by Ross Raisin
I fetched a basket, cloth and some other trunklements, then I set off down the hillside. It didn’t take much searching before a small circle of mushrooms came into view, four perfect ones down the bottom the first field. I plucked them out the ground, laying them in the basket before I made for my next sighting.
It was the calendar for picking, arse-end of summer, and there were plenty of sproutings. They were most fertile around the borders of the fields, as the grass grew clumpy by the walls where the sheep hadn’t mown it up. There, and through dung piles. That was where I found the biggest mushrooms, groups of them sharing the shit, slurping up the goodness through their lime-white stalks. The stalk-ends were clung with muck after I picked them, so I rubbed them down with the cloth. I knew towns. I knew how they were mooded toward muck. I carried on down the fields and my sight of the valley floor sharpened to take in the groups of houses patching the land, bunched in villages along the river’s side. The biggest patch was the town, stretching out to the base of the hills either side. It was early yet but vehicles were moving through it, so folk were up and about already, going about their business.
These who’d moved into Turnbull’s were a different sort to the folk from town. They had brass, and folk with brass always wanted to keep themselves separate, not have their snouts in other people’s doings the whole time like them lot down there. But they were still towns, mind. They knew sod-all about mushrooms, or much else besides. The country was a Sunday garden to them, wellingtons and four-by-fours and glishy magazines of horse arses jumping over a fence.
And here was me fetching their breakfast. A girl shows up and I’d turned into a half-brain.
My basket was filling nicely, but I kept on, starting a second layer. Mushroom breakfast for a week, and each time they sat down to eat they’d remember who gave it them and Delton could say what she pleased, she’d have to scratch the polish off my arse.
I walked round the fields until the basket was brimful, but I wasn’t sure they’d be up and I didn’t want to wake them, so I sat up against a tree to wait a while. It was a champion collection, all different sizes of plump, dew-damp mushrooms. I took one out the basket and held it in the nubs of my fingers. A babby little feller, perfect round and white, no older than an hour or two. He’d poked his head out the ground same time I was getting from my bed. I turned him stump-up and felt along the pink fronds, fine and delicate like the gills of a fish. It was a gradely welcome. Delton wasn’t going to match this.
I got up and trod for Turnbull’s farmstead. The towns’ farmstead, as was fitting to name it now, daft as that was, when the only livestock they’d be keeping was cats and dogs and Fluffykins the rabbit. The kitchen light was on. I stood by the gate a moment then unsnecked the chain, but soon as it clinked off some great barking article came lolloping out the garage and near caused me to flip the basket over. Hello boy, shush up now. Woof, Marsdyke’s here! A Labrador. He jumped up to the gate and jowled the top of it with drool.
Lionel, come here! The dad was at the back door in his pyjamas, stumbling into a pair of wellingtons.
Lionel!
Lionel kept slopping up the gate.
He came toward me. Proper smart pyjamas, probably went to work in them.
I do apologise for him, he’s dreadful with strangers. He bent down to quieten the dog and I saw the top of his head shining under scrags of hair. Especially with the move…he shot his eyes up at me. He hasn’t been bothering your animals, has he? I mean, your cattle, with his barking?
No. They’re grand.
Oh, good. I’m Graham Reeves. We’ve just moved in. They were southern, clear enough, from the sound of him. He held a wobbling hand out to me.
I know, I said. Sam Marsdyke. Guy’s son.
He spotted the basket.
They’re for you, I said, you and your family.
Gosh, thank you, wild mushrooms. There’s so many, blimey, thank you. He stood up straight to take the basket, the dog butting at his legs. There was a dark blotch of wet damped in the groin of his pyjamas. I must’ve got him off the bog.
Well then. I stepped back from the gate. We’re up the hill, if you need something doing. I turned to leave, a quick gleg past him at the back door, but he’d not done talking yet.
Are you the local farmers, you and your dad?
Us and Deltons. And Norman other side.
I see. He looked up toward our farm. Lionel was eyeing the mushrooms.
I’ll be going, I said.
Right, okay, thank you again. Hope to see you around.
