilac and amethyst. She had read that the male bird finds the site, in this case the tall pear tree, and the couple build the nest together. He first brings the material one piece at a time and she arranges each piece to her liking. She felt sorry for this nesting pair because this year, the female remained on the nest for three weeks and produced no young. She wondered if the eggs were flipped out by a cuckoo or, did she even lay any? Tom had climbed up to look but there was nothing; no fragments of shell or signs of birth. Rachel identified with the poor mother pigeon and her loss. Other visitors were a robin and a lesser spotted woodpecker. The robin couldn’t manage the feeder so gorged on the nuts the woodpecker let fall until his red breast was twice the size; or so Tom thought.

Tom lay half-awake and when he stretched out his arm to Rachel’s side of the bed; it was empty; she was rarely there when he woke. He used to get up very early too and go for a spin, but no longer; he would go later. He had never expected this disarray; he knew how deeply Rachel was affected but she worked hard to bury the pain. He knew in his heart he was to blame. Lois would be here still if Tom had controlled his ego. Why did he want to be top dog? Rachel had brought her young daughter to the relationship and he hadn’t anticipated being prejudiced against the child, jealous of her, but as Lois grew up, she irritated him more. Was he a selfish man? He guessed he was, analysing the years that followed. He used to think Lois goaded him and he would call her attention-seeking. Rachel said Lois sought attention because he didn’t give her any; at least not of the right sort. He and Lois argued a lot and he punished her by sending her to her room, or, when she was a teenager, confiscating her phone. He had found it hard to care about her at all and their conflicts upset Rachel. ‘You don’t try to understand her because you have never had a child of your own’, said Rachel.

Early mornings were the times when he replayed his own early life, the time long before Rachel and Lois. Growing up, he had compared his dad with the dads of his old school mates. Jake and Rob’s dads had been the kind Tom wished he’d had. This was all a long time ago but it still haunted him. When very young, he had believed his dad to be like all dads, but in his teens he had recognised his dad as a predator. His attention had made Tom feel unmanly; effeminate.  A few years ago, he had confided in his younger sister Helen, of his problem with their dad and was shocked when she told him she had suffered in the same way. She also told of dreading dad’s brother Len coming to stay; Tom had left home by then. After a night drinking with their dad, Uncle Len would creep into her room in the early hours and stroke her feet through the covers, then try to get hold of her. Always she remained rigid until he went away. Their dad was never a proper dad. Was this the reason he had found it hard to be a dad to Lois?

He poured a glass of diluted cider vinegar; it was refreshing and made him feel cleansed. He switched on the coffee machine and called Rachel from the garden. Through the small panes he watched her standing staring; he was used to that; she often looked pensive and meditative, but it was her way of preparing for the day. This morning she was watching Monty making his usual stealthy track to the bird feeder. Their pet settled down, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting visitor, legs neatly folded under and occasionally flicking his superb black tail.

Rachel came in and they made and ate breakfast. Tom always thought her very beautiful, her clear smooth skin, the richness of her deep red hair; Lois’s hair was that colour too, Red? Ginger? Auburn? What name should he use?  Later he played a few scales on the piano then moved on to play ‘These Foolish Things’, a soulful piece but one that matched his mood. He closed his music, played a jazz piece he knew by heart and looked at his watch; eight thirty, a good time to cycle. He was already wearing his lycra; not matching; gaudy red and blue; he was no fashion icon. Rachel’s mums and a few dads would soon be arriving to leave their offspring. He heard her run downstairs to the nursery at the back; outside she had created a play space with a paved area for one or two little trikes and pedal cars She always had a busy schedule and when he suggested she drop something, she took no notice, glad her time was filled; it didn’t leave moments to consider her sorrows.

Tom crossed the farmyard, pitted with potholes he had temporarily filled, planning to do a permanent job at some point. He never locked the barn; his bikes were only of sentimental value, there were better ones being given away by the second-hand cycle shed in town. Streaks of sunlight from two high windows shone into the space, illuminating shifting swirls of dust as he made his way across the rough floor. He unlocked his mountain bike and pushed it towards the doorway. He heard a faint snuffling; more murmurings then tiny whimpers. The strange sounds came from the corner where they stored the extra furniture.

