The Peas and Carrots Series Boxset 1, page 24
part #1 of Peas and Carrots Series
Something stiffened behind Eric’s belly button. His stomach twisted and churned while his eyes were locked on a small white envelope stuck with masking tape to the back of the frame. The name Eric was scribbled across the front. Gently, Eric peeled the tape away and ripped open the envelope. Inside he found a small metal key.
The smell of soil and thickness of dust had become too much for Eric, and he carried the toolbox outside and onto the front of the veranda. He lowered himself into one of the chairs only to realise almost instantly that it was Norman’s chair he’d sat in. He jumped up, wiped it down, and moved across to his usual place.
Eric’s hands were back to shaking as he pinched the padlock between his fingers and racked his brain for what could be inside. Seeds? he thought, then dismissed the idea. Why would anyone keep his seeds under lock and key? Eric’s pulse answered. Illegal seeds? He swallowed hard, held his breath, and turned the key.
Chapter 34
IT HAD BEEN ten years since Eric and Suzy had last shared a spliff, and he was certain it must have been more exciting back then. It had to be. Right now, all he was feeling was sleepy, clumsy, and like his nostrils had been held against a biofuel exhaust pipe. Still, there was only the one joint tucked in the bottom of the toolbox, and by the end of the evening all evidence of Eric’s adult dabbling in narcotics would be over and done with.
‘Do you think it was for the pain?’ Suzy said, drawing in a long deep drag then blowing it out over her shoulder, and out through the open window. ‘At the funeral, a lot of people said he was in pain.’
‘I think they said he was a pain,’ Eric attempted to clarify for her. ‘He was definitely a pain.’
Suzy passed him the glowing roll up and rested her hand on her husband’s knee. She leant in with a slight sway.
‘But truthfully, how do you feel?’ she said, ‘About everything?’
‘About everything? You mean the weed? Or the fact that I can see two tiny Erics in your pupils?’
‘Eric …’ Suzy shuffled back accordingly.
Eric sighed. He offered the joint back to Suzy, who shook her head. He dropped it into a half-empty tonic can and flopped down on to the sofa.
‘Truthfully? I have no idea. I mean, how am I meant to feel? It’s nice, I suppose. Finding out my father isn’t a complete and utter bastard and didn’t entirely despise me.’
‘He didn’t despise you —’
‘But that doesn’t change the fact that he was an arsehole for most of my life. And even when he was dead.’
Suzy glanced down at the floor. The toolbox was open, the contents scattered out on the carpet. She riffled through for a second before selecting a tea-coloured newspaper scrap.
‘Local Students Perform Outstanding Charity Concert,’ she read.
‘You didn’t tell me about doing this,’ she said, reading down the column to find Eric’s name.
He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t anything big. It was just a local thing, I can’t even remember what it was for. Probably an old people’s home or something.’
‘It says here it was for the Life Boat rescue.’
‘That would make sense.’
‘And your dad obviously thought it was a big deal, he wouldn’t have kept it otherwise.’
‘Well, he seems to have kept everything else.’
The contents of the toolbox were a walk through Eric’s childhood. There was his hospital bracelet, impossibly small and written in the type of curved handwriting that transcended modern day penmanship, along with a photo of the three of them, standing on the hospital steps. Baby Eric’s eyes were invisible in his full throttle wail and had there been colours to the image, Eric suspected his face would have glowed in phosphorescent purple. There was a letter Eric had no recollection of writing, in which he’d told his parents all about his first day of school, a picture of him sitting on his mother’s knee, reading books, and another of him standing on a stool in the kitchen, reaching up to stir some giant bowl on the worktop. There were several other photos too, half a dozen of them out in the garden and various ones involving birthday candles, but most of the photos had a running theme.
Eric could map his age from toddler to teen, sitting behind the rim of Sally’s polished steering wheel. Unlike the others in the photo, she had not aged a day, but in each one Eric’s face glowed as he gripped the wood and gazed out of the windscreen, grinning. Sometimes his father was beside him, other times he was on his own. There were photos in the summer, a seascape and seagulls drifting in the background behind them. There was Eric in his school uniform, with his tie hanging loose and his hair sticking out at wayward angles. There was the day that he’d passed his driving test, where he stood on the driveway, one hand resting on Sally, the other holding onto a slip of paper, pouting in a sullen sulk. He could remember that one being taken. He was meant to be meeting friends to celebrate with, but his father had insisted they get a photo first. They had gone out in the cold only to discover that the camera was out of film, so he’d had to wait forty minutes for George to go into town, queue up in the post office, and get some film. Eric’s mood had been made even more unbiddable by the fact he wasn’t allowed to drive Sally there on his own. A little thing like insurance irrelevant in the mind of a hormonal seventeen-year-old boy.
Photos took up the majority of the toolbox. There was also his mother’s jewellery; nothing fancy, her engagement ring, now dated with its gold floral setting and tiny diamond, and a few other pieces with it, like a locket which Eric opened to find a picture of himself and his father. There were bank account details. Accounts not specified in the will, for they were not in George’s name. There was one in Eric’s name – small, but not insubstantial – and two in Abi’s, which Eric had to get Suzy to double check the figures on twice before he was satisfied his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
And then there was the letter.
