by DH Smith
‘Or you reclaim the old.’
‘Takes time,’ said Jack. ‘And I shouldn’t be doing it, but I’m going to carry on till I get told otherwise.’ He sighed. ‘Builders have got into a lot of bad habits. We have to be pushed to change. We’re too used to throwing everything out. Cheaper. It’s what we’ve always done. Never mind all the materials and energy that’s gone in to making it – dump it. That’s no good, is it? Not in the long run.’
‘We’ll die out if we go on like that,’ said Zar. ‘Become extinct. Like the dinosaurs.’ He bent down and said almost secretly, ‘Do you know about evolution?’
Jack laughed. ‘I’m a builder, not a professor. But I know,’ and was almost quoting from one of his astronomy mags, ‘how suns form from dust in space that amasses due to gravity, growing bigger and bigger, until at a certain size gravitational pressure sets nuclear reactions going, until you’ve got a huge, glowing atomic reactor like that one up there.’ He pointed out the sun with his axe.
‘And in four billion years it explodes to a red giant,’ said Zar.
‘Oh, so you know about stellar evolution.’
‘I do,’ said Zar. ‘Not exactly Adam and Eve though, is it? The Big Bang and all that – and us developing from apes. Well, we are apes, except with big brains and opposing thumbs…’ He stopped then added, ‘I’m not supposed to believe that stuff; it’s not in the Quran.’ He sucked his lower lip, then added, ‘And I’ll tell you something else too. I’m gay.’
‘That’s all right by me. But not by your folks, I would reckon.’
‘They don’t know.’
‘So why have you told me?’
‘Because you know things, like evolution. And…’ he shrugged, ‘you’ll be gone in a few days. And you don’t know anyone in my family.’
‘What would happen if you told your mum and dad?’
‘They’d have a heart attack. Not literally. But lecture me about the family honour, how wrong being gay is, against the Quran and our culture. They’d take me to see the imam – and I’d get more of it, chapter and verse. They might try to send me to Pakistan.’
‘You could leave home.’
He nodded. ‘I’m going to, but I have to work things out. Everything I’ve done so far has been with my culture, school, college, mosque, all our family stuff. This park is the first time I’ve been out of it properly, with so many English people…’ He stopped, and gave a short laugh. ‘I know every tree in the park. They don’t lecture you, or feed you crap.’ He shook his head. ‘I wonder what I’m doing here sometimes. I’d like to go on day release, get some qualifications, but Ian doesn’t listen… He’s scared I’ll know more than he does. Though that wouldn’t be much.’ He pointed behind him. ‘That bank doesn’t need trimming.’
‘It’s why I work for myself,’ said Jack. ‘Not that that always saves you from crap.’
‘Don’t look,’ interrupted Zar. ‘Here comes Ian. Crap feeder in chief. I’d best get busy.’
Zar went back to the bowling green gulley, trying to look as if he’d just popped over for a second. Head down, he continued edging with the long-handled shears, hoping the manager hadn’t noticed he’d been off the job.
Without looking up, Jack deftly chipped mortar off a brick. He’d got the knack now, a smart side smack with the blunt end of the axe. But it won’t impress the manager, he thought. Far from it. I am about to get a bollocking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the sombre figure, hands on hips, watching. Jack worked on, too aware of the manager’s presence, like a grazing zebra trying not to notice a snarling lion. Waiting for the spring.
‘What do you think you’re doing, brickie?’
Jack stopped, and looked at the manager as if he’d just realised he was there. ‘I’m cleaning off the bricks.’ He put the one he was holding on to the pile of cleaned bricks. And laid down the axe; it would be too easy to throw.
‘Who told you to do that?’
‘The bricks in the yard are the wrong colour.’
The manager bent backwards, obviously affronted.
‘You’re not paid to judge the colour of bricks. You’re paid to repair this wall using the bricks in the yard. I thought I had made that absolutely clear first thing.’
‘Most of these are salvageable,’ said Jack, indicating the buckled section of wall, knowing he’d lost, but at least he’d make his case. ‘They’ll match. It’s an old wall. With some history. Put new bricks in, they’ll stand out like a scar.’
