‘It looks like I got here just in time.’ I nodded to the salad dish, which she was scraping to get the last pieces for my order.
‘They’ve done much better than I expected.’
‘They were your idea? Because I’ve got to say, they’re terrific.’
For the first time, her smile spread to her eyes. ‘Thanks. Yes, they were my idea. They’re mine. That is, Steve grows the veg, and I make the salads.’
‘Grows the veg? Where?’
‘That patch out the front of the house, and window boxes. We’re on the waiting list for a council allotment, and we thought that next year we might get one, but now, who knows where we’ll be living?’
They produced enough veg to feed six people, and still have enough to sell, from window boxes and a front space so small it was barely bigger than a window box itself?
‘I need to introduce you to my neighbour. And to Viv, in Chantry Close. They both grow fruit and veg in window boxes too, and on a terrace.’ Mo nodded in recognition when I mentioned Viv. That wasn’t surprising. Knowing everyone, and everything, was the air Viv breathed. And if Steve was a keen gardener, even if he had almost no space, it was a given. ‘Wait, I’ve just thought. I have a front garden – not big, but bigger than a window box. Would Steve like to use it? It’s planted with bushes, because I don’t do anything with it.’ I know I’m supposed to love gardening, it’s the national obsession, but to me it’s like making your bed: you do it, then you go to sleep and have to do it again the next day. Except gardening is worse. If it’s not watering, it’s mulching, or weeding, or pruning, or dead-heading, or any of the other ninety-seven things gardens require. I was always looking for new ways of not-gardening. ‘We could trade. If he keeps me in salad, or cauliflower, or whatever, he can have the rest.’
Mo put her hand to her mouth and her eyes teared.
‘Mo? You’re supposed to cry when you peel onions. Not when you talk about them.’
That brought a smile. ‘Everyone is being so kind, and it’s not like we really live here.’
‘Of course you live here. And I’d be getting a great deal: someone would look after my garden, and I’d get all the broccoli I could eat.’
She pushed the salad box she’d packed over the counter and waved off payment. I wrote down my number again, and told her to get Steve to call. He could come and look at the garden and tell me if he thought the idea would work.
I was buzzing with the brilliance of this scheme when Jake got home, and as we sat down to dinner I began to expand on the possibilities. I’d been building, if not castles in the air, at least an elaborate greenhouse in my front garden, and it took me a while to realise that Jake was not only not contributing, he wasn’t eating, either. Instead he was looking at me as if I’d started to speak in tongues.
I stopped abruptly. ‘What?’
He chose his words carefully, which he did when he was very angry. ‘Did you miss the part earlier where I told you that your friends the squatters had drug dealing going on in their house?’
I stiffened. ‘Yes, I think I did miss that part. Because what I heard you say was they’d allowed their shed to be used by a youth worker. A youth worker who, if he was working with minors, had to have passed a criminal records check. So I heard the part where you implicitly told me he’d been approved by the police. I entirely missed the part where there were drug deals being made in the house belonging to “my” friends.’ I let my voice make the quotation marks for him and stared him down.
He broke first, pushing his hand through his hair, frustrated. ‘You don’t know these people,’ he said finally. ‘You don’t even know their last names. A drug dealer and arsonist was operating out of their front garden. And now you plan to give them the run of your house?’
He had a point. Not a good one, but a point, so I tried to match his care in my answer. ‘I agree, having a drug dealer operate in your front garden is not a good sign. But we don’t know that they had any awareness of it – after all, the council who employed him, and the police, thought he was OK. I don’t think, therefore, that we can hold the house’s residents responsible for his criminal acts. As a separate issue, I agree, I don’t know Steve’s last name, but I can find it out.’
Jake threw up his hands and flung himself back in his seat.
I didn’t wait for him to say anything. ‘I’m not giving Steve the run of my flat. There’s a tap outside, and there’s no reason for him to come into the house. But I will add, there’s never been a problem before.’
Jake had loosened up when I said there was no need for Steve to come inside, but I’d blown it to hell with that last sentence. ‘Before? Why was he here before?’