‘Right,’ Suzy said, standing up with a slight wobble. ‘I’m going to bed. What are you doing?’
‘I’ll just check we’re all locked up. And have a bit of a tidy up first,’ Eric said as he stood. ‘You go up, I’ll join you in a minute.’
‘Don’t be too long,’ she said and kissed him on the forehead.
Eric strolled around the house. He checked the back door and kitchen windows and, on finding the living room still humming with the scent of weed, opened all the windows as wide as possible. Heading back into the kitchen, he poured himself a large gin and took a seat at the dining room table.
He sat in silence, making no motion for the television, or paper or even the letter. After a couple of minutes, he downed the drink, shut the windows, and went upstairs to Suzy. It was time they talked.
It was the right decision. He was positive it was, and if he’d needed any clarification on this matter, it came when he told Jack the news. Losing his professionalism for only the second time in Eric’s company, Jack pulled Eric towards him and slapped him hard on the back, then pulled away with tears in his eyes.
‘I couldn’t be prouder of you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased.’
‘I’m not sure how I’m meant to take that,’ Eric said.
‘Oh, I think you’re barking. Completely barking. And you’ll be back in six months without a doubt.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ he said.
Jack slapped him on the back.
They had three sets of people view the house the first day it went on the market. Within five days it was sold, and six weeks to the date they had the movers at the door.
‘You sure you’re not going to regret this?’ Suzy asked him for the hundredth time. The sun was out although the chill was enough to make them keep their jumpers on. The scent of peonies drifted in from somewhere up the road. Abi was at Lydia’s. She was going to stay there for a few days until they could get the place in order. Eric took Suzy’s hand in his and lifted it up to kiss her knuckles.
‘No,’ Eric said. ‘But then who says regret is a bad thing?’
The Mole Fiasco
A Peas and Carrots Short Story
Chapter 1
GEORGE AND NORMAN stood shoulder to shoulder staring out at the plot.
‘This is not great, is it?’ George said.
‘It’s not ideal,’ Norman agreed. ‘Not ideal at all.’
For George, owning an allotment had never been about growing vegetables, although he had come to enjoy the pastime substantially. After his wife, Gloria, has passed away, he had found himself thrust into solitude and for the first time in his life, George Sibley had been truly lonely. It was true, he probably hadn’t helped himself in the matter. Maybe if he had made more of an effort to keep in contact with friends from his younger days, or perhaps if he hadn’t been so stern with his son, Eric, when he was growing up, they would have a better relationship now. Perhaps, if that had happened, Eric’s visits would have been more than biannually. Maybe he’d have considered moving a little closer. He’d never leave London now though. George was certain of that.
There was, of course, Sally. She had been in his life longer than Eric, and the majority of the time, there was no place on Earth George would rather be. However, more and more, as he found himself getting older, George felt a distinct need for a little human company.
He had initially applied for a plot at the Columbia Avenue allotments only a month after Gloria’s passing. At which point he had been told the wait would be a minimum of five years.
‘That’s an estimate of course,’ the woman had told him on the phone after the lady at the library had found a contact number on the internet. ‘It all depends you know. Sometimes people move. Some of our older tenants they tend to ... well...’
‘Die?’ George answered for her.
‘Find the work can become a little too physically strenuous.’
George huffed. ‘I don’t remember my mother having to wait that long for her plot,’ George said, verbalising his thoughts. ‘She wasn’t exactly patient. And I can’t imagine more people wanting a plot now than they did then.’
A shallow lip smack rattled its way down the line.
‘Did you say your mother had a plot there?’ the lady asked. ‘At Columbia Avenue?’
‘That’s right, from when I was about fifteen until the day she died.’
A pause filled the space.
‘Well.’ The woman spoke with noticeable hesitance. ‘We might be able to get you sorted a little quicker. There’s a little more flexibility when it comes to heirloom plots. Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
George grunted his thanks into the receiver. ‘That would be grand,’ he said.
It took another seven months before a letter came through the post, informing George of his assigned plot. And while seven months was still substantially longer than he had anticipated having to wait, it was also considerably better than the five years he had initially been told. And so, by George’s standard, he was happy.
George continued to be pleasantly surprised when he went to inspect his plot the following day.
‘You’ve got a good one here. Plenty of sunlight. Lots of windbreaks. Can be a bugger if it floods, but generally speaking, it’s never been that bad.’ His neighbour Norman stretched out his hand. ‘And I’m always here if you need to check anything. Unless you want to gossip. I’m not a man for gossip.’
‘No worries of that from me.’ George met Norman’s hand and gave it three firm pumps. ‘George Sibley.’
‘Norman Kettlewell.’
That was two years ago, and George had learnt a lot in that time. He had learnt when was the best season to plant his salad greens to ensure they didn’t go to seed, and how using plastic tubing with sand in was the key to getting straight carrots. He had made friends too. Possibly more than at any other point in his life. Although the excellent placing of his near corner plot meant that he could easily avoid stumbling into quick questions that lengthen into two-hour conversations.
