© Ronda Bird
It
was so hot out, a real scorcher.What
a relief it was to get home, to come back to the coolness and comfort of
the house, away from the heat that had seemed even more stifling in the
city.She’d had to go out that afternoon;the
appointment had been made a month ago, and she couldn’t put it off.It
hadn’t been too bad when she went out, but she should have got a taxi home
she decided, too late.Even if the
taxi wasn’t air-conditioned it would have saved her the walk from the tram
stop, but she’d gone in by tram and had automatically headed for one when
she was ready to come home.
There
was a hot northerly wind blowing, and the thunderstorm and rain forecast
for later in the day were still a long way off.Her
head was aching and her feet felt as though they were on fire. Wearily
she made her way towards her house.She
opened the front door and kicked off her shoes before she switched on the
air-conditioning, wishing she’d left it on when she went out.She
looked down at her feet.They were
bright red and swollen, puffy round the ankles, and there was a red mark
where they had bulged over the sides of her sensible court shoes.
She
wanted to pull off her clothes and get under a cool shower, but first a
cold drink, that’s what she needed - straight from the fridge, and with
plenty of ice.A gust of cold air
wafted out when she opened the fridge door, and for a moment she stood
in front of it, revelling in the coolness against her hot and sweaty skin.She
leaned down, her face thrust forward, feeling the chill against her cheeks
and eyelids.She unbuttoned her
dress to the waist and let the icy air wash over her scrawny breasts.Then,
as she straightened up and stretched out a hand to pick up the bottle of
mineral water, her eyes focussed on the contents of the fridge.As
she knew they would be, the shelves were laden with bright red, ripe tomatoes.
“Mm,
that’s what I’ll have for tea,” she said aloud.“Tomato
sandwiches.”
She
didn’t feel self-conscious talking to herself.Who
was there to hear? There was
no-one else in the house, there had seldom been anyone but herself in it
since Jack died.Come to think of
it, there hadn’t been anyone much but the two of them even when Jack was
alive.Dear Jack. Sometimes she missed
him, but they’d only been married for eight years, and it was more than
five years now since he’d died.She
had been the only child of elderly parents who were both dead when, just
before her thirty-ninth birthday, she had married Jack Mitchell.She
and Jack hadn’t had any children, so she was used to being on her own.
“At
least I don’t have to worry about proper meals all the time, as I did when
Jack was here,” she said as she shut the fridge door.“Tomato
sandwiches’ll do me any day.”
She
felt better after she’d showered, but her head still felt heavy.If
only the storm would come and clear the air.She
put on a clean, loose-fitting dress, and went into the kitchen to get her
meal.The fine-bladed, sharp knife
cut easily through the firm red flesh as she sliced the tomatoes for her
sandwiches.Fresh granary bread,
butter, and just the merest sprinkle of salt and white pepper to bring
out the flavour of the tomatoes.She
carried the plate of sandwiches and another ice-cold drink into the family
room, setting them down on the coffee table beside a comfortable armchair.
“There
really is nothing like home-grown tomatoes,” she said aloud, as she sat
back and bit into a sandwich.
It
wasn’t a very original or earth-shattering thought, she reflected, but
what did it matter, any more than it mattered that she also thought there
was nothing quite like picking the ripe fruit still warm from the day’s
sun.She loved her garden.She
loved digging in the soil with her hands to plant the young seedlings,
almost as much as she loved picking the ripe crop.
How
Jack had laughed when she told him she wanted to dig up the dahlias that
were there when they bought the house, and turn the flower garden into
a vegetable patch.“Come off
it, Eunice,” he’d said.“I’ve got
better things to do with my spare time than dig vegetable gardens.”
“Not
you.Me.I’ll
do it.I want to.”
“You,
a gardener?What about those hands
you’re always so careful of?And
growing vegetables? All you know about vegetables is picking them
off the shelves at Safeway’s.”
But
she’d gone ahead and done it.When
she came home from work, and at the weekends, she’d dug up the dahlias,
turned the soil over and fertilized it, and planted vegetables.She
didn’t know why, (she’d never done any gardening before) but she loved
the work, although she didn’t think of it as work.She
put in a variety of crops - potatoes, climbing beans, Brussels sprouts,
tomatoes.That first year she’d put
in only a few plants, but when she found how much more flavour there was
in her home-grown vegetables than any she’d ever bought she gradually put
in more and more plants and varieties.She
borrowed books from the library and avidly watched all the gardeningprogrammes
on television.She learned how important
it was to rotate the crops in different parts of the garden each year.She
discovered the benefits of mulch, and understood why it was best to water
at night or in the early morning.She
knew that certain plants needed particular types of fertilizer, but that
you couldn’t go wrong with blood and bone.She
realized the advantages of growing early and late varieties and that her
supply became much more manageable if she staggered their planting over
three or four weeks.
When
Jack became seriously ill she had resigned her book-keeping job and stayed
home to look after him.Except at
the very end when he needed almost constant attention she was able to spend
even more time in her garden.She
kept the front garden always looking neat and colourful, mowing the lawn
and pruning the roses, but her heart wasn’t in it the way it was for her
vegetable garden.
She
bought an expensive, stainless steel spade and fork, and dug new beds in
parts of the back garden where once there was lawn.In
the far corner she hammered in some stakes and put wire netting round them
and threw in all her kitchen scraps and lawn cuttings and weeds from the
garden to make a compost heap.She
spread lime and fertilizer, and sprayed to eradicate pests.She
turned over the soil and exulted in its warmth and dark richness on her
hands as she put in the young plants. She watered them, fed them, nurtured
them, and watched with loving pride as they grew and ripened.She
delighted in all of them, but her favourites, the ones she cherished most,
were her tomatoes.
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.”As
she said it 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.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 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 a 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
anything 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...this Phillistine.She
walked slowly across to the tram stop, her eyes boring into his retreating
back as he stepped out briskly, crossing to the far side of the road.
Now,
sitting at home, remembering the incident she said aloud “What does he
know 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 tall 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 were 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 back yard.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 back yard (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 used to scream at him from time to time.
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 ‘e s’posed to get ‘is football back?Betcha
won’t want ‘im comin’ knockin’ on yer 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 round 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 emphasized 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 only spoken to the woman 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.
“Whatya
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 learn 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, absentmindedly 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 back 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.
With
an effort she pulled herself to her feet and, still shaken by the fall,
she stood hunched over,steadying
herself.Suddenly her eyes focussed.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 of 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, 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 realization
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 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
only meant 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.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 round 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 round 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 fingers, 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 garden tools under the hose, 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 round 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 out, 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 down 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 scrawny 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 focussed
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 were 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 her 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 shefelt
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, and raced along the gutters and swirled down into
drain pipes, washing away the stains and the mess on the concrete path.
“Thank
goodness,”
she said.“We need this.”
Already
the heat had lessened, and the heaviness had cleared from her head.
She
turned and went back into the family room. Stooping towards the coffee
table she picked up the remote control and switched on the television.
She’d missed the beginning of the gardening programme, but as she sank
back into the comfortable armchair a new segment had just started.
“If
you want strong, healthy plants,” the gardening expert was saying, “It
is essential to fertilize the soil regularly.And
as I’ve said so often on this programme, there’s nothing like good old
blood and bone for the garden.”
“Mm,
blood and bone.”Eunice smiled and
nodded her head in agreement.“There
really is nothing like blood and bone for a garden.”