I made off and started back up the track, but after a few steps I stopped, and watched through the trees. He was taking his wellingtons off, fending the dog from the mushrooms. Then the both of them went in. Don’t worry, darling, it was just our new neighbours, the Marsdykes. Look what they gave us. She’d bust her eyelids, the mum, when he showed her the basket, she’s never seen so many mushrooms. Oh, my word, mushrooms on toast, don’t you just fancy that? He kisses her on the cheek as he hands over the basket. Don’t you see, he tells her, I told you it would be wonderful, it’s God’s own country here. They go into the kitchen together, and it’s quiet a moment until, hello, who’s this padding down the stairs? It’s the girl. What’s going on? she says. She rubs sleep-dust from her eyes and two small swellings push against the cotton of her pyjamas. Mushrooms, they cry together, from Sam Marsdyke!
I pressed up against the back the house, checking I’d not been seen, and snuck round, nice and quiet.
Cluck, went a chicken that was scrabbling away outside the coop in the backyard. They’d taken a fancy to Turnbull’s poultry, then–ducks, geese and all judging from the sounds inside the coop. The chicken came toward me, she thought I had a feed for her. Sorry, old lass, I gave it all to them in there, and I’d get back in that coop if I were you, there’s a fox about this past couple of weeks who’d love to get his chops round you. I knew when I was outdoors of the kitchen because it was the only room that side the house. I’d been in it, plenty enough. Turnbull and Father had been a right pair, always helping the other and getting leathered down the Grouse together. Father had been a miserable old bastard since Turnbull died, owing as he had no one to go down the Grouse with to get leathered.
I hunched down and shuffle-stepped till I was underside of the kitchen window. It was open a little way, but there wasn’t a sound. I eased upward to slip an eye over the sill, but there was a wall of books blocking. They were stood paper-end to me, though two of the flat ones sat on top had their spines showing. The Good Barbecue Chef and Indian Adventure: All Things Spice. Some prize reading there. They’d have an adventure if they went to the Indian down the valley, certain, but I didn’t likely think they’d be doing much of their eating down there, not with all these cookbooks. That was their sort for you–the sun hadn’t done a lap round their house yet, but the cookbooks were fettled up. I was about to creep higher, till I saw a thin snicket between two books cocked against each other. I looked through. The mushrooms were on the table, and I could see most the middle part the kitchen. There were cardboard boxes piled up on the floor, and a big gap in the sideboard where the washer had been took out, but not a body in view.
I sided my head to the glass to get a listen. Nothing, so I pressed my ear harder, with my eyes straining sideways to get a squint on them if they came in. My eyeballs were tether-end of their range and all I had proper in my focus was the front of the cocked book, some grinning prat in a stripy apron holding up an onion. Just wait and see what I can do with this onion, he was smiling, but I couldn’t give a toss what he could do with onions, I just didn’t want to get spotted and everything to bugger up.
Likely they were in their beds. All I heard for five minutes was the echo of blood pumping in my ear, so I turned and looked again through the snicket. My lugs needed a clean, it seemed, for I’d not heard the dog come in. He was stood with his paws on the table, snouting at the mushrooms. Sniff, sniff, what’s this? Drool all over them. Lionel! came
a voice dim through the window. Naughty Lionel! The kid brother ran in. He flung himself on to the dog and lolled over its back while Lionel lurched up the shreds of a mushroom he’d knocked on the floor. Then the kid flopped off and ran for the table to dump his hand in the basket, and a load of mushrooms spilt out. He tossed one in the air for the dog to catch. Gulp, down the gullet before his paws hit the floor. Again! he squealed. But the next mushroom bust apart in the air, befuddling Lionel, who pushed a splinter of it behind a box, scratch scratch, where’s it gone? I was near ready to bang on the window, distract them, but I stopped myself straight off when the girl walked in.
