Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  I couldn’t help but smile to myself, but tried to remain stern.

  I stood, staring at the dug earth, the fork standing proud, and then upwards to the remainder of the garden.

  ‘Where then?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Back there.’ Sally indicated toward the rear of the garden.

  We walked out an area together and rubbed our boots into the grass at right angles, to indicate the corners of the plot.

  With the task complete, I moved into position, ready to cultivate an area the gardening experts agreed was a superior space. Before I began, I moved the wheelbarrow next to the area I was now set to work, to enable the capture of the turf I would first attempt to skim off the bed, before turning the soil. I lifted the fork, preparing to split the ground, when Sally yelled.

  ‘Wait!’

  I turned around, alarmed at the tone of her voice, and saw her rushing in through the French doors into the house.

  ‘Hang on, Eddie!’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  I waited, unsure of her intention. I looked toward the house and patiently stood, waiting for her form to emerge from the interior. As I continued to stand, I felt the winter cold cling to me as my mind and body became unoccupied. It seemed a considerable time since she had retreated, and I moved my feet in the damp grass and rubbed my hands together in a futile effort to generate heat. As the minutes swept by, I forced myself not to go in search of her, knowing she had not fallen or had an accident whilst inside. Instead, the necessity of staying warm eventually overtook all other thoughts and I decided to recommence the dig.

  As I lifted the fork to puncture the ground, I heard her voice.

  ‘Hang on, Eddie! Hang on! I couldn’t find it!’

  With her words, I loosened my grip on the fork and looked up to witness her waving our camera triumphantly in her hand as she strode toward me.

  ‘I need to get a shot of you turning over this bed. It will be the first picture in the book!’

  I shook my head and smiled at her.

  ‘What about the ground over there?’ I stated, nodding towards the area I had previously dug.

  ‘That doesn’t count. It was a practice area!’ she laughed, raising the camera up to her face.

  ‘Practice?’

  ‘Yes, practice. Now pose and smile!’ she commanded.

  And I obliged her with the fork resting on the ground, my right boot raised, ready to push the instrument through into the heavy clay soil and a static smile fixed upon my face.

  ‘One more!’ she requested.

  ‘Sally, I am freezing!’ I protested through my exposed teeth.

  ‘Just one more!’

  Photo shoot over, I began to dig in earnest, as Sally watched and surveyed the garden.

  ‘We can take pictures through the seasons, show how the garden sleeps and awakes and all the time grows and matures. Also take pictures of birds and insects that visit, and build up the book!’ she said excitedly.

  I looked up and smiled at her.

  ‘I was thinking we could build a pergola too, have honeysuckle and jasmine growing up and over it,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want me to do that after this, or before?’ I teased, thrusting the fork into the earth and taking a rest.

  ‘No, silly, this will be in the future, with a deck underneath it for us to use. The bees and butterflies will love the jasmine in the daylight, and in the evening when the heat of the day is still trapped in the garden, moths will be drawn to the sweet scent of the honeysuckle.’

  ‘What if they boycott it? What if they decide they can get their insectoid nectar pleasures elsewhere?’ I proposed.

  ‘Not possible, they will not be able to resist! It will be the talk of many an arthropod soiree,’ came her confident reply.

  ‘Arthropod soirees?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, extremely popular occasions. Dancing, drinking, snacks – sugary varieties obviously. The dancing can be with multiple partners at any one time, on account of each guest having three pairs of limbs.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep, really. You should read more, Eddie; then you would know about such things!’

  We both laughed at the absurdity of the discussion.

  ‘Do you want to see where we can set it now? I am guessing it would be nice to have late-evening sunlight falling on it. What about over there?’ I pointed at the far corner of the west flank of the garden. It was hard to imagine how this cold, dead environment could possibly be warmed by the summer sun again.

  ‘You stick to your digger job for now,’ she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

  I picked up the fork and broke into the soil.

  ‘Actually, Eddie, I am feeling quite tired now; I think I will head inside,’ said Sally.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, just feel tired, that’s all.’

  And she turned and walked back to the house.

  Alone, I built up quite a rhythm and started to work quicker through the task. My effort was suddenly disturbed by shrill notes that seemed to come from directly behind my shoulder. I turned around and saw the robin, perched on one of the handles of the wheelbarrow, its’ body bobbing up and down. It sang again at me, a beautiful lilt that lit up the dank afternoon, and hopped down confidently among the soil I had prepared to pick out a grub of some description with a spring-and-stab motion. Task complete, it held the morsel in its beak for a moment; then bobbed up and down, before returning to the wheelbarrow handle with a small flap of his wings and devouring the insect in one swallow. This was repeated over and over, the little bob up and down and the spring and stab. Eventually, I began to locate worms and larvae as I turned over the soil and tossed them toward the bird to pick up, which it did greedily on every occasion. And periodically throughout this, the silence was perpetuated by the robin’s voice, solid and reassuring.

