Grow

by Luke Palmer

  ‘But it is serious, deeply serious. But we always remain, on the outside, unserious. It’s by treating our beliefs as a joke that we show how serious we are.’

  I’d explained all of this to my father, fully convinced I’d understood.

  That’s where I’d been, not at home.

  ‘Pizza for dinner this evening, love?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Any homework?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Josh.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Friday. On the way home, I stop at the point on the road with the bent stinging nettle, where the bushes and undergrowth grow to a height against an unseen wall.

  The nettles look a little bit trampled today – a larger than normal hole in the green. Still almost indistinguishable, but definitely there.

  Checking I’m not seen, I step through, careful not to make too much damage.

  The gate is locked. I look up into the canopy of the bush. It looks climbable enough. Leaving my backpack against the wall, I start to push up through the leaves. The bottom layers have hardened yellow and brown. Some tip cold water onto me as I climb, small reservoirs trapped in their crinkled cups. The top of the wall, when I reach it, is still a good distance beneath the top of the bush. I crawl a little way along it, the mortar crumbling under my palms, before emerging into a place where I can see into the garden.

  Dana is there. She hasn’t seen me yet. She is using a small spade to turn the soil in one of the beds. I’ve watched Grandad do this countless times, and she has the same, smooth action, leaning into the top of the spade, the arch of her foot meeting the shaft and its angle with the top of the blade – Grandad calls it the shoulder – and wedging the blade into the soil. When she leans into the handle, standing entirely on her spade foot, there is a rasping shuck as the spade drives into the ground. Watching her, it’s as if she and the spade are the same creature.

  After a few minutes of watching, she stops turning the soil and begins cutting the turf where it meets the bed. She cuts a straight, clean line. The spade, with Dana steering it, moves quicker – a series of neat little slices. There’s a piece of string set up as a guide, but from up here I can see it’s not quite straight – it leans slightly away from parallel with the wall. I want to call out and tell her, but something about her actions, how self-contained they are, suggest she’s in a different universe all together. She won’t hear me.

  As I watch, she starts to sing to herself, softly. Not a song I recognise, but one which seems to match the rhythm with which she works. She pushes the spade in, lifts it, lines up against the string and sinks the blade again in time to her singing.

  Go to sleep, little baby.

  Go to sleep, little baby.

  Everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn

  Didn’t leave nobody but the baby.

  As quietly as I can, I climb back down the inside of the bush.

  ‘I know you’re there, Josh.’

  Not quietly enough.

  I pick up my bag and wait for the door to open, which is does with a violent jerk. Dana’s head is in the opening, her eyes hard, all wall.

  ‘Were you watching me?’

  ‘No. Yes. Sorry. I—’

  ‘Do you get thrills from that kind of thing? Are you one of those perverts who likes watching people?’

  ‘No. I—’

  ‘Did Carl send you?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘But what?’

  A blackbird fills the silence from somewhere inside the garden.

  ‘Are you coming in then, now you’re here?’ The door gives an inch, and Dana steps back.

  I creep through, the smell of turned earth sharper down here than it was from up on the wall.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Tidying up. Sorting out the dead leaves, digging in some compost for the spring. I’m late this year, what with … everything. There’s a box in the far corner; rake up all these leaves and put them in there.’

  The box is a relatively large bin made of planks of wood hammered to spikes in the ground. It’s behind a bush. When I take the lid off, a warm, sweet-sour steam wafts gently upwards from the rotting leaves already inside. Before long, I have to take my coat off. The work keeps me warm and busy for about twenty minutes, and when I’m finished there isn’t a leaf left on the grass. I enjoy the mindless thoroughness of the job.

  Almost without speaking, Dana and I take the lower planks from the leaf bin and she digs out a small pile of rich, deep brown earth. A few worms are coiling and uncoiling on the top of the heap. She fetches a large bucket, which I fill and carry to wherever in the garden she points. We then mix the bucket-soil with the ground-soil until they’re indistinguishable.

  Next, she goes to one of the many shrubs and bushes and, using what look like short, curved scissors with long handles, she starts to clip off branches and twigs, checking the length of each section before deciding whether or not to trim it. Wordlessly, I gather the offcuts and put them in the bin with the leaves.

  After an hour or so, seemingly convinced of my work ethic or compliance, Dana pulls a vacuum flask from the pocket of her coat which is hanging over an upright spade, pours a stream of brown liquid into the lid, and offers it to me. She has decided, it seems, that the huge, unspoken things between us have grown small enough to let us speak.

  ‘Do you want some or not?’ she asks when I don’t move.

  The hot chocolate is gloriously warm, rich and creamy. I smack my lips and pass the lid back. ‘Thanks. That was brilliant.’

  ‘You’re not bad at this. You seem to know what you’re doing.’ Dana pours herself a cupful.