She clapped the dog away. Her hair was dark with wet, but I could still mark that I’d been right, up on the hill, she was a blondie. She turned to the kid. What are you doing, Oliver, you little shit? Uh-oh, I’m telling Mum, you said shit. Shut up. Little shit. She came to the table and looked at the basket. Her face was near enough I could see the little brown ferntickles speckling her nose and the tops of her cheeks. I had to move aside, in case she saw me over the top the books. Where did these come from? Me, I almost spoke out, but I kept it in my pipes. The dad stepped in the frame, dressed now. Ah, now that I can’t tell you, he said, tapping twice on his nose, like he was trying to wake it up. It’s secret information. The kid clomped and squawked, Dad, Dad, where they from? But the dad just smiled and touched his nose again.
She sat down, opened a magazine. She’d lost interest who gave the mushrooms. A sliver of skin was showing under her shirt-tail, the flesh furrowed at the base of her spine, delving into her jeans.
The kid squawked again, where they from, Dad, where they from? He looked down at the kid. The Bogeyman gave them to me. The mum came into the room then. Graham, she said, don’t tease them, and she stooped for a box by the table, pulling out a frying pan. Her hair didn’t move a twitch as she bent, it was set in a sleeky-soft ginger mould, as if her head was jammed inside a chicken. The mushrooms are a present, she said, but I missed the next piece because she walked off toward the sideboard…one of the local farmers.
One of the local farmers? Might as well have been Norman collected them, for all the girl knew. Chickenhead thought we’d had a get-together, planned the bleeding thing.
The girl slipped her forefinger over her tongue, and flicked the page of her magazine. See, Mum, her eyes still on the magazine, told you they’d be friendly, didn’t I?
Yes, oh, I’m sure they are, I just think we should be careful not to antagonise them, that’s all, make sure Lionel doesn’t run amok with the sheep, that sort of thing. Lionel was slumped against the table leg, licking his knackers. They’re not exactly known for their patience, are they? And they carry guns, she said, turning on the tap. The dad piped up–do give the mushrooms a good wash, there’s droppings on some of them. What’s droppings? the kid said from underside the table, where I couldn’t get a fix on him. The girl ducked her head toward him. Shit, she said, too soft for me to hear, but I traced the lines of her lips. It’s plops, Oliver, said the dad, sheep plops. Yuck. I’m not having any. Chickenhead clobbered a clove of garlic with the stump of a knife.
Who was the farmer, Dad? She looked up from her magazine, stroking a tress of hair behind her ear to expose her throat, smooth and white. Sam Marsdyke, he said. You said it was the Bogeyman, squawked under the table. Well, Oliver, perhaps he is the Bogeyman, said the dad. Who is he, Dad? she asked. A page of her magazine flipped over, but she didn’t notice. A young chap, bit older than you, the dad said. Mind you, it is hard to tell sometimes with these farmers, they are rather grizzly-looking. Bogeyman! Bogeyman! under the table. The dad laughed, yes, he’s no oil painting. All arms and legs, and a nose like–her lips puckered, waiting–an old tree stump! She smiled. A knurl of butter slid in the pan. This won’t be long, said Chickenhead, and the dad fumbled in the boxes until he pulled out a fist of cutlery. The girl flicked through her magazine, each while a little smile.
They were sat so near I had to squinny through the crook of the dad’s pit to get a look at her, other side the table. Behind them, the pan steamed curls into the air from the juice sweated out of the mushrooms. Well, said the dad, you’ve got to hand it to the Bogeyman. I thought we might saunter up to their farm after breakfast, drop off the basket, then we can kick on with the lounge.
I was rubbing my brain trying to think was it today Mum was going into town for her hair, when the kid’s plate smashed on the floor. Lionel was whipped up, woof, woof, what’s this, why’s the boy screaming like a throat-slit pig? Oliver, what on earth? He was on the flagstones wriggling and retching up his breakfast, Oliver! Shut up, Lionel! He retched again and they fussed around him, what’s wrong with him, what’s wrong, Oliver? The dog was nosing in the slop the kid gipped up. Chickenhead flashed a look at the dad, I told you he hated mushrooms, she said. The girl knelt down. It’s all right, Oliver, it’s all right. Her shirt rode up her back far enough to see the ridge of her backbone. Ugh, fuck, she sprang up slipping on a patch of slop. Maggots! she hollered, there’s maggots in the mushrooms!
I felt my guts wither up. I’d forgot about that.