The manager’s face was cold. Jack knew the man couldn’t back down. Having come in like a raging bull, calm discussion wasn’t an option.
‘Have you finished telling me what’s what?’ said the manager.
‘Whatever I build now, you’ll have to live with.’
‘You’re repeating yourself. Have you anything new to say?’
‘I’m telling you what I think as a bricklayer.’
Actually he wasn’t a bricklayer, but he could put a hand to it, like a number of other trades in the building game. He’d never call himself a bricklayer to a real brickie, but to this oil rag – he was.
‘Using old bricks,’ said the park manager emphasising the word old, picking up one from the pile, ‘can you finish in two days?’
‘No.’
The manager walked along the wall, licking his lips as if calculating the hours and minutes. But there was no disguising it. Granted, Jack was getting quicker at cleaning the bricks but each one took him too long. It would save maybe half a day, or more, just knocking the wall down – and using new bricks.
‘Did I, or did I not, make it plain that the job had to be done in two days?’
‘You did. But it’s not as if I’m asking for extra cash.’
‘Then two days it will be. No ifs, no buts. Just work. No one pays you to think. So dump those old bricks. And smash the rest of the wall up. Pronto. Take the debris to the dump, pick up the new bricks – and get laying.’ He pushed his face close to Jack’s as if daring him to punch. ‘I don’t know how many times I have to say this. You call yourself a professional?’
‘I do.’
‘Then give me what I want and stop mucking me about.’
‘Right. You’re the boss.’
‘At last,’ said the manager with a deep sigh, ‘we’re agreed on something.’
Jack was within an inch of walking off the job. Except the job would get done in the way the manager wanted whether he was here or not. And he’d end up not getting paid and maybe suffering a penalty. The battle was lost.
‘I’ll do what you want,’ he said, straining to hold his temper. ‘But I want it made clear that I don’t think it’s the best way…’
‘You’re a one-squawk parrot, Mr Jack of All Trades. I don’t want to hear any more of you telling me what’s what. I’m the one who says that. Get me?’
‘What’s going on here?’ came a voice from a little way off.
Both turned to see a man walking up the drive from the main gate, holding a couple of saplings. He was clean shaven, late middle-aged, and smartly dressed in a well-cut, grey suit, and an almost Alpine hat.
The manager straightened up nervously. ‘We are discussing this wall, sir.’
The man put down the saplings, leaning them carefully against the wall, and wiped his hands together as he looked at the workings. Jack wondered who he was. Someone senior most certainly, from the way the manager was reacting.
‘So this was the wall that the drunken tractor driver hit for six… Quite a bash.’ The man felt along it with his hand.
‘I’m the builder,’ said Jack. ‘And we were discussing whether to reuse the old brick, or the new brick from the yard. And I think we’d value another opinion.’ Jack indicated the pile he’d cleaned up. ‘I’ve salvaged this lot. And probably can salvage most of them.’
The man picked up a cleaned brick and looked it over.
‘So they clean up easily enough?’
‘I’m getting quicker. See,’ said Ja
ck. He took up a mortared brick. ‘It comes off easy enough with a bit of smart bashing.’ He demonstrated with the back of the axe head, chipping the mortar off the faces and the ends. ‘There.’ He held the brick out to the man.
‘I’m impressed,’ said the man. ‘And I take your point. We should use as much of the old brick as we can. Sustainability. That’s what everyone wants these days. Isn’t that the truth?’
‘The new bricks are the wrong colour anyway,’ said Jack.
‘That settles it,’ said the man. ‘Reuse the old.’ He smiled. ‘Recycling is the way forward.’
‘Might I ask who you are, sir?’ said Jack.
‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Ben Greene, Superintendent of Parks.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I do think sustainability is the right policy. There’s too much waste all round.’
‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more, young man.’
‘Mr Greene,’ said the manager, who’d been twitching as Jack and the Superintendent spoke.
‘Yes, Ian?’