‘I told you, and so did the woman in the street yesterday after the fire. Mike’s the local electrician, and he does some plumbing too. He’s probably worked for everyone in the neighbourhood. Steve does odd jobs.’ I gestured outside. ‘He cuts the ivy back when it needs it.’
Jake had his don’t-mess-with-me-matey police mask firmly on. ‘You use a cowboy trader, with no fixed address? Someone whose skills you know nothing about? To do something as dangerous as wiring?’
I was not going to lose my temper. I was not going to lose my temper. I repeated it twice, to make sure I knew. And I was proud I managed to keep my voice level. ‘He does have a fixed address. He works from that house. And he’s not a cowboy. He’s qualified. And, what’s more, he pays his taxes: he never does work without receipts.’ I was calm, but I didn’t mind playing dirty: Jake’s car mechanic of choice insisted on cash payments.
‘He’s a squatter!’ Jake was incandescent.
I stuck to my calm voice, although I suspected my calmness was making Jake angrier. ‘I understand what you’re saying. I understand that from your point of view they are committing criminal trespass, even if what they are doing has only been upgraded from a civil offence in the last few years by a government that I know you think too is doing its very best to criminalise poverty—’ I waved off his protest. ‘I agree. I’m off the point. What the point is that I don’t agree with you that squatting is, in and of itself, necessarily wrong. That building had been empty for years before they moved in. Even you—’ All expression vanished from Jake’s face, and I closed my eyes in regret. I began again. ‘I know what the law says, but in human terms it is hard to see what harm is being done by six people living in a building no one had used for a decade. Living outside normal property arrangements doesn’t make you a criminal, or a vagrant, or a deviant.’
He didn’t reply, just pulled his plate back and started to eat again, stabbing with his fork as though the meal had made a particularly vicious personal remark.
There was no point trying to get him to see it my way. I went for damage limitation. ‘Look, how does this sound: he won’t have access to the house, because there’s no reason for him to; I’ll get his last name, and ask for some ID; and I’ll arrange for him to come and see the garden while you’re here, and make sure he knows you’re a cop, and that you live here. And if there’s any sign at any point that they knew about the activities of the man in the shed, we’ll end the agreement.’
‘Fine,’ he said, but without looking up. And went on stabbing at the poor, innocent chilli.
We had silently cleaned up the kitchen, and Jake was pretending to watch television while I pretended to read a manuscript, when Steve texted. I showed it to Jake and said, ‘In the morning before work?’
‘Fine,’ he said again. Just like ‘Yeah, right’ really means Not even if you set fire to my hair, ‘Fine’ always means How many ways are there to say no in English?
But I had his nominal agreement. I texted Steve a time, and we went to bed, where we pretended to sleep. I hated quarrelling with Jake.
In the morning, I stopped behind him as he was brushing his teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, even if it was more regret that we were at odds than an apology for my actions.
He spat and gave me a small smile in the mirror. ‘But
not sorry enough not to do it.’ He wasn’t asking. He knew I wasn’t.
I smiled back into the mirror and shrugged, and he shook his head. And he ruffled my hair as he walked past me into the bedroom. It was a bit the way you pat a small dog, or an overexcited child. But it also signalled his acceptance of my plans, even if he didn’t like them. For that I could put up with the odd hair ruffle.
We were drinking our coffee when Steve arrived. I led him into the kitchen and waved him to a seat. ‘I’m not sure we’ve ever got as far as last names,’ I said. ‘I’m Sam Clair.’
‘Steve Marshall,’ he said, sitting.
When he looked towards Jake, I added, ‘And this is my partner, Jake Field.’
‘Boyfriend,’ said Jake, glowering as he put out his hand.
I contemplated banging my head repeatedly against the cupboard I was opening to get Steve a cup, but I managed to refrain. Instead I smiled with saccharine sweetness at Jake. ‘How about “the sun around which my world revolves”?’ I amended, batting my eyelashes for good measure.
