The Peas and Carrots Series Boxset 1, page 19
part #1 of Peas and Carrots Series
‘Overpaid for that compost,’ Norman said and nudged one of the seventy-five-litre bags with his toe.
Eric decided to take a step back, bite his tongue, and await the verdict.
Norman’s eyes scrutinised the freshly composted beds. The hair above his top lip wobbled as he exhaled in heavy grunts. He looked first at the potatoes with their flat, rounded bract, then the lettuce, then the tomatoes. In fact, Eric was certain Norman had examined every single specimen before his gaze finally settled on the greenhouse. He took several strides between the beds, slid the glass door open, then stepped inside. Eric followed, a nervous twitch running down the side of his left leg.
‘I thought I was under watering them to start with.’ Eric felt an unusual and insatiable urge to fill the silence. ‘But then I read up and it said that with herbs, provided they weren’t going yellow, I was probably giving them enough. Although I couldn’t find anything about this one in particular.’ Norman ran the back of his index finger against one stem of the Dutch coriander. He took a toothed leaf between his fingertips then bent down and sniffed.
‘They’ve come up nice,’ Norman said, then quicker than a dog in a Vietnamese restaurant swivelled on his heel, marched out through the open door, and disappeared off into his shed.
‘It was nice talking to you,’ Eric called after him.
By early afternoon, Eric was ready to go home. The middle of his back throbbed from constantly leaning over, his trousers chafed where the sweat had pooled between his thighs, and Abi was doing his head in as she ran in and out of sight chasing Hank’s three-legged whippet. In Abi’s defence, every time she stopped chasing it, the whippet slowed, doubled back, then pawed at her legs until she started again. Hopefully, Eric considered, she’d sleep the entire journey back. Deciding it would be stupid to stop when there was only one planter left to fill, he began to sow his carrot seeds. He was halfway through the planting act when a polite cough made him halt.
‘Mr Sibley?’ the woman said.
Eric turned and found himself momentarily stunned.
The voice had come from a petite lady with bright blue eyes, narrow lips, and a fair brushing of bronzer swiped across her brow. With her stature and complexion – and some favourable lighting – she could have easily passed for early twenties, though Eric suspected that she was a decade or so older. Her hair was scraped back in an authoritative manner, and she was the type of woman who, under normal situations, Eric would have found attractive, only in this particular instance he was rather taken aback, not at her sudden presence on his allotment so much as the uniform she was wearing.
‘Mr Eric Sibley?’ Her expression was neutral as she repeated his name.
Eric fumbled. He wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers, then stretched one out as a greeting, grimacing at the amount of earth under his nails.
‘Yes, yes. I’m Eric Sibley,’ he said.
His hand hung unmet in the air for a few seconds before he retrieved it and tucked it back away in his pocket.
‘How can I be of help? If it’s gardening tips you’re after, I suspect you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m a first-timer I’m afraid.’
‘Mr Eric Sibley,’ the attractive police officer said. ‘I am arresting you for possession of illegal substances, with intent to distribute.’
Chapter 26
THE NEXT FEW seconds disappeared into a thick, dense haze of brain fog. Eric’s mind was numb, yet swimming. He felt both nauseous and faint and downright furious all at the same time. The police officer reached around and unclipped the handcuffs from her waistband. Behind him, Eric heard Abi’s shriek followed by much energetic barking.
‘You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in a court of law. Do you understand?’
‘What?’ Eric shook his head and blinked. ‘Now you hold on.’ He stepped backwards, catching his heel on the wooden edge of the bed. ‘I think we need to take a second here. There’s obviously been some mistake.’
The woman remained impassive. ‘Mr Eric Sibley, of Albany Road, London? That is you? Yes?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘And this is your allotment. One that you inherited from a Mr …’ she took a small notebook out from her pocket and flicked through, ‘George Sibley. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, but if you give me a minute —’
‘And this is your greenhouse?’ She pointed to Eric’s under-plenished greenhouse, the yellow plastic of the tomato grow-bags glinting through the glass.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And your daughter,’ she glanced down at the notebook for confirmation, ‘Abi. She goes to St Andrew’s the Apostles?’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’
‘I’m afraid there has been no mistake, Mr Sibley. I will need you to come with me to the station.’ She pulled the handcuffs from her waist and held them out. ‘We can do this the hard way or the easy way. There’s no need to make a scene.’
A rush of heat burned all the way up from Eric’s feet. ‘I’m not making a scene,’ he said. ‘In fact.’ He pushed his shoulders back. ‘I think I’m being very calm about your accusations.’ The officer didn’t flinch. The cuffs dangled motionless from her fingers and her eyes remained on Eric, strong and fixed. Eric took this as a sign to carry on.
‘You said an illegal substance?’ He spoke at half his normal pace if not slower. ‘What illegal substance? What exactly is it that I’m supposed to have done?’
The police office smacked her tongue against her teeth.
‘I’m afraid talking about this anywhere other than the station goes against protocol.’