  Each day after that, when I worked on a bed, the robin came, sang, ate greedily and bobbed. It became almost tame. I told Sally about it after the third occasion, which prompted her to go the next day to the local fishing tackle shop – not the chain stores that stock everything these days; this was years ago – and purchase a box of live mealworms.

  I argued, ‘Why waste your money? The bird enjoys the grubs I find it just as much, for free.’ But as the insects were turned out into a saucer and placed on the bare earth, I was amazed, and a little saddened to be honest, as the robin rejected my recently revealed grub and instead headed, beak first, straight for the wiggling mass of mealworms.

  We watched together for a while.

  ‘Take some in your hand, I am sure it will come to you,’ instructed Sally.

  ‘Of course it won’t,’ I scoffed.

  I knew the bird; I was the one that had shared its company. We had a connection; I knew its limitations, how close it would come.

  ‘Smile,’ commanded Sally moments later, her camera obscuring her face, as the little creature pecked greedily at the mealworms in my palm.

  I watched intently as repeatedly the featherweight bird performed unimaginable violence against the mealworms. I moved my hand closer to my face, eager to view from a different angle. If the mealworms gave an audible shriek when held in the bird’s beak, instead of a pathetic, silent wriggle, would I be as keen to control both their worlds at this time?

  ‘This picture will be called Eddie and Bob,’ she stated, still snapping away.

  ‘Bob?’ I questioned.

  ‘Of course, on account of its little weak knees that keep buckling under it’ she reasoned. ‘This will be one of the star pictures in my scrapbook!’ she added.

  She said that for every photograph taken over the years, from the petite watering can and matching boots, to the towering sweet peas and sunflowers, to the butterfly garden, which technically wasn’t
in the garden outside but instead sealed within its own world, but which nevertheless warranted inclusion in any scrapbook. Sally captured the full life cycle of the butterflies on film, from unfeasibly hungry caterpillars, through a macabre pupation stage of motionless, hanging tombs, to the bursting forth of new life as the butterflies, their virgin wings dripping with pure, delicate beauty, emerged triumphantly from their cocoons. She kept them captive in the ‘garden’ for a couple of days to observe them, before releasing outside on a still, warm summer’s afternoon.

  That first spring after Bob had been sustained through those winter months was, quite simply, a disaster. We planted out onions, carrots, peas and lettuce in May and checked every day after the first week for signs of life breaking through the thick soil. After three weeks, we witnessed the first fragile spears of green pushing up from the surface. We were ecstatic and hugged each other, and Sally took many photos for her Book of Perfect Brilliance. Unfortunately, when developed, the images revealed only dark soil; so small were the seedlings that they could not be seen. It was at this point things that started to go wrong – very wrong. We watered them well and the spring sunshine ensured constant warmth, but the few plants that had emerged were not growing. We continued with our offerings of water, but our efforts could be described as pathetic at best; at worst, a failure.

  After six weeks, we gave up completely, as the last visible shoots withered away to nothing before our bewildered eyes. We had travelled from elation to despair in a few short weeks and there was nothing we could do.

  Over a subdued Sunday lunch, I presented the last option available to us, while cutting through shop-bought carrots on my plate.

  ‘We could ask your dad for advice?’ I suggested nonchalantly, before resuming my silence.

  Sally didn’t answer. She purposely had not sought her father’s help or advice, wanting to do it her way. Sally found her father domineering, always critical with his opinions. This was her project, but it was his hobby and had been for many years.

  ‘I will ring him later,’ she said finally, and returned to silence.

  ‘We could concentrate on the flower beds and borders; maybe they would be more successful,’ I put forward.

  Sally nodded slightly.

  After lunch, we headed back outside and looked at the first bed I had initially begun to dig the previous November. It needed work, to be stripped of invading weeds, to be prepared and made ready.

  ‘I’ll start on it now,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s do it together,’ said Sally.

  ‘Are you sure you are up to it?’

  Sally nodded, but within twenty minutes, I was digging alone.

  Sally appeared outside again, and judging by the look on her face, she had evidently called her father.

  I said nothing, just kept turning over the soil, waiting for her to speak.

  ‘He’ll be over at four,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘I am popping up to the garden centre to pick up hostas and viburnum for here,’ Sally stated, pointing at the earth I was revealing.

  Within the hour, she was back with an array of pots containing various leafed plants, which she brought to the bed I was digging over, two at a time, and placed them in sets of three, still in their pots, on the soil.

  ‘These will look good!’ she exclaimed, sounding more upbeat, standing back and surveying her arrangement.

  I noticed him first, stepping out of the French doors. Sally’s expression changed as she instinctively knew what had drawn my attention.

  ‘George,’ I said as he approached us.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ said Sally.

  ‘Eddie.’ He nodded toward me. ‘What’s my girl been up to?’ he asked, his voice bright.

  I sensed Sally squirming. Her father appeared oblivious to his daughter’s discomfort.

  ‘Where are they?’ George asked.