‘If he reuses the old brick, with all the cleaning up – he can’t finish before the ceremony on Wednesday.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘I thought we wanted everything ship-shape, the whole park tidy…’
‘By all means tidy the park, Ian. But this is a working environment. There are always jobs in progress. Why should the Mayor and our Member of Parliament be shocked by a half-built wall, especially when being laid in old brick? I think the Mayor especially would appreciate it. He’s quite a one for conservation, you know.’
‘Then old brick it is,’ said the manager, seeing the way of the wind. ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. I wasn’t sure, so we were discussing what to do for the best.’
‘Fine, fine.’ The Superintendent picked up the two saplings. ‘And maybe you could get your head round this conundrum. I’ve just picked these trees up from the nursery. They’re the ones for the ceremony. Keep them in your yard, Ian.’ He scratched his head. ‘Except they don’t look right to me. Mind you, I’ve forgotten more about trees than I ever knew. Comes of being so office bound. But I’m not sure they’re oaks. What do you think, Ian?’
The two men inspected the saplings, fingering the twigs and buds carefully, like two jewellery experts handling a coronet, from the tip down to the roots bound in bulging hessian.
‘Flowers are more my thing,’ said the manager hesitantly, ‘there are so many trees, all those varieties, – and when they haven’t got leaves, well, to tell you the truth…’
‘That youngster over there knows his trees,’ said Jack interrupting. They turned to him. ‘He was telling me earlier. He knows all the trees in the park.’
‘Bring him over,’ said the Superintendent. ‘We have to get this right.’
Jack stepped over the wall and up the bank. He waved both hands to Zar, who had his head down, edging. And called: ‘Hey – over here. You’re wanted, mate.’
Zar looked across, hesitated, and then began striding round the bowling green with the long arm shears in tow.
‘We must make sure they’re correct,’ said the Superintendent. ‘They have to match the others in the avenue. And with the MP coming too, we could well get TV coverage. It wouldn’t do to plant the wrong sort.’
‘It certainly wouldn’t,’ agreed Ian.
Zar had arrived. He stayed the other side of the wall, looking nervously at his manager and the newcomer.
‘You wanted me, sir.’
‘I hear you know your trees, young man,’ said the Superintendent. ‘So can you tell us what these two are?’
Zar stepped over the wall to get to the saplings. He looked at them closely, examining the twigs.
‘Quercus...’ he said tentatively. ‘Probably rubra. Quercus rubra. Red oak. From North America, the Appalachians and the Great Lakes. Turns a beautiful red in autumn. Quercus rubra I’d say.’
‘That’s what they’re meant to be,’ said the Superintendent turning to his manager, then back to Zar. ‘Are you dead sure?’
‘Pretty sure. Crown terminal buds, longish. I’ve got a book in the mess room…’
‘Go get it, lad. If you don’t mind.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Zar skipped across the drive and into the yard.
‘Keen youngster,’ said the Super. ‘I like to see that. Got initiative. Knows his trees.’
‘He wants to go on day release,’ said Jack.
‘Did you know about that, Ian?’
‘I was going to talk to the lad about it,’ said the manager.
‘We won’t be here forever, Ian. Just a couple of years left myself. We must train up the new generation. And when you spot keenness… Cultivate it.’
Zar came running out the yard waving his book.
‘Here you are, sir.’ He flicked through the pages and stopped. ‘There. That’s it. Look. Quercus rubra.’
The Superintendent took the book. The page had a photograph of the full tree and close ups of acorns, leaves and buds.
‘It’s a dead ringer,’ he said. ‘Quercus rubra. Red oak. Glad that’s settled. Thank you, young man.’
He handed back the tree book.
‘About that day release,’ said Ian. Zar turned to him. ‘I was thinking you should go on it, seeing you are showing initiative. Reading books in your own time. What do you think, Mr Greene?’
‘Sign him up. He wants to learn. He’s pretty sharp already.’
Zar jumped up, arms raised. ‘Brilliant. Oh, thank you so much, sir. I won’t let you down.’
