Nicola Barker - Small Holdings

Saleem turned to me. ‘Phil,’ she said, gently, ‘maybe you should find some rope and cordon the greenhouse off, make sure it’s safe before someone gets hurt over there. We’ll handle Doug. Between the two of us. Me and Nancy.’

I nodded. I turned. I went to get some rope, a canvas sack, some tape and a large, strong, natural fibred, needle-bristled brush.

It was arduous, it was risky and it took just about forever. I wondered where the hell Ra y had got to. I couldn’t imagine he was helping Nancy and Saleem with Doug at the house. And he certainly wasn’t here, helping me, clearing away the glass and mud and metal and vegetables. More than likely he was on the tennis courts, weeding.

I was almost glad to be alone. Things were moving slowly. I was moving slowly. Like something newly born, inhabiting a fresh and different body; testing out what I could and couldn’t do, establishing my limited capabilities.

Luckily the damage to the greenhouse was acute but also clearly defined. After a few hours of sweeping and chipping, of taping up sharp corners, of knocking out half-spent panes, I managed to clamber on to the tractor, clear out some of the glass, pull away the axe-head from the accelerator pedal, straighten out one of the mudguards which had bent and hit its tyre, and then switch on the ignition. Using my dodgy foot, my dodgy arm, I stuck the gears into reverse and roared on out of there.

I looked up nervously, as I reversed. I looked up at the glass ceiling and waited for a reaction, waited for it to shatter and crumble, but nothing happened. It kept its clarity.

And this was the curious part: I had so many other things on my mind — so much to keep in my head — but all the while I felt like everything was flowing. A liquid sensation. Maybe it was the blood in me, travelling through my body, blooming in my face, my cheeks, but then moving on, carrying on, flowing. And I should have been thinking and sorting and planning in my head, organizing, controlling, but in fact all I could think of were natural things. Concrete things. Physical substances. Substance. Nature. Bark, rock, soil, water.

And gradually I started thinking about water and rock. How they are the two most extreme substances, two opposite poles, and yet, and yet they can work together. They can work together and be together and live together and although they both have their own energy, their own terrible strength and power, at the same time, they do not violate each other. Because that’s how nature moves, how it works. It cooperates. And that’s how I wanted to move — no more smashing and crashing and thumping and punching, I wanted to move like the water around the rock. And that was how I had been moving, all along, if only I’d seen it.

‘Hey, Phil.’

What was I doing? I was in the greenhouse, standing amid the wreckage, and I was holding one of Doug’s giant onions and gazing at it.

‘Nice onion,’ Ray said, staring at me quizzically.

I imagined how this onion was inside. Layer upon layer of clean white flesh, containing, enveloping, pure and thorough. A circle. Each layer complete and depending. Each layer sharp and moist and spotless. It was so beautiful.

‘Maybe you should sit down for a minute?’ Ray took the onion from me and threw it into a wheelbarrow. ‘Won’t be able to eat that,’ he said, regretfully. ‘When they get too big they taste all watery. Don’t taste of anything, in fact.’

Ray led me outside. My leg and arm had both started to stiffen, and the dried blood inside my nostrils itched like crazy. I sat down for a moment on the grass verge. Ray appraised the tractor. He kicked a wheel. He cleared out some glass from under the pedals.

‘Not too bad,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘doesn’t look too bad after its big ordeal.’ He stared at me again. ‘You should go home for a while. Maybe put your feet up for a couple of hours.’

‘Have you been back to the house yet?’

He nodded.

‘How’ s Doug?’

Ray cleared his throat. ‘Lying low.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Actually. .’ I tried to straighten my thoughts out. ‘This morning when I found the greenhouse all messed up and I got into that fight with Wu. .’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nancy was there. She just appeared from nowhere. And it was six in the morning, a good three hours before she usually gets in for work.’

‘Probably out for a run.’ Ray said, distractedly, and then added, ‘I just weeded the tennis courts.’

My head was throbbing. Ray climbed into the tractor and started up the engine. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator a few times and then put it into gear.

‘Climb in,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll give you a lift back to the house if you like.’

‘What about this?’

I pointed towards the greenhouse. There was still plenty of work left to be done. Ray waved his giant paw at me. ‘I’ll park this thing in the barn and then head straight on back.’

I struggled up and clambered on to the passenger seat. I hoped the tractor’s vibrating wouldn’t start my nose off bleeding again. As a cautionary measure I breathed through my mouth, very gently. While I breathed, I inspected my sleeves and shirt-front which were brown and heavy with dried blood. I scratched at it softly with my thumbnail as Ray and I jerked along, between the lakes, past the museum, past the toilets, a sharp right turn and then into the barn. The fabric was scratchy and hard. Stiff and solid and starched with plasma.

I was too slow. Something was very wrong with my head. I couldn’t keep up, keep pace, keep time. I stood in the courtyard for several minutes before I’d accumulated enough energy to even consider going into the house. Instead I stood staring stupidly at the rows of privet bushes, little green sentries standing to attention, properly apportioned. Sharply ranked. I stared at them for a while. Ray had gone. Everything was quiet.

I knew there was something that I should be thinking but I couldn’t think it. What was it? Did the privet need watering? I felt the base of one of the pots. Dry, but not too bad. I thought about fetching the hose and giving them a spray. But that wasn’t it. I looked around me. There was something else. A lack. A space. Something empty. And then it struck me. Nancy. The truck. Gone. Both gone. I turned and headed into the house.

‘Saleem? Doug?’

I pushed open the kitchen door. The air smelled damp and sweet and strange. The windows were covered in condensation. On the table, laid out, stretched out, was Cog. On his

side. He didn’t look his normal self. He wasn’t allowed, generally, to sit on the table or to lie on it. I put out my hand to touch him, to nudge him.

‘Leave him!’

Saleem was behind me. Then she was next to me and then in front of me. She grabbed hold of Cog and he lay limp as lettuce in her arms. A substantial dishcloth. Boneless.

‘What’s wrong? What’s up with the cat?’

Saleem looked hot and ragged. ‘He’s dead, stupid.’ ‘Dead?’

I put out my hand to touch him. Saleem jerked him away, out of reach.

‘Don’t do that!’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a bit bloody late to start showing him affection now, Phil. It’s not like you ever gave a toss about him when he was alive.’

This was honestly the last thing I could have expected. The cat dead. This hadn’t been part of the picture. It didn’t connect to anything. I stared at Saleem. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He died.’

‘Just like that? He just died? He’s not especially old. Not for a cat.’

Cog seemed irresistible, all limp. I reached out my hand again, just to touch, and this seemed to enrage Saleem. She was spitting angry.