He finally cracked a smile, and poured Steve some coffee, which I took to be a positive sign. ‘Sit,’ he said, at least sounding like the good cop, not the bad one, in a good-cop-bad-cop routine.
Steve watched us warily, and I couldn’t blame him. Someone wasn’t happy, even if Steve wasn’t a criminal vagrant deviant. Which he didn’t resemble, not any of the elements. He was short, probably only five foot eight or so, and wiry rather than thin. Although I guessed he was in his thirties, with his slightly too-long, mousey-coloured hair, which curled over his forehead and into his eyes, and dressed in his standard uniform of worn jeans and clean white T-shirt, he looked like a college student.
‘Have you and Mike found somewhere to stay?’ I asked. Please God, let them have found somewhere to stay. Whatever I’d originally thought about offering them space, given Jake’s response to Steve even working in the garden, anything more was impossible.
‘Yeah, we’re fine. A bit further away than before, but someone Mike works for has a room in St John’s Wood. She’s happy for us to stay until we can get sorted out.’
That was a relief. ‘OK. The garden.’ I looked up. ‘What do you think?’
His smile could have lit Piccadilly Circus. ‘I think it’s great. It’s south-facing, it’s bigger than a window box, and it’s near most of my jobs. What else could I think?’
‘So you’re undecided,’ I teased.
Jake snorted. I thought about accidentally spilling my coffee over him, but decided to hold it in reserve.
Steve looked serious. ‘Look, it’s a wonderful offer, but if you want to change your mind, I entirely understand. Not just now.’ He grimaced. ‘Vegetables aren’t the most ornamental things. If you decide you can’t stand the way it looks, that’s fine. Or for any other reason. We can do it, and if you don’t like it, I can finish out the season and go. No hard feelings.’
I couldn’t really ask for more. ‘Sounds good to me.’
He must have spent a while looking at the garden before he rang the bell. ‘With the space you’ve got, I can grow what I need for the six of us, if we find somewhere to live together again, and plenty for Mo’s salads. I was doing that before, so that’ll easily come out of my half of the garden.’
‘Your half?’
Uncertainty crossed his face. ‘I thought that was the deal. I do the work for half the produce; you get the other half because it’s your garden.’
I squeaked. I sounded as if a puppy had had its bum bitten, but the thought of coming home every evening to find a tonne of leeks and a bushel of lettuce on my doorstep was panic-inducing. ‘Not so fast.’ I didn’t add ‘Buster’, but it was implicit. ‘There’s just the two of us here. If you can feed six, plus make the café’s salads on half, the other half is more than I want, or can handle. Way more.’
‘But that isn’t fair,’ he argued. ‘You’re giving me the space. You should probably get more than half.’
‘But I don’t want half, much less more than half.’ I thought for a moment. ‘How does this sound? For the first while, until we settle into it, you can let me know once a week or so what’s available, and I’ll choose what I want, and how much. And I’ll let you know in advance which vegetables I detest, so you can allow for that when you plan out what you’re going to plant.’ Visions of baskets of turnips were added to the leeks and onions on my doorstep, and my gorge rose.
‘It still doesn’t seem right,’ he said, ‘but if that’s what you want, fine. And if there are weeks when you need extra, you’ll let me know.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ I said. And it did.
‘I can definitely use whatever you don’t want. Mo’s boss has been after her to supply more – they always run out before the rush hour ends. And I have a friend who has a stall at a farmer’s market. She’ll take anything I can produce.’
It sounded workable to me. ‘I’d like to keep the big bush at the back. It gives some cover so the window is less overlooked. Otherwise there’s nothing I mind losing. You can keep or rip out whatever you like.’ He nodded. ‘So. Formalities.’ I felt my cheeks flush. I wasn’t quite sure how to ask him for the information Jake wanted.
Happily, I didn’t have to. Steve reached into his pocket. ‘I thought you’d like references. This is from the council, a contract for planting a couple of the squares as a freelance contractor, plus a letter of completion, approving the work. This is a reference from people in Hampstead I’ve worked for regularly for a few years now. And I’ve also put down my personal information – name, phone number and so on. I don’t have a permanent address, obviously, at the moment, so I’ve given you a copy of my driver’s licence, and listed my National Insurance number. That way if you come home one day and find some lunatic has bulldozed your front garden and scarpered, you can still track me down.’