  ‘I watch my grandad a lot. Or used to. And Mum and Dad used to do a bit, too. They made me help a few times. I never used to enjoy it. But this time it was good. I feel … I don’t know…’

  ‘Grounded.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Like you’ve given something back. Like you belong a bit more.’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  Dana drinks her hot chocolate slowly, thinking something over.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine. Why?’ Her question is accusatory, sharp.

  ‘Just … asking. Being polite.’

  Suddenly, she turns on me. ‘Have you got any idea what you’re getting into? Who you’re hanging around with?’

  ‘God, will you stop going on about it?’ Dana’s constant attacks are starting to get to me. ‘Anyway, I thought you were on board with all this … stuff. He is your boyfriend, after all.’

  She looks away. ‘I told you about that.’

  ‘About Carl? You said something about being lowered down a well.’

  ‘So you were listening then, that day in your room. Just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Just didn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’

  The warmth of the hot chocolate is curdled by another heat, the anger rising again. ‘You’d just told me I was absolutely fine about my dad being murdered and how much you admired that.’

  Dana’s testy, angular demeanour is rubbing off on me.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘And your boyfriend had already hit me once, so I didn’t fancy another black eye. I was probably justified in having a few problems with your boyfriend on my mind.’

  ‘Stop calling him that. He’s not that.’

  ‘What? Your boyfriend? You call him that. Don’t you?’

  ‘You know what he’s like. You’ve seen him in action. He has a way of making you … be someone he wants you to be. Of making you … do things.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in what he does? In all of the—’

  ‘What do you think?’ Dana’s question lashes into me. ‘You think I’m one of you soldiers? Some nasty, violent kid who gets a kick out of hurting people, like Vince? Do you think I’m like his wet
sack of a brother? But don’t let me stop you, “Soldier”. I bet they’re dead pleased to have you on board.’

  ‘I’m not on board,’ I protest.

  ‘You’re doing a fucking good job of pretending.’ Dana downs the rest of her drink and slams the lid back on the vacuum flask. ‘What are you doing here, Josh? Why are you spying on me? Why are you turning up to my place – my place – as if it’s yours as well? Why do you think you’re being helpful?’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘God! Josh! You really don’t get it, do you?’ Dana is shouting now. ‘No. I don’t want you to go! Where’s your backbone? Stand up to me, for God’s sake! Stop being such a pushover!’

  I pick up my coat and head for the door in the corner, my face burning.

  ‘Josh. I’m sorry. I’m not good with people. For some reason I say the wrong thing. I don’t know, maybe I want everything to go to shit.’ She laughs, half-heartedly.

  I turn. Behind her crumbled wall of aggression and capability, Dana stands looking like a lost thing. Her shoulders droop, and a light breeze could blow her over.

  ‘Please stay.’

  So I do. The nick and slice of turf at the edge of the beds, the slick roll of cold, wet soil on the end of my fork, the call and return of blackbirds inside the garden and beyond. These are the only sounds of the evening.

  THIRTY NINE

  Dana and I leave the garden a long time after the sun goes down.

  ‘Will he be angry at you, for being out?’

  ‘He’s away at the moment. On “business”. Out of town.’ Something in the way she says ‘business’ sounds disdainful, sneered. ‘He’s got something he needs to prepare for, apparently.’

  ‘That’s something, at least.’

  Dana smiles, ‘Yeah. I guess.’

  She turns the opposite way to me at the main road, the fork and shovel slung over one shoulder, a plastic bag of other tools in the other hand.

  ‘High-ho,’ I offer, weakly.

  She laughs, turns back and we share a clumsy hug. She essentially armless, me trying not to get mud on her back. ‘Thanks. For your help.’ She nods towards the garden.

  ‘No problem.’ A short silence, a car or two passing on the road, the sweep of their headlights catching Dana’s eyes. ‘So…’

  ‘Yeah. So.’

  ‘See you Monday?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And she’s gone.

  *

  Mum spends from Friday night until midday on Sunday at Nanna and Grandad’s. I survive on toast, microwave meals, and commenting on the forums of the websites that Alan and Carl have sent me. Mum and I spend Sunday afternoon and the best part of the evening avoiding each other until, after her bath, her bedroom door clicks closed at about half past seven.

  Five minutes later, I step out of the front door.

  The things that Dana said have buzzed around my head all weekend. But something in the websites I’d spent most of Saturday looking at – something in the pictures, the headlines and videos – had sat on top of her words and kind of squashed the air out of them. The White Lions seem like a kind of calling. I know they can make me feel better.

  The Crown is about a fifteen-minute walk, and I set out through the drizzling rain. The wind is picking up again, whipping the droplets into my face despite how tightly the toggles on my hood are drawn. But there’s a well-stoked fire in my stomach, despite Dana’s warnings, fanned by excitement. I don’t feel the cold.