‘You have to be kidding me?’ Eric heard the volume of his voice but did nothing to lower it. ‘You want to arrest me, but you won’t even tell me why?’
‘I’ve told you.’ The officer took a long breath in. She moved to speak, but a fiery blast of barking cut through the air. A chorus of shrill laughter followed straight afterwards.
A rush of adrenaline surged through Eric’s bloodstream. This time, his voice came out much quieter. And sounding much more panicked.
‘Look, is there somewhere we can go to talk about this, other than the station? My daughter’s over there. The last thing I want is for her to see you waving those things at me.’ He motioned to the handcuffs. The officer looked at them. She wavered.
‘Please,’ Eric said.
With a sigh, she tucked them back into her pocket.
‘We can talk in your greenhouse,’ she said.
‘The greenhouse? That’s hardly —’ Her look rendered him momentarily mute. ‘The greenhouse is perfect.’
The greenhouse was substantially stuffier than it had felt that morning. The police officer was wearing a perfume, something fruity and strong, that added to the humidity and, combined with the growing tightness in his throat, made it increasingly more difficult for Eric to think straight. He moved himself to the far end of the shed, trying to find an angle from which he could view Abi, without being too conspicuous.
‘Mr Sibley,’ the officer was back on task. ‘Am I correct in thinking that all the plants on this allotment are owned by you and have been grown by you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The ones inside this greenhouse, as well as outside?’
‘Yes. Well, except the spring onions. My daughter, Abi, she’s grown those.’
‘Excellent. And could you please tell me what this is that you’re growing here? What will these plants be when they are fully grown?’
She pointed to the yellow plastic grow-bags that lined one inside edge of the house. A dozen seedlings averaged four leaves each. Two small, jagged, inner leaves and two large, smoother ones that extended a centimetre or so farther.
‘They’re tomatoes,’ Eric said. ‘This end bag here has Gardener’s Delight. These here are cherry, and the ones on the end are meant to be San Marzano, although to be honest, I think I may have a few cherry ones in. I let Abi help, and she wasn’t very good at —’
The officer lifted her hand to silence him.
‘Good. Thank you. And these?’
She redirected her pointed finger to the first shelf.
‘They’re my daughter’s spring onions,’ Eric said. ‘She’ll be planting them outside next week, only she wanted to do it herself and she’s been a bit preoccupied today. Also, we thought it might be best to give them a little time to acclimatise to the outside air. You know, like you do when you buy a goldfish?’
The police officer continued to stare at the spring onions, ignoring Eric’s question about goldfish which, he realised on later reflection, probably hadn’t been the most helpful comment. After a second more of staring at the various pots and plants, the officer reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Eric felt the tightness loosen in his gut. Clearly, she was messaging in that this had all be some horrid mistake. A few minutes of her apologising and he could be back to his radishes. He would need to plant fast though, as the clouds had adopted a decidedly purple tint.
‘Mr Sibley,’ the officer looked up from her phone. ‘Do you recognise this plant?’ She tilted the screen towards him. A small image took the centre of her phone. Eric leant in. The plant in question was a seedling of vague familiarity, but combined with the ever-increasing temperature and cadaverous odour that he’d just noticed emanating from his underarms, Eric was having a hard time focusing.
‘To be honest, I’m probably the last person to ask about something like this. Perhaps we could go outside. If you want an expert opinion —’
‘No, Mr Sibley, I want your opinion. Do you think that this plant, the one I’m showing you on my phone, bears any resemblance to anything you have grown in the last three months?’
‘Well, I suppose …’ Eric considered.
‘You suppose what, Mr Sibley?’
‘I suppose it looks a little like the Dutch coriander.’
Eric studied the photo then the plants. The seedling on the photo must have been at least a week older, but there was the same leaf orientation. The same razor-edged leaves set at right angles to one another. Actually, it looked a lot like it. Eric turned to the police officer.
‘Yes. I’d say it’s probably Dutch coriander?’
‘Dutch coriander.’
‘This one here, behind you.’
In an attempt to conceal his ripening body odour, Eric pinned his arms to his side as he squeezed back into the tomatoes and gave the officer space to turn around. With one prodding forefinger, she inspected the coriander, then her phone. Then back again. After one final glance, she reached into her pocket and withdrew her handcuffs.
‘Mr Sibley,’ she said. ‘You have openly confessed to growing the Class B drug, marijuana, in a public space. I have no choice but to bring you down to the station immediately. If you’d like to collect your daughter and advise me as to someone who can take care of her until her mother arrives, I will give you a moment to do that?’
‘I … What?’
‘I can assure you I will talk to the judge personally. Clearly what we’re dealing with here is a heavy case of drug addiction.’
‘A what?’
‘Reckless behaviour, obliviousness to the truth, an obvious lack self-hygiene, neglect of children —’
‘She’s playing with a dog!’
