Now, sitting relaxed, she picked up another sandwich, savouring the clean, fresh flavour as she bit into it.
“I bet these taste better than those I saw today.” She didn’t say it aloud, but her thoughts flew back to the incident that occurred on her way to her appointment. When the tram had approached the stop she wanted, she had risen from her seat and reached up to tug at the cord above her head. The bell in the driver’s cabin seemed to clang unusually loud, resounding in the almost-empty tram like a warning. Involuntarily she shivered as though a ghost had walked over her grave. Then, as she had stood inside the doorway of the tram, waiting for it to pull up to the stop, she heard the dull thud that came from just ahead. She saw the old utility screeching round the corner, its driver oblivious, or uncaring, about the box of tomatoes that had fallen off the back. The box had broken open as it had hit the road, scattering the contents along the road and into the gutter. She’d stepped over them as she crossed to the pavement. They’ll soon be gone, she had thought. Someone will come and pick them up.
But she was wrong. Except for the few that had been squashed by passing cars—their pulp blood red against the heat haze that rose from the bitumen—they were still lying in the gutter when, her appointment over, she went back to the tram stop.
She didn’t usually talk to strangers, but “I saw those fall off a truck over an hour ago,” she said to a man standing beside her, waiting for the traffic lights to change.
“Yeah, what a waste,“ he said. “If I had something to put them in, I’d pick them up. I like a good tomato meself, don’t you?”
“Hmph, call that a good tomato?” she snorted, stepping forward and kicking one away with the toe of her shoe. “That’s what I think of this rubbish.” She lifted her foot and squashed the offending tomato beneath it. “What I grow at home are good tomatoes.” She glared at the man beside her.
The red traffic light disappeared and the green light beckoned them forward, ending her conversation with this Philistine. She walked slowly across to the tram stop, her eyes following his retreating back as he stepped out briskly, crossing to the far side of the road.
Remembering the incident now, she said aloud, “What does he how about tomatoes?” She looked down at the remaining sandwiches on her plate. “That’s what a tomato should taste like,” she said, and sighed with satisfaction. “And that’s what tomatoes should look like.” Ripe, red, fleshy. Not those pale watery things in the gutter. In her mind’s eye she saw the plants in her garden: the taller varieties staked, the shorter ones in neat bushes with straw around them, the patio varieties in tubs beside the path. It was late in the season, but they were still healthy looking bushes bearing loads of fruit. There’d be more to pick tonight. She’d go out with a basket in the cool of the evening as she always did. Tomorrow she’d have to freeze some of them to use in cooking when there was none left to pick, but for now it was so good to sit back and relax.
She could feel her shoulder blades against the back of the chair, and she shrugged to ease the tension. She stretched her whole body, lifting her long thin legs off the floor and letting them drop back again. She was tall and skinny, like a vegetable herself in some ways. “String bean” the Kid next door called her. Not to her face, though. Well, not up close. She’d heard him mutter it from the other side of the fence after she’d chased him away when she came out one day and caught him in her garden. He had a half-eaten tomato in his hand, and he’d thrown it at her as she rushed down the path, yelling at him. He’d missed, of course, but she was unashamedly pleased to see his arm bleeding as he scrambled hurriedly over the fence into his own backyard. Serve him right, the little monster. He had no business sneaking into her garden and pinching her tomatoes. He had no business being in her garden at all, always climbing over the fence to get his football. She reckoned he kicked it over deliberately sometimes, just to annoy her.
She supposed she ought to feel sorry for him, living with his Lazy Slut of a mother, and no father to control him. Eunice didn’t know anything about the Kid’s father; she’d never seen or heard a man about the place. She didn’t know much about the Kid’s mother, either, not even her name. All she knew was what she could see: an overweight, slovenly young woman who, although she didn’t seem to go out to work, never bothered to do anything outside the house. Her front garden and backyard (it wasn’t a garden; you couldn’t call that overgrown neglect anything but a yard) became more and more of a mess. Too damn lazy, that’s what she was. She always looked untidy even when she went out in the evening as she often did, leaving the Kid home on his own. That’s why, if Eunice thought of the woman at all, she called her the Lazy Slut, just as she always thought of the boy as the Kid, both epithets acquiring capital letters in her mind. She knew the Kid’s name, though. “Jaaaasonnnn!” the Lazy Slut often bawled at him.
