A bit more writing for you. This is an idea that has been knocking around in my head for a little while, and which I've finally gotten around to writing down. I won't say too much because I don't want to spoil the ending, but my inspiration will be obvious. If anyone has any suggestions for a better title, please let me know. This one is strictly a working title.
Beyond the Garden Gate
John stamped over to the greenhouse, yanked the door open and
stepped inside. He knelt and picked up the tray of young cabbages, trying not
to moan as his knees and hips reminded him that he was no longer a young man.
He straightened, and his back added its voice to the litany of complaints.
In reality though, he barely felt the merely physical pains.
He was smarting too much already to pay them much notice. His whole body was
thrumming with hurt and anger and resentment. He and Mary had had another argument. “Argument”.
Call it what it was; a blazing row. The house stood by itself in the midst of a
huge garden, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Potter up on the hill had
heard them. Nosey old busybody that she was, always wandering about the
countryside looking for gossip, the hard-faced bitch.
Mary always seemed to be angry these days. He knew what had
set her off this time. The Cothills down in the village had just had another
grandson. Their third, John thought. Mary would never admit it, not in a
hundred years, but he knew she resented the fact that they’d never had
children. Not for want of trying, at first at least. But either something wasn’t
right with him, or it wasn’t right with her, or the Lord had just never seen
fit, and now they were both far too old. No children, no grandchildren, no-one
to look after them as they headed slowly downhill.
That was why he had to keep up the garden. Keep growing the
vegetables, keep selling them, keep sending them off to town to grace the
dinner tables there. Couldn’t stop, because if he did where would the money
come from? Where would the food come from? They had already complained that the
last hamper was too light, and warned that they’d have to buy their vegetables
elsewhere if he couldn’t make up the shortfall. Something else to worry about.
They were poor enough as it was. Couldn’t even afford to buy himself baccy
nowadays, unless he happened to catch a couple of rabbits that he could sell in
the village.
He stumped out, carrying the tray of young cabbages. Ah yes,
the rabbits. The garden backed onto a wood, and it was crawling with them. Not
to mention the mice, badgers, birds and other pests who made it their job to
despoil his garden and snatch the very food from their mouths. He’d set traps
and snares, put up netting, tried to close up the gap under the gate and still
they got in.
He reached the bed he’d prepared and set the tray down with
another groan. How much longer could he keep this up? He was an old man, and he
could tell that his strength was failing. His hearing was going too. Soon he wouldn’t
be able to hear Mary going on at him, so that was something at least.
Always going on. Always something wrong. Always something he
hadn’t done, or something he had. Never a kind word. Never a smile. Never a
thank you for all the hard work he did to keep them fed. Never a bloody help
around the garden either. At least she could cook. Her rabbit pie was more than
half decent. His stomach rumbled. He’d get these cabbages planted, then he’d go
in for a sandwich.
He picked up the trowel and leant forward, digging a hole and
putting one of the plants in. His knees hurt. His back hurt. His hips hurt. He
planted another one, and another, stabbing the soil with his trowel as though
he could pay the earth back some of the pain and anger and sadness and
disappointment and resentment and fear that filled his life.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement.
Looking up, he saw a rabbit hop out from behind a cucumber frame. It froze,
staring at him with wide eyes. He stared back at it, and for a moment they were
both absolutely still.
“Oh no you don’t!” he snarled under his breath. There was a
rake on the ground near him and he snatched it up, leaping to his feet. The
little bastard immediately bolted. “Stop, thief!” He sprinted after it with a
speed born from rage and desperation. The creature had made itself an avatar
for everything that was unfair and unjust and unhappy about John’s world, and
he was going to get his revenge.
The rabbit darted here and there in a wild panic, and he moved
to try and cut off it’s escape, ready to strike with the rake and break its
back if he could. It rushed in amongst the cabbages, then darted through the
potatoes, going faster now. The little demon would have got away completely if
it hadn’t run headfirst into the gooseberry net. It thrashed around in a frenzy
of fear, but only got itself more thoroughly tangled.
John grinned. “Got you, you little bastard!” He snatched up a large
metal sieve and stepped forward to slam it down on the rabbit and trap it, but
at the very last moment, thrashing around wildly it tore itself free. Still in
a blind panic, it turned and bolted straight into the tool shed.
John was breathing hard, trembling with exertion and
excitement. “You won’t get away this time…” he growled. He stepped inside and
shut the door behind him. “I know you’re in here,” he called in a sing-song
voice. “You’re in here somewhere!”
He glanced around. He had a large number of flowerpots in
here, stored upside down. Maybe it had got in under one of them… He moved up to
the first and carefully turned it over, ready to grab at anything that made a move.
Nothing. He turned over the second. Nothing. The third…
At that moment there was a sound from the rusty old watering
can in the corner. He spun towards it but as he came up a shape burst out in a
spray of water and the stink of wet fur. John yelled and tried to stamp his
boot down on it but it darted away, leaping for the window. He swore; it stood
slightly open and the beast forced its way through the gap, knocking over three
plants that he’d placed on the sill. He heard the pots shatter on the path
outside.
John stared at the empty window, panting. His shoulders
slumped, and all the aches and pains came flooding back as the anger drained
away, worse than ever. He sighed. He’d wasted enough time, and slowly stumped
back to the cabbages.
He got them done, and thought about heading in for a bite. He
was hungry enough. But Mary would be in the kitchen. If he went back in, she’d
start tongue-lashing him again. Or worse still, she’d say nothing, and there’d
just be silence, hot and heavy and tense. He couldn’t face that. Not yet.
He went back to the tool shed and got the hoe. The onion beds
needed doing. Perhaps after that he’d go back inside. Perhaps. Or he could stay
out here by himself. Better to be alone. Better to be lonely than to face her
anger and resentment and disappointment again today. They had to go to town
tomorrow, and they’d be sat in the gig for an hour each way. Best to stay out
of her way for now, and maybe by tomorrow they’d both have calmed down a bit. Enough
to be civil at least. Maybe.
He set to hoeing, letting himself get into the rhythm of the
work, letting it drown out everything else. Scriiiitch. Scratch. Scratch. Scritch.
Suddenly movement again. John looked up in time to see another
rabbit, or perhaps the same one as before, dart out from behind the blackberry
bushes and streak towards the gate. Out of habit John leapt up to give chase,
but the rabbit was under the gate and off into the woods before he could get
close. He slowed as he reached the gate, and watched as it galloped away into
the woods and out of sight. He envied it. If only he could run off into the
woods. Just squeeze under the gate and disappear. No garden. No worries. No
work. No Mary. He stood and stared for a long time after the beast had vanished
from view, his hoe forgotten in his hand.
Eventually, he sighed and shook himself. The light was starting
to fade, and he was famished. Mary would probably complain about him not coming
in for lunch. Make it a deliberate slight. “You do it a’purpose!” she’d say in
her querulous, whining voice. Well, yes. He had.
He did a quick tour of the garden to see that everything was
right, and give himself a few more peaceful minutes. While he was doing so, he
picked up a few things that the rabbit had dropped as it ran. “Too small to
sell,” he muttered, “but I can use them to make a scarecrow.” He had an old hat
he could use too. Maybe he’d do that before he went back in. It wouldn’t take
long. Carrying the two shoes and the little blue jacket, Mr. McGregor
turned and headed back to the tool shed.
Copyright Thomas Jones 2022