  We both nodded toward the far end of the garden. And I for one now felt embarrassed by the purpose of his visit.

  ‘Not good, are they?’ he stated obviously, surveying the ‘vegetable patch’.

  We shook our heads, feeling very young, very foolish and very insignificant.

  ‘How much manure did you use in here?’

  ‘Manure?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, horse shit. The soil seems very heavy, how much did you put in?’ he asked crossly.

  ‘None,’ answered Sally.

  ‘None?!’ he exclaimed. ‘Compost, then?’

  This time I answered with a shake of the head.

  ‘Bone meal?’

  We both shook our heads.

  ‘Well, I am surprised you got as far as you did, then,’ George concluded, nodding toward the lame crop at his feet.

  We looked blankly on.

  He sighed and blew out his cheeks, his agitation not disguised.

  ‘You are a silly girl,’ he stated.

  I wanted to remind him where he was, to show some respect, but instead I remained silent, my respect for him barely holding.

  ‘Soil needs to be broken down and nutrients added to get a good crop,’ he stated. ‘I suggest you put in studs now, over the whole plot – it’s a bit late, but you should be okay – and lift them in October. They will work the soil for you. Add plenty of manure in December and plant spuds again next March, and add more manure. After two years, the ground should be broken and well nourished, ready for these crops.’ He waved disapprovingly at the existing vegetation.

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ I answered, trying to sound bright and upbeat.

  He shook his head and laughed to himself, completing Sally’s humiliation.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t know to work that soil,’ George stated, his annoyance audible, but I wasn’t sure why he was so angry.

  With nothing more to say, we all turned and headed back toward the house.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa, Dad?’ asked Sally.

  ‘No, I need to see your brother. Want to borrow his chainsaw before he heads to the golf club tonight,’ George replied.

  It was apparent that George, as usual, preferred to spend time with his other child.

  ‘What’s going in here, hostas?’ he asked as we passed the newly-dug flowerbed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sally excitedly.

  ‘Huh, good luck with that; it’ll be slug paradise in there within the week. There’ll be nothing left but stalks; you’re wasting your time,’ George ‘helpfully’ advised.

  He waved a nonchalant goodbye as he headed through the house to the front door. The door slammed shut behind him, I presumed due to the airflow from the open French doors.

  He had physically left, but an uneasy presence remained.

  While I continued to dig over the ground, Sally followed, planting her hostas with a trowel in the groups of three. We worked in silence.

  Three weeks later, I awokefrom my dreams to discover the empty indent on Sally’s side of the bed. I glanced at the clock and panicked when the time 3.20am came into focus.

  I rushed from the room in search of her, trying to keep my anxiety hidden. Upstairs checked, I called her name softly as I headed downstairs, met only by silence. Living, cloak and dining rooms searched, I finally entered the kitchen. Looking through the French doors, my eyes were drawn to a moving beam of light in the garden. Unsure of what I would find outside, I opened the knife drawer and chose the carving knife to be my last defence if necessary.

  I ventured onto the patio, leaving the door open in case I needed to make a hurried retreat. As I stared, I calculated the beam of light was a handheld torch, not moving toward or away from me, but merely arcing over the ground. I walked purposefully but silently toward the light, my bare feet instantly soaked by the dew covering the grass.

 
Halfway across the grass, relief embraced me as I recognised Sally’s form, her back to me, in the starlight. I smiled to myself as the tension of not knowing where she was and who this figure was evaporated. The knife in my hand suddenly made me feel extremely foolish.

  ‘Sally?’ I said as I reached her.

  She turned around on hearing my voice, dropping the flashlight.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ she said.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ I asked, wanting to disguise the panic I had felt on waking and seeing the figure in the garden.

  ‘Taking care of these,’ Sally replied, picking up the torch and shining the beam onto her recently planted hostas.

  As predicted by her father, the lush green foliage of the daylight hours had been invaded by multiple slugs of differing sizes, colours and general grotesqueness. I didn’t know there were so many varieties.

  ‘Could you hold the torch for me, Eddie? It will be easier,’ she said.

  I took the torch from her as instructed and pointed the beam over the dark soil.

  ‘We don’t have any pellets, do we?’ I said.

  ‘I am not using pellets,’ she replied, as I noticed for the first time the bucket at her feet.

  With nimble fingers, she plucked at one leaf hosting seven slugs and shook the molluscs into her other hand, before dropping them into the bucket. I shone the light inside to witness a writhing, slimy mass of movement, as the entire floor of the bucket was covered in slugs.

  I moved the beam over the soil away from us, to where Sally’s hostas, planted so proudly, were all under attack by slugs in classic pincer movements.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ I asked.

  Sally gave me a little laugh, as she worked on the next leaf.

  ‘Take them down to the bottom there,’ she replied, pointing to the end of the garden.

  ‘And do what with them?’

  ‘Release them.’

  ‘Release them? Why?’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, Eddie.’

  ‘All they will do is come back here,’ I stated.

  Sally raised an eyebrow at me.