He and his Lazy Slut of a mother had come to live next door two years ago. Soon after they’d moved in Eunice had seen him climbing over the fence to retrieve his football. She hadn’t said anything to him then—he was back in his own yard before she’d got to the door—but a few days later she’d gone out to her letter box at the same time as the Kid’s mother, and had asked her—quite politely, she’d thought—to tell her son not to climb over the fence. “We don’t want to have to pay for a new fence, do we?” she’d said, pointedly. Eunice didn’t know much about children, but she reckoned this one would be about eight or nine. Not as heavy as an adult, of course, or even a teenager, but a fat lump like him—large and clumsy, just like his mother— would soon break the wooden palings.
“Won’t be me payin’ for it,” her neighbour had said. “Fencin’s the landlord’s responsibility.”
“Still, we don’t want it broken, do we?” Eunice started to say, but the other woman wasn’t listening.
“Anyway, ‘ow’s Jason s’posed to get ‘is football back? Betcha won’t want ‘im comin’ knockin’ on your door fer it. You gonna leave yer garage open for ‘im to git through to yer yard?”
The only way into her back garden was via the garage or through the house itself, so the Kid couldn’t get into her back garden from the street.
“No, of course not.” Eunice tried to be patient; after all, they were neighbours. “I’m out in my back garden ...” (she emphasised the word for the Slut’s benefit) “... every day. If I see your son’s football, I’ll throw it back over the fence for him.”
She had spoken to the woman only two or three times since then, each time to complain about the Kid. Each time she’d been told to “fuck off and mind yer own bloody business, you miserable old bitch.”
If the Lazy Slut had ever bothered to tell the Kid not to climb the fence, he took no notice of her, either, because often when she was in the house Eunice caught sight of him in her garden and would rush outside and shout at him. His weight wasn’t the only thing he’d inherited from the Lazy Slut. His language was as colourful as hers, but only when he had the safety of the fence between them.
Now, as she took the last bite of sandwich and reached over to put the empty plate onto the table beside her, she glanced across at the football lying on the floor just inside the door to her family room. It wasn’t hers; it belonged to the Kid, of course. It had bounced over the fence when she’d quietly been doing some weeding yesterday. She’d walked over and picked it up, intending to throw it back to him, but before she could do so he’d climbed onto the fence. Halfway over he’d spotted her with the ball in her hands.
“What’ya doin’ with me fuckin’ football? Give it to me!” he’d demanded from his lofty perch on top of the fence.
She held it poised between her hands, ready to throw it to him. “Please,” she said. Then, enunciating every word: “Please may I have my ball back?”
“Give us me bloody fucking football, you scrawny old bitch!” he shouted.
More angry than shocked—she’d heard him use words like that before—she turned on her heel and marched inside, clutching the football. “When you lea
rn some manners,” she said as she walked away from him. “Please would do for a start.”
She’d give it back to him sometime; tomorrow maybe. But let him sweat on it for a while.
She must have dozed off while she’d been sitting there, because suddenly it was dark inside the house and there was the sound of distant thunder.
“Oh no-o-o-o,” she groaned. “I haven’t picked the tomatoes. I must get them in before the storm comes.”
Not stopping to put on a light she dashed to the kitchen for the cane basket she always put them in, absent-mindedly picking up the knife she’d used to slice the tomatoes for her sandwiches. The sky was dark, heavy with rain clouds, but they were still a little way off. “I’ve just got time,” she muttered as she hurried down the three wooden steps from the verandah and across the lawn to the furthest tomato bed. The sun had set, but there was still enough light for her to see her plants as she rushed through the garden. All of a sudden her foot slipped, and she sat down heavily on the concrete path. Her left wrist hurt, and when she lifted her hand, turning the palm towards her, she could see blood dripping between her fingers. She had dropped the basket as she fell, but the knife was still clutched in her hand. “Damn, I’ve cut myself,” she winced, looking at the knife.