Yet while the action of growing vegetables was only secondary to George’s purpose in being at the allotment, he couldn’t help being miffed when something disrupted it.
‘I’m assuming you’ve come across this before?’ George said to Norman, although his eyes remained fixed on the fresh brown mound of earth rising from the centre of his feathery carrot leaves.
‘Aye.’ Norman puffed out a breath of cigarette smoke as he contemplated the question. ‘A long while ago, mind. Not a lot of fun from what I remember.’
‘Well, what should we do? Is it going to eat all my crops?’
Norman shook his head as he continued to blow smoke into the air in front of them.
‘Probably best to wait a couple of days,’ he said after a pause. ‘He might move on. Could be gone by tomorrow.’
George’s eyes remained on the mound.
‘And if he’s not?’
‘Then we’ll have to bring out our shovels.’
The following day, two more perfect molehills cast a shadow on George Sibley’s plot. The day after there were yet another three, along with a further two poking out by Norman’s neighbouring bean house.
‘He’s right next to my beans. That’s what he’s going for. I can tell you that now. He’s going for my beans.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Cynthia, Norman’s wife, as she came and stood beside them. ‘That doesn’t look good.’
‘You don’t say,’ Norman grunted.
She rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve spoken to Janice, and Hank – you know, the new chap – none of them have got any problems.’
‘Typical. Of course it’s only here the bloody thing chooses to wreak havoc.’ Norman dragged on his cigarette as he paused for a thought. ‘I guess I’ll be sitting out with a shovel tonight.’
Besides him Cynthia bristled. ‘You will be doing no such thing.’
Norman stuck out his chest indignantly. ‘What do you expect me to do? Let it ruin everything? That thing moves underground. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I am well aware how moles travel, thank you Norman. All I am saying is that if you expect me to keep baking you chicken pies and making your cups of tea every day, you’ll find an alternative.’
‘But I —’
‘But you nothing. The mole lives. You’ll have to find a different solution.’
With that she pushed back her shoulders and made her way back across to their shed, leaving Norman to grumble under his breath.
‘Her tea tastes like piss anyway,’ he muttered. ‘But God damn it, I love those chicken pies.’
George smiled to himself gratefully. As an adult, he had only one memory concerning moles, and it involved his father, a shovel and two years-worth of nightmares. While he had aged considerably in the time since the incident, he couldn’t help but worry that the nightmares would have returned if Norman had had his way. Thankfully, due to Cynthia, he hadn’t had to sound like he was going soft.
‘I guess we ought to start looking at our options,’ he said.
Norman huffed, drew yet another cigarette from his pack, and stared at the ground.
‘Chilies.’ Janice was practically bouncing as she imparted her pearl of wisdom. ‘Not the type you grow here mind. The dried ones. The spicy ones. You know, like they use in all that Indian food. And not just a little bit,’ she continued. ‘You’ll need a bag full. And not just a little bag. Oh no, you going to need ...’
With her miniature features and oversized glasses, the member of the committee had immediately reminded George of a woodland creature; a shrew perhaps, or maybe an owl; she was as smart as one, about that he was certain.
‘I heard whiskey works,’ someone else added their input into the conversation. ‘Doesn’t have to be good stuff. Just lots of it. They can’t stand the smell. Either that or they get blind drunk and can’t make the hills anymore. I can’t remember which, but it’s definitely whiskey. You definitely need to feed them whiskey.’
A small crowd had gathered around Norman’s and George’s plot, although other than the whiskey and the chilli, all others had been in agreement with Norman that there was only one way to rid yourself of a mole.
‘No point telling me,’ Norman grunted. ‘My hands are tied.’
‘Trust me. Go with the chillies. That’ll definitely work,’ said Janice, forcing her advice upon them yet again.
George and Norman exchanged a glance.
‘I guess we’re going shopping then.’
In the supermarket, the checkout girl eyed them sceptically.
‘Some kind of cocktail?’ she said, nodding at the two litres of cheap whiskey and the three bags of dried chilli.
‘Moles,’ George replied.
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘You mean garden moles?’
‘Well he don’t mean the moles on your behind,’ Norman responded. The girl ignored him.
‘Oh, well you don’t need all this. You just need to grab yourself a handful of those.’ She pointed across the counter to the strategically placed rows of chocolate bars and sweets.
‘Mars bars?’
‘No, chewing gum.’
‘Chewing gum?’
‘Uh-uh.’ A queue was forming behind them, but the checkout assistant showed no indication of having noticed. ‘Got to be the juicy fruit one, though. Can’t be any other. You stick it in the top of the hills, and around them, you know, where the tunnels are and stuff. They don’t like the smell you see. Can’t stand it. My gran had them for years. Tried all sorts of things to get rid of them. Never worked. Then she tried this and, poof, just like that. It’s the smell you see.’
George turned to glance at Norman. He shrugged.
‘I guess we could throw some in,’ he said, then pulled a handful of yellow packaged chewing gum from off the shelf and dropped it directly on to the conveyor belt.
‘That’ll be twenty-eight pounds sixty,’ the girl said.
