A garden pest by Kava Palava
11 January 2021 { General Fiction }
It was a January evening, and the road was closed so he’d had to come the back way, past the skip depot and over the railway bridge. In the rain. If he’d come the other way, between the reservoirs, the park either side, he’d have seen the appeal. Even the chippy and the hairdressers on the corner, stubborn remnants of the 1970s, had character. Like the cobbles, although these were now home to plumbers’ and builders’ vans. But geese flew overhead, with a breath of wildness.
“Why did you buy a house in such a weird little place?”
He hit a nerve, just flicked it, but the shock charged through her body to her heart.
“I’m sure you’ll make it lovely, he soothed. “You always do. Let’s open these.”
Harry confused her, he seemed to like her, bought her presents, but often she felt miserable after they met. Why did he never talk about himself? It left her feeling exposed, tricked almost, for revealing her own stuff.
She unwrapped the big tin of luxe biscuits, which she wished she had the self-control to give away. Post-Christmas, post house-move, calorie control hadn’t been a priority. Hadn’t been since her Mum finally, eventually died: released of the burden of care, she’d given herself a year to grieve and licence to put on a stone. Three years and two stones later, she was well past that deadline and several others.
They drank their coffee and she relaxed.
“You could put a wood burner in there.”
More money, she thought.
He looked around, “That wall needs painting.” There was a large square of lighter blue where a framed poster had been painted around.
“I might knock it down,” she said. “Anyway, I need to sell that sofa first, I can’t get it next door. You in the market for a grey velvet three-seater?”
He chuckled. The sofa was balanced upside down, on another sofa. With its carved wooden legs poking up and the backing exposed it looked undignified and a bit pathetic, like a well-dressed woman who’d tripped on the pavement and lay, her skirt rucked up, revealing her slip and tights.
Downsizing was harder than she thought. She’d culled so many possessions and roughed out the dimensions of the rooms, but she hadn’t factored in the width of the hall and now pieces of furniture that she treasured had to go, like the Georgian chest of drawers she’d rescued (bought) from a damp cellar and moved with her over twenty-three years. And the habitat sideboard, bought in the sale corner of the clearance store: it held all her hopes for them as a couple – and she’d never be able to afford it again. It was waiting in the shed while she listed it on ebay. She mustn’t get down.
“The garden’s nice, south facing."
He peered from the sofa. “What’s behind the – that?” He indicated some scruffy bamboo fencing.
“Network Rail, she shrugged, ‘Wasteland really”. A train went past, illustrating her point.
He sniffed, “I suppose you’ll get used to that.”
Unknowingly she sighed, it was so depressing viewing houses, this was the first one she’d walked into and liked: it could be home. She was exhausted, the whole process was like pushing an elephant uphill. The estate agent had cocked up in new and creative ways, sending the contract she needed to sign, to the house she wanted to BUY, instead of the one she actually lived in. The vendor was annoyed by the delay but hadn’t realised that the reason for it was the large A4 envelope, addressed to her and sitting in *his* kitchen.
Harry was humming, usually a sign he was bored. She clenched at the thought she wasn’t entertaining enough. She couldn't always be 'up', surely?
Leaving the house they’d bought together, and planned and painted and sanded, was gutting. Years of effort, of trying to make it work, whisked away by removal men and a couple of bank transfers. She could weep for the loss, but she had to make a new home. A new life.
In the garden, a shadow moved. Not a shadow, a mouse? Oh God, a rat. Right along the French windows, the nerve of it! She kicked the glass.
“Oi!”
It scuttled off. Right, first thing in the morning, call Rentokil. Get that sorted, at least.
(TWO WEEKS LATER)
Since dawn the air had lost its sharpness, now, midmorning, he relaxed. Relishing the sun, he smelled the rich smell of earth, the tang of decay from the leaves and the warning note of cat shit. Cats were lazy, fed by hand, while he had to hunt for his family.
Slim pickings here, no compost. But he caught a whiff of food, and something else – chemical? Had he imagined it? A dog barked, scrabbled at a fence. Quick! He saw a tunnel, a space to crawl in. Salivating now, his tail curled to balance as he moved across the branches, he squeezed past brambles, placing his four paws deftly, mindful of the cat, the dog.
He nosed towards his goal, triumphant. Taking it away, he felt oddly tired. He could rest, on the leaves, today’s fall crisp above the lace and mush of older drifts. The slowness spread through his body, like a caretaker switching off the lights and locking up.
That evening, watering the garden, she felt brave enough to look. Holding her breath, she noticed his delicate paws and the bright brown eye. The soft fur of his belly, the unexpected pink of his ear.
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