With an effort she pulled herself to her feet and, still shaken by the fall, she stood hunched over, steadying herself. Suddenly her eyes focused. The path in front of her, near the low-growing bushes, was red and slippery with squashed tomatoes. For a split second she thought she was back in the city, looking at the crushed fruit on the roadway. Then she let out a cry. The tomato bushes, her precious plants, were stripped of their crop and lay uprooted and battered on the ground. Some of the fruit lay tumbled in the soil, but most if it was a red squishy mess on the path. Slowly she raised her left arm and looked at her hand. It wasn’t blood; she hadn’t cut herself.
She dropped her arm and stared in bewilderment at the devastation around her. How could this happen? Thunder was rolling in the distance, but the storm hadn’t hit yet. There’d been no hail to damage the fruit, no strong winds to strip the bushes. Still puzzled, she picked up the basket and walked across the lawn to inspect the other tomato beds. As she did so, she caught a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning quickly, she strode towards the climbing beans. He was there, the Kid, crouching down, trying to hide behind their tall bamboo frames. On his face she saw a mixture of guilt and triumph and, with dawning realisation, red-hot anger raced through her.
“You little horror! You bloody vandal!” she screamed, and swung the sturdy cane basket at him. It wasn’t heavy enough to really hurt him, but in trying to avoid it he lost his footing and fell sprawling on the grass in front of her.
He sat up and looked at her but made no attempt to get up and run away. “Serves ya right for pinchin’ me football, ya bloody old witch. Thievin’, fuckin’ bitch.”Then he laughed. “The others are all gone, too, the ones in the fuckin’ pots as well.”
“No!” she shrieked. “You can’t! You haven’t!” but she knew by his laughter that he had.
“Your football, I was going ...” She tried to tell him that he could have it back, that she hadn’t intended to keep it, as if somehow that would undo the damage he’d done. But, still laughing, he turned onto his knees and started to get to his feet. She wanted to hit him, to wipe the smirk from that round, fat face.
“Serves ya right, ya fuck—’’The obscenity was cut short as she struck him. She’d meant only to slap his face, to wipe the smile off it, but the grinning mouth suddenly contorted and something warm splashed onto her hand. He didn’t scream, just gave a startled grunt and collapsed back onto the ground in front of her. Thunder crashed overhead and, in a flash of lightning that lit up the garden, his round, fat face grimaced up at her, red and pulpy like the crushed red fruit of her precious plants.
From his throat came a gasping, choking gurgle, but to Eunice’s ears it had a different sound; he was laughing, laughing still at the damage he’d done. Anger, bitterness and frustration flooded her like a red, raging torrent. Blindly she lashed out, striking him again and again and again. At last, exhausted and empty, she sank down onto her haunches beside the quivering, blood-soaked body. Impervious to the hard ground or the lightning flashes, she sat staring at the Thing in front of her. It was the Kid, of course; she knew that. But she did nothing, just sat there gripping the knife until long after the pathetic moaning was hushed and the convulsive movements had ceased.
Eventually she struggled to her feet, tossed the knife down beside the basket, and stumbled back to the tomato beds. “That’ll all need clearing and digging over before anything else can go in there,” she said as she gazed again at the destruction. Slowly she turned and made her way to the back door of the garage. From her rack of tools she picked up her gleaming spade and fork, slipped her bare feet into sturdy gardening shoes, and returned to the garden. For a moment she stood looking sadly about her, then, with a determined shrug of her shoulders, she began pulling the broken plants together into a pile. Her arms full, she made several journeys to the back corner and tossed the plants on top of the compost heap.