‘They’re signs, Mr Sibley. I’ve seen it all too often. Men in powerful jobs. Thinking it’s just a way to relax. It starts as a casual thing. Just a spliff to take the edge off the day. Then you can’t sleep without it. Then, before you know it, you’re skipping work to try to deal your shoddy product to eight-year-old students at your daughter’s overpriced private school and spending the weekend turning your dead father’s allotment into a crack den.’
‘What?’
Eric was standing in a tomato plant, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. His mouth was arid, his chest in a vice, and the only part of his nervous system that appeared to be working were his sweat glands. Even his eyes were having difficulty making sense of the situation. Marijuana? How? This made no sense.
And then it did. Then it all made perfect sense.
He barged past the police officer – pushing her to the side against his ornamental marigolds – and out through the door, sprinting across to the next allotment.
‘You!’ The tip of Eric’s finger was barely an inch from Norman’s wheezing chest. ‘You did this.’
‘Pardon?’
Norman stepped back from his runner beans. His long beard had a splattering of compost in it, darkening the white hair. He stretched himself up to standing, met Eric’s gaze for less than a second, then turned back to his plants.
‘This is the man.’ Eric flayed his arms wildly. ‘He gave me the seeds. Dutch coriander. That’s what he said. Dutch coriander. This is the man you should be arresting.’
The police officer ambled across the grass, her handcuff swinging wistfully from her waistband.
‘Well? Aren’t you going to do something?’ Eric insisted. ‘Take him down to the police station. He’s the one who did this. He’s the one you need to arrest.’
Eric fought the urge to hurl himself across the allotment, grab the handcuffs, and do the bloody job for her. As she reached the corner of the allotment she stopped, tucked her phone away, and began to re-tie her hair.
‘What are you doing?’ Eric said. ‘Arrest him. Arrest him!’
‘You need to calm down,’ Norman said.
‘Calm down! I’ll give you calm down!’ Then to the officer. ‘Why aren’t you doing something?’
The police officer’s eyes glinted. The corner of her lips quivered, and one eyebrow tilted up at an angle. She looked from Eric to Norman and back again.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘He is highly strung.’
‘What? Who is? What are you talking about?’
But the officer wasn’t talking to Eric. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking past him and the rows of runner beans, to the scruffy haired geriatric with a smile cracked so wide across his face his jaw could have been dislocated.
‘Maggie, my treasure. You did an old man proud.’
The two met together in a wide-armed embrace, the old man absorbing the little officer in a giant, bearded bear hug. Eric watched on, his own jaw barely above his feet.
‘Uncle Norm,’ the girl said when they broke apart.
‘Did you film it?’
‘No, I didn’t. That’d be more than my job’s worth.’
‘Ahh, well I’ll have to hope I don’t lose my memory then. That one’s going to keep me warm for very many nights.’
‘You? Lose your memory? Chance would be a fine thing.’
Norman’s face beamed. His cheeks glowed, and he continued to keep one arm around the officer.
‘Eric,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet my niece, Maggie. She’s a police officer. And also one of Burlam’s keenest Amdrammers.’
‘Amdrammer?’
Maggie stretched out her hand.
‘We’re doing The Full Monty at the town hall in the summer. Let me know if you fancy coming. Tickets are selling pretty fast.’
Eric was rigid. Speechless. Every muscle from his toes to his scalp burned, yet at the same time he was frozen to the spot.
‘You’re his niece?’
‘Sorry about that. I can never say no to Uncle Nor. Particularly where a practical joke is involved. Friends?’ She kept her hand hanging in the air between them. Eric made no attempt to meet it.
‘A joke? Are you telling me that was a joke? Pretending that I’m being arrested? Pretending that I’m growing marijuana —’
‘You got off lightly. He was actually going to give you marijuana when he first started.’
‘Cinderella 99,’ Norman said and kissed his fingers as though talking about some exquisite tasting delicacy. ‘Now that would be a present.’
Eric’s cheeks burned. His fists were clenched in balls and his nails dug so fiercely into his palms he wouldn’t have been surprised if his hands were bleeding. He fixed his glare on Norman.
‘You,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you for this. You and all your prize-winning parsnip gang. Don’t think you’re safe because your niece is in the police.’
It was then, without warning, that something started happening in Eric’s intestinal region. It was a cross between a spasm and twitch. Something deep and painful just below his abdomen that caused his diaphragm to lurch upwards and his chest convulse. His pulse rocketed as he attempted to force the motion down, but before he knew it he was doubled over, knees bent, eyes streaming, the uncontrollable paroxysm accompanied by a loud rasping sound that erupted from his lungs.
‘You bloody git.’ Were the only words that Eric managed to articulate, although they were repeated several times. ‘You bloody, bloody, git.’ Soon Norman was doubled over too, tears streaming down his tissue-paper skin and pooling in the whiskers around his chin. Maggie, who managed to stay upright for a minute or two longer, soon gave into the urge and allowed her body to be consumed by the convulsions. When Abi turned up five minutes later, the three-legged greyhound hopping behind her, she stared at the three adults and scratched her head.