  The pub looms up as I turn the last corner. A single bulb, somewhat forlorn, points at the sign that swings in the wind. There’s not much light coming around the thick curtains at the windows either. A pair of orange points glowing in the smokers’ shelter to one side trace patterns in the air – up, glow brighter, down again. It’s 7:52. I’m early, and don’t know what to expect. Nervousness keeps me standing in the covered bus stop across the road for a few minutes more.

  The two orange cigarette ends drop to the floor almost in unison. I give it two more minutes, then cross the road.

  The function room is accessed around the side of the building, but I hear my name hissed from the main doorway as I walk past. Dana grabs my arm and pulls me back towards the smoking shelter.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her hair is wet, plastered to her head.

  ‘I was… Aren’t you here to—’

  ‘This is dangerous. Too dangerous. These are not nice people, Josh. I told you that. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Aren’t you here as well?’ I ask, a little mystified.

  ‘It’s different for me. I can’t… Look, I don’t have long. You don’t have to be here. You could walk away now. Walk away now, please, Josh. No one will know. I won’t say I saw you.’

  ‘What do you mean? I thought you were with us?’

  ‘Us? Who the fuck is us, Josh? Didn’t you hear anything I said on Friday? You’re sounding like them and it’s scary. It’s only been, what, a month? Less? That’s all it took.’

  ‘All it took for what?’

  ‘Is that you, Soldier? Hiding from the rain? Afraid you’ll melt?’ It’s Alan’s now familiar voice. ‘Come on, they’re starting.’

  I look back at Dana, and even from a few feet away I have trouble making her out where she’s slipped backwards into the shadows. She shakes her head at me, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Yeah, coming,’ I say, and follow Alan and Vince through the heavy, wooden door and up a flight of stairs, the red and black carpet almost worn through in the bowed middle of each step.

  Inside, the room is warmed by several gas heaters but has not quite shrugged off the smell of damp. Dotted around the room are several tables with a few stools at each, their coverings as worn as the carpet. At least one stool at each table is occupied. In all, there are about twenty people here. I sit with Alan and Vince at a table against the left-hand wall. At the front of the room, a small group of five or six men huddle around two of the other tables that they’ve pushed together; there’s a sheet of paper spread out on the table, and they keep pointing at it. One of the men is Carl.

  Seeing Carl up there, I feel suddenly that Dana was right, in a way. I try to remember that feeling of power that came from looking at the websites, the frog memes, but it’s not there anymore. It’s different, somehow, in real life. And I don’t know what Vince would do if I just left. Or Carl. I tell myself that I owe this to Dad. But something in my stomach is saying I need to get out.

  I mutter something about needing a piss and follow the toilet signs down a narrow corridor that smells even worse than the meeting room. Luckily, the toilet’s empty, and I sit down in the one cubicle. The lock’s broken, and the door opens outwards, so I have to hold it closed. Hopefully, I think, I’ll have a few minutes to myself to get my head together. To man up a bit.

  But I’m out of luck.

  A man comes in, whistling. He makes straight for the urinal and lets out a loud sigh. I try to keep as quiet as I can. There’s only a thin plastic panel between us.

  ‘How you doin’ in there fella?’

  He can’t be talking to me, can he?

  ‘First time nerves is it? Don’t worry, Son, You’ll be alright. Saw you come in.’

  He is talking to me. My heart is pounding in my ears.

  ‘These lads are alright, Kid. Best bunch I’ve met to tell the truth. Especially Carl. He’s a diamond. Bit scary to look at though, eh?’ He laughs a laugh that turns into a cough.

  I hear his fly zipper, then a moment later the tap starts running.

  ‘Look, I’ll tell you a story.’

  The loud moan of the hand drier starts up. Then stops.

  ‘First time I came here I was like you. Unsure, nervous, all that stuff. Wasn’t sure why I’d bothered, tell the truth. I drink downstairs see, and was just a bit curious I guess. So I wandered up here one night to see what was up.’

  There’s a creak as the man leans on the frame of the cubicle, his voice closer to the door.

  ‘Wasn�
�t that impressed at first, lots of language being used I wasn’t used to hearing, things I’d been told you weren’t allowed to say, you know? So I thought about getting up and leaving. Told myself I would, too, when they stopped for a break. Was telling myself I was going to have to find somewhere else to drink, all that nonsense going on up here. But do you know what happened?’

  There’s a pause. I can’t fill it.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. Soon as Carl finished talking, he comes up to me and offers to buy me a pint. Sits down with me for a long while and has a talk with me. Just me. There’s plenty of people in the room trying to catch his eye, but he talks to me, a fella he’s never met before. Don’t mind saying but it made me feel a bit special, you know?’

  Yes, I know.

  ‘And he doesn’t say much either. Just asks me questions and listens to the answers. Actually listens. So I told him about me, my life, all that. And then I stayed. Simple as that. To be honest with you I don’t much care for the kind of things they talk about here. I could take it or leave it, but after the big lads have all finished lecturing, it’s the chat that comes after that I like. That’s what you’ll find here, Kid. Friendship. And we all need that, don’t we?’