Finally, the tomato beds cleared, she started to dig. Sweat poured down her back and from her armpits, and ran in rivulets between her scrawny breasts, soaking the clean dress she’d put on. From time to time she gathered up the skirt of her dress and wiped the perspiration from her eyes, then went on digging. The soil was damp on top where the automatic sprinklers had come on earlier, but underneath was hard and dry. That didn’t deter her; she was used to digging, to turning the soil over with her spade. But, she didn’t turn it over this time. She piled it up beside her on the lawn, digging deeper and deeper, tossing the dark earth into a heap. At last she stopped, thrust the spade into the soil and, breathing heavily, turned and walked over to the climbing beans.
She didn’t stop to look down at the body but, grabbing the Kid around the ankles, she hauled the bloodied mess along behind her to the freshly dug hole. Dragging him to the side of the pit she let go of his legs and stepped around beside him. “That’s what I think of rubbish,” she said, and kicked him with the toe of her gardening shoe. Then she lifted her foot and, with the thick sole pressed against him, she shoved him over into the excavation. She stooped and took up a handful of dry soil. Slowly she sifted it through her cupped palms, drizzling it from one hand to the other like sand filtering through an hourglass. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” she murmured, and tossed it onto the Kid’s body. “And pulp to pulp” she added fiercely as she scooped up some of the squashed tomato from the path and threw it into the grave. Then, taking up the spade again she began to shovel the earth on top of him. Finally she raked it over, levelling the soil and spreading out the excess onto the adjoining beds.
She rinsed her hands and tools under the garden tap, and swept the greasy, matted hair from her face. Then, switching on the light in the garage, she carefully wiped the tools over with oil and a clean rag before hanging them up in their racks on the wall. She switched out the light and closed the garage door behind her.
Tired out now, she stood peering around her in the darkness. Her garden and the yard next door were as still as the grave and there was no light on in either house. Slowly she walked over to the climbing beans, bent down and picked up the knife and the cane basket.
It was so hot! Hot and oppressive. Thunder and lightning were still booming and flashing overhead, but it needed rain, heavy rain, to clear the air. Wearily she made her way towards the house. What a relief it was to get inside, to walk into the coolness and comfort, away from the stifling heat in the garden. Her head was aching, and her hands felt as though they were on fire. She reached out and switched on the overhead light in the family room before moving to stand in front of the blast of cold air coming from the air-conditioner. She looked at her swollen hands in the bright light. There was dirt under and around her nails, and a red, pulpy mess on the backs of her hands and between
the fingers.
A cold drink, that’s what she wanted, but first a long, cool shower. Fully clothed she stepped under the jets of cooling water, standing still, watching as the dirty water eddied round her feet and swirled down the drain pipe. At last, when the water ran clear, she pulled off the cotton dress and eased her feet out of the old gardening shoes. For a few moments longer she stood with her face upturned under the cold water, easing the tension in her neck and shoulders. Calmly she dried herself, slipped into a clean nightie and went into the kitchen for her drink.
A gust of cold air wafted out when she opened the fridge door and, as she stretched out her hand for the bottle of mineral water, her eyes focused on the shelves laden with bright-red, ripe tomatoes. Briefly she hesitated, then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she reached out, filled a glass with mineral water, and wandered back into the family room. The football was still lying near the door. Idly she kicked it with her toe, as though it was a tomato in the gutter. Then she bent down, picked it up and walked out of the room. Still in her long white nightie and with bare feet she stood in the garden and, with both hands raised above her head, she hurled the ball over the fence into the yard next door. Standing listening to it bounce, she felt the first drops of rain on her bare arms. Without haste she climbed the wooden steps and stood on the verandah, looking out into her garden as the storm hit. She watched as the rain fell heavier and heavier. Lashed by the wind, it battered against the house and garage. It pounded the earth and soaked the garden, raced along the gutters and swirled down into drain pipes, washing away the stains and the mess on the concrete path.
Scarlet Stiletto - the First Cut Page 27