Nicola Barker - Small Holdings

Saleem handed me a piece of kitchen towel. I did the best I could. I pulled at the clot, manually at first, and the jelly came out and kept on coming like I was unravelling a dark, dense, red jelly brain through my nostril. When the jelly finally dissolved into loose blood, I blew my nose vigorously, rolled what I’d gathered into the tissue, pinched the bridge of my nose and stared up at the ceiling.

Doug was pouring himself some tea. Saleem — who was staring at me with a kind of fascinated disgust, hypnotised by the mighty clot — tore her eyes away when it had finished coming and said, ‘Doug, Phil was just saying how someone broke into your greenhouse and totally wrecked everything.’

My mouth fell open. I think I stopped breathing, for a second. Doug stopped pouring.

‘What did you say?’

I continued staring at the ceiling. ‘Doug,’ I said, ‘I’m sure the damage isn’t terminal. Some of the plants will be fine. It was only stupid vandals.’

Doug said nothing. He put down the teapot and walked out. I heard him slipping on his shoes in the hallway, and then I heard the front door slamming. I tried to stand up.

Saleem walked over to the sink. ‘Doug’s not going to be wanting his tea now,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Do you want it?’

I was hot on Doug’s heels, well, warm on his heels because I wasn’t finding it too easy to walk. My ankle kept rolling, like I was strolling on a ship in a high wind, up on deck, trying to keep my balance.

Outside, Nancy was standing by the rear flap of her truck, staring off into the distance, after Doug — his retreating back. She was cradling a small privet plant in her arms. As I staggered past her I said, ‘Nancy, whatever you do, don’t go to Southend for any more privet until I’ve had a word with Ray first.’

She put the tree down and trailed for a few paces behind me.

‘Phil, how did he take it?’

‘What?’

‘Doug. What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything. Not yet, anyway.’

‘He’ll be all right, though?’

‘This is probably the very worst thing that could’ve happened.’

‘The very worst thing,’ she parroted, speculatively, and then shouted, ‘Hang on,’ and sprinted off in the direction of the house. I carried on walking. After thirty seconds she was back again. She caught up with me just before the first lake.

‘Here,’ she panted, passing me one of Saleem’s walking sticks. Saleem kept a small umbrella stand full of them just inside the front door.

Nancy handed me a stick which had a handle carved into a hare’s head. It was a beautiful thing.

‘Don’t put too much weight on your bad leg, you’ll only make it worse.’

I took the stick.

‘I’m sorry,’ she added, sounding it, ‘about you getting hurt and Doug getting hurt.’

‘It’s nobody’s fault.’

I twisted my hand around the hare’s head.

‘And don’t put too much weight on your bad arm, either.’

‘Thanks.’ I took a few experimental steps forward. Nancy didn’t walk with me. She hung back, remaining stationary.

I walked on. It was easier with the stick, but still slow. And in all honesty, I was glad of the time it took me to get to the greenhouse. I was almost glad of the pain. It was a kind of empathy. If not with Doug — he was a complex creature and I was obliged to find my own level, emotionally — then at least with his spoiled and battered vegetables.

‘I’m sure the damage isn’t terminal.’

Doug looked up and over, towards me. ‘I think you said that earlier,’ he muttered, witheringly. He was standing in the centre of the debris, inhaling the chaos.

‘This shouldn’t have happened,’ he said, finally, ‘It’s all wrong.’

‘You know, it might be possible to replant a couple of the tomatoes. Some of the radishes look all right too.’

‘The tomatoes?’

Doug bent down and picked up one of the tomatoes which had detached itself from its plant. He held it in his hand like it was a cricket ball, a large cricket ball.

‘You’d better get out of here,’ he said, dispassionately, ‘before I lose my temper.’

I was deciding whether to take his advice and leave when Doug clenched the tomato he was holding in his fist, took a couple of quick steps to build up momentum and then hurled it at me. I ducked. It flew past me, just to my left and struck glass, the pane closest to the door, striking it, splitting, shattering the glass.

Doug bent over and picked up an onion. He weighed it in his hand. ‘D’you know what the worst part is?’ Doug asked, still sounding as calm as anything.

I felt something warm on my top lip.

‘You’re bleeding,’ Doug said. ‘I don’t want blood all over the floor in here.’

I mopped at my nose with my sleeve. The sight of blood seemed to pacify Doug again, even if he wasn’t actually directly responsible for it.

‘The worst part is that I must’ve left the door unlocked. But I know in my gut that I would never have done that. In my gut.’

Doug dropped the onion and walked over to the door. ‘See that? No sign of a forced entry. Nothing broken.’

‘Maybe they picked the lock.’

Doug bent down and stared at the lock intently, as though waiting for it to tell him something. Eventually he straightened up again and said, ‘I don’t think so.’

He turned his back to the door and appraised the devastation before him. ‘I could swear to you that I locked that door,’ he said, ‘but I can’t have. D’you know what that means, Phil? How it feels?’

I shook my head.

‘It feels like I can’t trust my own instincts on this one. I can’t trust my own instincts. And if I can’t trust my instincts, what can I trust? Who can I trust? Nothing. Nobody.’

Doug spent a moment considering his words. They seemed to please him. He crossed his arms. My nose was still bleeding.

‘Red blood,’ Doug said, ‘Red, red, red blood.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There’s only one way to get around this.’

I looked up, hoping Doug was about to respond rationally, hoping. Unfortunately his eyes were dark and clear. He uncrossed his arms. ‘My instincts tell me this,’ he said, ‘and I shouldn’t trust them because they’ve already lead me astray. .’He inhaled deeply. ‘You can only match this kind of gesture,’ he indicated towards the mess and the mud with a grand sweep of his arm, ‘you clan only match this kind of gesture with an even bigger gesture of your own.’

I weighed up this notion in my mind. An even bigger gesture. I didn’t really get it but I knew it wouldn’t necessarily be a good thing. I said, ‘We could call that kind of response an escalation, Doug, and I don’t know if things that go up, things that get bigger, are always. . uh. . good.’

Doug appreciated my insight but would have none of it. ‘Nope,’ he said, determinedly, ‘getting bigger. That’s the natural order of things. . Clarity,’ he added, ‘cleanness. Big and neat. That’s what I’m after.’

My nose was still bleeding and my shirt sleeves were about as soaked as they could get. I yanked up my shirt-front and put it to use.

‘Shall we start cleaning this stuff up?’ I asked, through the blood and fabric.

‘I don’t think so,’ Doug said, ‘I think you should go back to the house and change your shirt. That much blood doesn’t look respectable. Consider the feelings of the park users. Clean up.’

I didn’t want to leave him. Something in my stomach told me not to. I said, ‘I don’t like to leave you alone in the middle of this mess.’

Doug opened the door for me. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said,’ ‘to be privet. I need to be privet for a moment or two. Get washed up.’