 ‘It’s in the cot,’ he muttered. ’I bet it’s a rat, they’re all over the place.’ He picked his way over, stumbling in the gloom; more rustling and faint noises. They were coming from the cot; he leaned over and nearly fainted, ‘The Tiger Bread Babies!’

 Tom shouted out, almost manically, causing the two babies’ murmurings to turn to blubbers and tears. ‘Oh dear; sorry!  Shush babies, I’m a fool; hush now; there, there.’ He touched both babies cheeks slightly warily and soon, little gurgles began again. Not only was it astonishing finding the two babies; they were the famous babies from the TV advert in their black and orange striped rompers! Fleecy legs had kicked off the orange quilt and waving arms were trying to grasp long tiger tails and one baby had put hers (or was it his?) in its mouth. The shock of red hair tumbling over each baby’s forehead completed the picture. He knew some babies were born ‘ready dressed’ as his mother used to say and that was the case with these.

Tom was excited and agitated at the same time. ‘Rachel’s got to see them; she’ll know what to do. ’Yes, that’s what he would do, get Rachel!’. He rearranged the quilt over the cooing babies, propped up his bike and dashed out to the house.

It was break -time at the nursery and one of Rachel’s nursery nurses had gathered the toddlers round for juice and snacks. ‘Rachel! Come! Now!’ he pleaded. Hearing his urgency, she spoke to both young helpers and followed Tom into the yard. ‘Whatever is it Tom?  You look as if you’ve had a fright; are you alright? ’Tom mumbled something, grabbed her hand and pulled her into the barn. ‘Don’t make a noise! Be careful what you step on.’ He led her across the barn to the cot. Rachel heard small cries and little squeals. She leaned over the rail and saw the babies squirming, one flailing its arms and the other sucking its tiger tail.‘Oh my goodness! What on earth…..?’ Rachel gave a gasp and a shrill cry; she wasn’t gasping at the costumes; it was the striking appearance of the babies ‘Lois! They’re Lois’s! Look at them! Can’t you see?’ ‘I hadn’t thought of that; they’re just babies to me. I’m sorry.’ He touched her hand. ‘Tom! You watch the commercials, I don’t, but I know about the Tiger Bread Babies! The mums and dads tell me! They buy Tiger Bread Rusks for their children! I’ve never seen the babies till now! ‘I don’t look at babies very much, I’ve never got on with them.’ Tom said apologetically.

Rachel bent and carefully picked up one of the babies, kissed it and laid it in Tom’s arms. She gently put her arms around the other and held it close. ‘I know they are Lois’s, they’re the image of her. But where is she?’ She put her arms round Tom and enveloped both him and the babies and began to cry. It was too much for Tom; he kissed Rachel on her russet hair and still holding the baby, pulled her and her baby close. Then she saw the note pinned to the quilt. She opened it and read:

Dear Mum and Tom

It was never my dream

To put my babies on the screen

I needed the money

I didn’t have any

The babies were hungry

I knew they would dazzle

With their auburn-red hair

But my life’s been a frazzle

My Tiger Bread Babies

Are known everywhere

When we walk through the streets

Mums wave and they stare

I don’t want the fame

For them or for me

For Poppy and Daisy

It’s no place to be

Dear Mum and Tom

I love you it’s true

Please can we come home?

I will work hard with you

 

Please open the window Tom and play ‘These Foolish Things’

Then I will know we are welcome

We are Foolish Things

 

From Lois who loves you both

And from Poppy and Daisy who I know will love you both

Tom felt a pain in his heart. He and Rachel had not seen Lois since she ran away, a sixteen-year-old girl, barely more than a child. They had not seen her since. Rachel had been distraught, blamed herself, and, sometimes blamed Tom for not loving her daughter.

Rachel had never seen Lois’s birth father again; it had been a one-night stand and she had not even known the young man’s name. Tom knew all this. He didn’t care; he had loved Rachel from the start and they truly loved each other.

‘Tom, the piano! Go to the piano and play! ‘And open the window!’

They carried the babies to the garden and Rachel sat on the bench holding one baby in each arm; heavy babies, maybe five months now. She watched Tom open the window and heard him begin to play.

‘These Foolish Things’ drifted into the garden.

Lois stepped from the trees.