‘I’m sure Ian will keep me informed of your progress, young man.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And now we’d best go to your office, Ian. We have to discuss the big day. The whole world coming.’ He started across the drive in the direction of the yard, followed by the manager. Halfway, he turned. ‘Thank you for your expertise, young man. And keep salvaging those bricks, brickie.’
They disappeared into the yard.
Jack looked at the wall and the brick in his hand. He shook his head. What a lot of sweat to get a simple job done.
‘I’m on day release,’ said Zar in disbelief.
Jack held out a hand. ‘Congratulations.’ They shook hands. ‘I’m Jack.’
‘Zar.’ He spun around, arms high in the air, like a footballer who’d just slammed the ball in the net. ‘Yippee! Something, at last, going right.’
Chapter 7
Rose was vaccing the main lawn, pushing the throbbing machine as if it were a plough going through heavy clay. The front end was like a mower but with a wider, sucking head. The leaves were drawn into a large bag, and beyond that was the handle to which Rose was reluctantly attached. On Ian’s orders, she’d first cleaned up the area where the marquee was now being erected, but could hear none of the workers’ banter over the blast, and was now crisscrossing the main lawn.
She hated the noise and vibration. The job made her feel like a menial. She was above this sort of work, having been told quite a few times that she should be a model. Just the other week, a photographer had stopped her in Stratford, taken her photo and said she had ‘bone structure’ and he’d get back to her. He hadn’t, but you never know. And here she was, clodhopping. She’d die if any of her clubbing friends saw her. Although she’d told them she worked in the park, they imagined it was all flower arrangement or tying up dahlias in the herbaceous border. Not these dirty jobs. Not that any of them would recognize her in these overalls, boots and shapeless leather gloves.
It was death. This job, this time of year, this corpse strewn lawn. Rose had always known she was going to die young, tried not to think about it, and consequently thought about it a lot. She would be murdered or die of an overdose, some ill‑prepared powder bought from a tosser in a club on a hot evening, and she’d drop to the dance floor like one of these dead leaves.
They’d done their bit, faithful factory fodder, making sugar for the tree over the summer. From sunlight – and what was i
t? Some gas in the air and some other thing she’d once been taught in biology. Photo-something or other. Liz would know, not that she’d ask her, Liz knew everything; even why these leaves had to be murdered every year when they’d skivvied away as long as the sun shone. And now dumped like garbage. As if the tree were a ruthless factory owner throwing out surplus workers. Except these pathetic things weren’t just losing their jobs but their lives too. More like the trees were camp commandants given orders by Mother Nature to dispose of slave workers. Shoot them, gas them, strangle them. It doesn’t matter how – terminate them.
She was part of the clean up squad. When the last dead leaf was vacced, she’d be made to dig her own grave, told to stand by it, a pistol would be put to her head – and she’d be shot, falling cleanly into her grave. Witness terminated; though they would have to shoot the person who’d shot her, then they in their turn would be shot, an ever increasing body count until the Führer alone stood triumphant on a mountain of bodies.
Death everywhere. Just over there was Bill pulling up the flowers in the bed, shaking the soil off and chucking them into his wheelbarrow like a plague waggoner. Every day the park was covered in layers of fresh corpses, to be vacced up, to make room for tomorrow’s corpses.
And she was 30 today. How could she have got to this day? A tap had been dripping poison into her body from the very day she was born. In her 20s, she could deny it, but 30 and vaccing leaves. How could she deny the evidence? Every living thing dies.
She stopped her machine and picked up a leaf from a plane tree. It was huge, bigger than her two spread hands. Beautiful, green and yellow, with patches of rusty brown in the angular fingers. How could nature just throw this away?
Because Nature was a callous cow. Beauty didn’t matter a fig to her. Cry, plead – she will not hear. Rather, lay waste, burn those praying in the citadel, take no prisoners. Cut every throat until the river runs red and bodies block the channels.
She read too much post-apocalyptic crap. After the catastrophe, the marauding gangs, and so forth; they were all the same. Why should she be one of the select? Today she was the grim reaper’s slavey. As disposable as a soggy tissue.
