Kit de Waal: My Name Is Leon

“Morning, Vic,” she says. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

Sylvia has creases on her face and she keeps fluffing up her hair at the sides. She looks like she’s still asleep. Mr. Devlin stands up straight.

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d make an early start. I can come back later.”

“Make me a coffee and I’ll think about it.”

She brushes past him and opens the back door. She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke up the garden path.

“Don’t say anything,” she shouts behind her. “I’m not having that conversation again. I have to have one first thing.”

“The worst one is the one you can’t do without,” Mr. Devlin says.

“That apply to men?” she answers and he laughs.

Mr. Devlin is clean these days and he’s found some other clothes. Leon has seen him washing his hands in the water barrel by his shed before he comes to see Sylvia.

While no one is looking, Leon sprinkles extra sugar on his cornflakes. Mr. Devlin won’t notice anyway, because all he does these days is look at Sylvia, and she keeps saying what he thinks about things, like, “Victor thinks there’ll be more riots,” or, “Victor thinks Northern Ireland is merely a symptom of a greater disease.” And Maureen always winks at Leon and raises her eyes to the ceiling. Sylvia saw a leather jacket on TV and she said she was going to buy it for Mr. Devlin so he didn’t have to wear his army coat anymore but Leon thinks he will look silly in it, like he’s borrowed it from Tufty.

Mr. Devlin finishes his coffee and puts the mug on the side.

“Right, me and Leon can start. Mr. Atwal is bringing the trestle tables in his van. I need the triangles from you and the flags on string.”

Sylvia laughs.

“Triangles? Bunting, you bloody fool, bunting. How many times?”

“Ah, yes, bunting,” he says but Leon knows he’s teasing her.

Maureen shuffles into the kitchen in her new purple slippers.

“Well, they fit,” she says, smoothing her dressing gown over her belly. “Thank you, Leon. Though how you managed to get the money and go to my favorite shop and get the right size, I don’t know.”

“I…”

“He did some clearing for me,” says Mr. Devlin and winks. “Once we got the go-ahead from the committee, we had to get the place ready for the party so he helped me.”

“Hmm,” says Maureen as she shoos him out of the way and puts the kettle on. “Didn’t realize that I was moving into a house of conspirators. Sylvia’s decided to stop buying cake, biscuits, chocolate, and anything that tastes nice, thank you, Sylvia,” she shouts. “Leon’s never in the house and couldn’t get the dirt from under his fingernails if he washed with carbolic soap, and as for you—”

“What about him?” says Sylvia, coming in from the garden.

“He’s got you like a sixteen-year-old, that’s what.”

“Belt up, Mo. You’re jealous.”

They elbow each other and start sniggering like little girls but the kitchen’s too small, so Leon goes and gets his backpack and puts it up by the front door. Then he goes into the lounge and presses the button on the television.

“No you don’t, mister,” shouts Maureen. “Not today.”

From then on it’s up tothe allotment and job after job after job for Leon. No one seems to realize he can’t be in two places at the same time. Hold this, carry that, wait here, duck under there, balance this on that, fetch me this, hold that straight, little to the left, higher, where’s my this, have you got a that. It goes on all morning until the wedding itself. When everyone else disappears to watch it on television, Leon, Tufty, and Mr. Devlin decide to stay where they are. They sit on the folding chairs while Mr. Devlin’s barbecue heats up and Tufty takes some cans of Coke out of his tub.

“May I ask if you remembered the right music, Mr. Burrows?” says Mr. Devlin. “Please have some regard for your neighbors. We don’t all like African music.”

“Reggae, man. Roots, rockers, dub.”

“Precisely. We don’t want that today. At least, the ladies won’t want it. I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, right.”

Leon likes it when they pretend to argue like they used to. He gets up and pokes the charcoal with the metal tongs.

“What do you think, Leon?”

“It’s nearly ready.”

“Good,” says Mr. Devlin, “and don’t forget to water your plants before the guests arrive. It’s going to be hot.”

Leon finishes his drink, takes his backpack, and walks over to his plot. It’s taken weeks and weeks but finally some of his Scarlet Emperor beans are ready. They are so tall they hang in twisting plaits off the top of their wigwams, and tiny little bean pods are sprouting everywhere.

Leon fetches his watering can and fills it up. He waters his Scarlet Emperor plants until he’s sure they have everything they need. He’s always been good at looking after things. When Maureen comes he’s going to pick all the best beans for her but he’ll let the tiny little ones stay out in the sun for a bit longer. Tufty told him that he had to leave some of the beans on the vine to grow long and fat, then at the end of the summer he has to pick them, hang them up to dry in his shed, and put them in a jar for next year. Mr. Devlin said that next spring he can have half a plot instead of a quarter.

One of the young pods hangs low, right next to Leon’s face. He pulls it off gently and breaks it open. Inside are five tiny black seeds, smaller than his little fingernail. He picks one out and holds it up to the sun. It’s glistening and damp from its bean-pod bed and so light he can hardly feel it on his palm. It’s as black as the middle bit of Jake’s eyes, and just as sparkly. If Jake was here, Leon would let him hold the little seed for a moment but he would have to be careful in case he’s still putting everything in his mouth.

Leon rolls the seed between his fingers and feels it yield under his skin. It’s strange to think that this little black bean will grow up to be a big plant and that plant will have its own seeds to make another plant and another seed and this will go on, over and over again, for years, and he remembers what Maureen said about Jake. He hasn’t left forever.

He unzips his pack and tips everything out, his gardening tools and his packets of seeds. He scratches out a straight line with his trowel and makes ten little holes. He picks up the packet of Take-A-Chance and tips the seeds into his hand. They are small and brown with wrinkled skin and nobody knows what’s inside. He places them carefully in the soil and covers them over. He’ll water them and look after them and hope for the best. There are lots more seeds to plant but he’s got too much to do today, and anyway, he can hear Maureen calling. She’ll want him to do another job or carry something or fetch her a chair.

“Leon!”

He turns and runs.

“Coming!”

I’ve had lots of help along the way. You know who you are, hand-holders, tear-wipers, cooks, listeners and laughers, critics, advisors, strategists, dressers, nip-and-tuckers, trainers, architects, sages, and optimists as well as the lovely, quiet people of constant faith, always in the background with affection, tea, and biscuits. Thanks to you all: Caroline Smith, Anna Lawrence, Steph Vidal-Hall, Elisabeth Charis, Rhoda Greaves, Bart Bennett, Justin David, Nina Black, Esther Moir, Lezanne Clannachan, Matt Hodgkinson, Renni Browne, Leslie Goldberg, Julia Bell, Annie Murray, James Hawes, and all the dedicated writers of Oxford Narrative Group; also Julia de Waal, Edmund de Waal, and Alex Myers.

Thanks also to the scary talents at Leather Lane Writers for your support, your brains, and your dedication to the craft.