Nicola Barker - Darkmans

The gardener stared back up at Kane, nonplussed.

‘Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Hmmn …’ Kane considered this question, thoughtfully. ‘I would mind telling you,’ he confided, ‘although if you must know,’ he peered down at himself, ‘I’m kneeling — and sweating — and breathing — and talking …’

Kane lifted a muddy paw to his lips. ‘In fact I’m talking to you . I can feel my mouth moving…’ he dropped his hand, with a bright smile, ‘but now I must dig.’

He recommenced digging.

The gardener — a wiry man in his mid-fifties — scratched nervously at his neck.

‘What are you digging for ?’ he asked.

Kane stopped digging.

‘I’m digging to make a hole,’ he explained patiently.

‘What for ?’

‘Not four,’ Kane demurred, shaking his head (a shower of bugs and dirt cascading around him).

‘ Huh? ’

‘Not four . I’m not digging four holes. I’m only digging one. One hole will suffice. But it must be a whole hole and not just a measly half …’

‘Well you’re going to have to stop it,’ the gardener interrupted him.

Kane considered this for a second. ‘But what shall I stop it with ?’ he asked. ‘And how might I stop a hole which isn’t even yet dug?’ He paused for a moment before adding, with a shrug, ‘Surely every hole must simply stop itself?’

‘Okay. Okay …‘ the gardener’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Either you get out of that heap voluntarily or I’m calling for back-up and we’ll drag you out.’

‘I’m not in a heap,’ Kane giggled, ‘I’m on a heap.’ As he spoke his attention was briefly diverted by a slight movement near his knee. He glanced down and saw — much to his joy — that he’d uncovered a hedgehog. The tiny beast was curled up, hibernating, inside a compact, straw-lined nest. Kane drew in close to it (sticking his muddy rump into the air like a playful hound). He drew so close that his nose was only millimetres from it, so close that he could sense the fleas scuttling through its quills, the salt and grit on its skin, the tickle of its breath, even the blackberry seeds plugging the gaps in its teeth.

He sighed, enchanted, released a cacophonous fart–

Heh!

— then closed his eyes and remembered…

Yes

— blackberrying with his mother as a small child — reaching his tender arms, fearlessly, into those treacherous bushes, plucking gently at the plump, ripe fruits with his purple-stained fingers, pushing them greedily between his lips or gathering them together in a disparate assortment of plastic ice-cream tubs…

Raspberry Ripple—

Neopolitan—

Mint-Choc-Chip—

He sighed again, wistfully. He smiled. And then–

Huh?!

— he froze–

But what in God’s name…?

Kane’s eyes flew open. He straightened himself up, traumatised–

Did I just…?

‘Is this your coat?’

The gardener was holding out Kane’s crombie. Kane realised that he was absolutely covered in muck.

‘Uh…yes.’

He made a pathetic attempt to slap the soil from his hands. ‘And I actually had a…a bag …A white, polythene…’

The gardener scouted around him. ‘What did you have in it?’ ‘Nothing,’ Kane responded, perhaps a touch too keenly.

‘Just…just rubbish…’

‘It’s here,’ the gardener interrupted, ‘I have it.’

He retrieved the bag from the foot of the heap.

‘Will you… uh …Would you mind passing it up to me?’ Kane wondered, reaching out a tentative hand.

‘Why?’ the gardener asked, suddenly suspicious. ‘What are you planning to do with it?’

‘I just want to bury the contents.’

The gardener appeared signally unimpressed by this idea.

‘You can’t just bury things in the compost heap,’ he said.

‘Or somewhere else,’ Kane volunteered, obligingly, ‘anywhere…’

‘Is it a pet?’

Kane shook his head.

‘Because you can’t simply turn up here, without warning, and expect to bury things, willy-nilly…’

‘It’s not a pet, it’s just something I found.’ Kane leaned over and gently shifted a few handfuls of leaf-mould back on top of the hedgehog to shield it from the cold.

The gardener was peering inside the bag now. He scowled, exasperated. ‘You can’t possibly bury this here,’ he said.

‘Well what else am I meant to do with it?’ Kane asked.

‘I don’t know — take it home again,’ the gardener shrugged, ‘donate it to Oxfam or something.’

‘Donate it to Oxfam ?’ Kane snorted. ‘Are you crazy?’

The gardener delivered him a straight look.

‘But I can’t take it home,’ Kane muttered, starting to shiver as his sweat turned cold. ‘It’s disgusting. Couldn’t I just…’ He pointed ‘…you know…drop it off somewhere? Behind a hedge? In a quiet corner?’

The gardener casually inspected the sticky nimbus of spider’s webs decorating Kane’s hair.

‘I want you to climb down from that heap,’ he announced, matter-of-factly, ‘take back this coat and this bag, and then accompany me on a short walk to the front entrance gate.’

‘ Fine ,’ Kane grimaced. ‘Have it your way…’

He yanked up his trousers and then set about engineering his cautious descent. He felt hollow, disconsolate.

The gardener offered him a helping hand but Kane sullenly ignored it.

‘Look,’ the gardener took pity on him, ‘you’re obviously feeling the cold…’ he lifted the bag, helpfully, as Kane clumsily slid down–

Ow!

OW!

–‘…so why don’t you just put this thing on , eh?’ ‘And how do you suggest I do that?’ Kane demanded, planting his two feet back firmly–

Thank God

— on terra firma .

‘It’s very simple,’ the gardener humoured him, ‘you just pull it on over your head…’

Kane scowled at him, incredulous, then saw — much to his surprise — that the gardener was actually holding out a freshly laundered jumper.

‘I can slip the book into your coat pocket if you like,’ the gardener continued, removing a book from the bag.

‘Book?’ Kane reached out his hand.

The gardener passed it over. Kane took it and frowned down at it. It was a non-fiction paperback entitled The Dressing Station by Jonathan Kaplan — a South African surgeon — which detailed, in grisly detail, Kaplan’s work as a ‘medical vagabond’ in some of the world’s most treacherous trouble-spots.

Kane opened the book up. Inside it Elen had written, ‘Medical vagabond? Sound familiar?’ followed by two kisses. And underneath those, in a bracket, ‘Carpenter? Nah . Always secretly thought you had a surgeon’s hands…’

‘Is something the matter?’ the gardener asked.

Kane didn’t respond. The gardener gently took the book from him and handed him his jumper. ‘Put this on,’ he said.

Kane did as he was told.

‘Now your coat…’

The gardener passed Kane his crombie. Again, Kane obliged him, but as he fastened a couple of the buttons he noticed that the pink ribbon Maude had given him had gone. He glanced towards the ground and saw it lying in some tall grass close by. He bent down to retrieve it, then held it tightly, protectively, in his hand.

Once Kane was properly dressed again the gardener shoved the Kaplan book into the crombie’s pocket and they slowly began the walk to the front gate together. Kane idly inspected the trees as they strolled along, the pink ribbon now looped loosely around his thumb.