I peeked over at Jake, who held out the pot to Steve. ‘More coffee?’ he said, and I breathed comfortably for the first time since dinner the night before.
Steve shook his head and pushed himself back from the table. ‘I need to get over to my first job.’
I walked him to the door, running through the usual well-meaning phrases – I hoped he and Mike were settling in their new place, how were Mo and Dan’s kids coping? As we stood on the doorstep, Steve turned back to face me. ‘I – we – really appreciate the help we’ve had from the neighbours.’ He stopped my words of protest. ‘No, I mean it. I’ve done the odd job for you, but you don’t really know us. And now that we’ve found out that Dennis wasn’t just running his boys’ club—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I appreciate the sign of good faith.’
‘Dennis?’ It couldn’t be, surely.
He frowned. ‘You know, Dennis, who used our shed for his boys’ club. I really can’t believe it. He seemed like a terrific bloke.’
‘Dennis.’ I said again. ‘Did he work full-time with the boys’ club?’ I knew the answer, even as I told myself that I was being ridiculous.
Steve was quizzical – when you discover you’ve been harbouring a drug-dealing arsonist in your shed, his employment history is probably not most people’s first question – but he answered readily enough. ‘No, the boys’ club was just volunteer work in his spare time. He worked for the council.’
But he didn’t have to tell me that. I already knew. I didn’t bother to ask whether he made his bed, or what brand of toothpaste he used, because I knew those things as well.
I don’t know what I said to Steve, or the arrangements we made, because I was gearing up to make Jake unhappy again. A regular occurrence.
Jake was putting his files away when I went back inside. I leant against the kitchen door, watching him and trying to work out what to say. Finally, ‘Viv’s missing neighbour.’
Jake straightened up and waited.
I closed my eyes and tried again. ‘I think – no, I know. Viv’s missing neighbour is the arsonist.’
Nothing. I peeked. Jake was standing
staring at me, arms crossed. ‘Why?’
‘The arsonist’s name was Dennis, says Steve. He worked for the council. Viv’s neighbour Dennis, who works for the council, vanished unexpectedly. What’re the odds of two council workers named Dennis, one disappearing and one showing up dead? In the same week, in the same neighbourhood?’
Jake’s mouth quirked. ‘The Office for National Statistics have yet to collect that data.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me what you know, I’ll pass it on.’
I did, but apart from the link, I didn’t know anything else, and I couldn’t see it would interest the police: they’d known his last name, and probably now knew he had been reported missing. The only thing that was odd, and I doubted the police would care, was that Viv liked him. She didn’t give out her trust lightly, and she approved of him. Still, I hadn’t looked around his flat and thought, Wow, this looks like a drug dealer lives here. Drug dealers might well be pleasant socially, and have flats that looked no different from anyone else’s. It wasn’t my area of expertise.
I finished, ‘The police probably met Viv when they went to search his flat. She has his keys.’ I didn’t add that she’d acquired them after he’d vanished, not before. Or that we’d been in the flat. There are some things that a girl doesn’t have to share.
Jake didn’t make much of it. He went back to putting his files together, and I took the cups over to the sink before I began to pack the manuscripts I was working on into my bag. As I did, Jake was reminded. ‘My “partner”?’ he asked. ‘Do we run a dental practice?’
I didn’t bother to look up. ‘The way publishing is going, it might be sensible to retrain. I’d be a demon with the floss.’ I went back to my bag. ‘I just hate “boyfriend”. You’re not a boy. And that’s not what you objected to. You were marking your territory.’
He was silent, which meant both that I was right, and that he hadn’t known that’s what he had been doing. It didn’t matter. Things had gone better than I’d hoped. I had a kitchen garden in embryo that I didn’t have to work in, a part share in a nascent dental practice, and Jake and I were no longer quarrelling.
A Cast of Vultures Page 6