He’s given us maggoty ones, Chickenhead shouted, and the girl ran for the sink to gush the tap on and swill her mouth out, water running down her neck. I’d have told him if it wasn’t for that sodding dog. Check for maggots, some of them’ll likely be mawky. Cut through the stem and look for riddle-holes–those are maggots, chuck them ones out. But I’d forgot, and now they were turn-taking waterfalls in the sink, all owing to me, the Bogeyman, local farmer.
Course, they thought the whole lot was rotted, that I’d picked them specially. The maggots were dead before they ate them anyhow, but they weren’t thinking about that, they all had sodding foot and mouth now.
She sat down and the kid parked himself, quiet, in front her chair. She stroked his hair and I tried to see what her face was showing, but I couldn’t tell. Her collar was wet with water. It glimmered on her neck.
I slunk off. My eye glanced past the cookbooks and a smear-stain on the glass I must’ve made with my hair. You’ve buggered it now, the onion man grinned at me in his stripy apron. Oh yes, you’ve buggered it now.
3
She’d find out soon enough. If I’d not been such a gawby forgetting about maggots she might not’ve believed them, but she’d believe them now, certain. And it’d be Delton that told her. Katie Carmichael. How I had to quit my schooling when I was sixteen on account of trying to rape her in Wetherill’s formroom.
She never pressed charges. A court case would’ve messed up her exams, poor girl, though bugger knows why her exams were so important, she was only third year, and I didn’t know why there should’ve been a court case anyhow because I didn’t rape her, as it happened, and even if Wetherill hadn’t come back for his fags I wouldn’t have done, neither. We won’t press charges so long as that monster is taken out of school, was the trade. And they said I was lucky, because I’d forced her against her will, but I didn’t know what was lucky about missing my GCSEs and having to work the farm with Father. I’d have bobby-dazzled them and all–I got the best marks in class for the mock exams, not far off. There were some proper nimrods in my class, mind.
You’re Sam Marsdyke, aren’t you? she said to me. That set it off, her speaking to me, for I’d have sloped past otherwise, just a quick gleg at her, sat on the window sill in her skirt. I am, aye. I scanned up the corridor to see if there was a bunch of them round the corner, all giggles. I’ve been sent out of class, she says. That right? I say, fumbling in my pockets, what’s she doing talking to me, is she pulling my string? Do I stand here like a doylem or do I get on? But I stay put because she chelps away, all she did was she drew a picture of a cat in her textbook, it wasn’t even in pen, that’s hardly a crime is it? I don’t know why she’s telling me this. Probably thinks I’m right impressed at her getting sent out. I don’t mind, though, for next thing I’m sitting down with her on the sill close enough I can feel her leg touching agains
t my own.
She talks on at me, this, that, the other, it’s not the first time I’ve been sent out of class. Isn’t it? I say, and then I tell her about how the first time I was sent out was for throwing four pencil cases out the music-room window and she thinks that’s proper funny, she does, and I knew that we were going to kiss because we’d moved closer and my leg was getting warm where it was pushed up. We talk some more or she talks, anyhow, as I’m not sure what to say, but it doesn’t matter for next thing I’m pressing up on her and her neck smells of soap and I’m kissing her and our teeth clank together because I’m not in the knowledge of how to kiss a girl proper. Wait on, I tell her, Wetherill’s out his room, let’s go there. No, she says. Don’t worry, it’s all right, and I’m holding her by the forearm, it’s only the next corridor. We go in the room shut the door it’s cold inside someone’s left a window open, but we’re not bothered about that. I kiss her on the neck, soap gusting up my nostrils, a proper stalk I’ve got on now kissing her like that and her spread on the table. But then Wetherill comes in, he’s left his fags in the desk. What’s this? Marsdyke! and he’s reaching for the blackboard eraser so I step back and he puts it down.
If Wetherill hadn’t bust in when he did everything would have gone different, it wouldn’t have looked so bad as it did, they wouldn’t have said I planned raping her. You forced her against her will. Sod off, against her will. Yes you did, they said, and you’re lucky she’s not pressing charges because there are bruises all up her arm, what more proof do we need?
