Late spring.

 I'm late on starting the seeds off, this year.

It's not been the easiest winter, all things considered. I remember getting teased for saying that: all things considered. 

What, she said, you've considered all of the things? Like, every eventuality? So, you've considered everything from the unfurling of a leaf to the heat death of the universe before you answered? You've quite the mind.

I discovered later it was a joke from a comedy routine. When she said it though, it wasn't funny as such, more, thoughtful, disbelieving, as if maybe I actually had.

Anyway, as I say, it's not been the easiest winter, and the upshot is that I'm late starting the seeds off. Normally by now I'd have the first load in the cold frame, straining to break out, with their replacements starting to push up through the compost in their little pots on the windowsill in the spare room.

But I'm just sowing the first ones, now. I'm a few weeks behind, what with one thing and another.

What with one thing and another. What thing? These things we say. these odd little placeholders of language.

You plant courgette seeds on their edge, two to a pot. When they appear, you give it a little while before you pinch the weaker one out, and the stronger can grow on. They're easy, courgettes, but I still grow them, there's something reassuring about a plant that looks after itself. One that you don't have to keep too much of an eye on. It frees up time to keep an eye on the more delicate plants, the ones that need a bit more care and attention.

It's important to find the time to look after them properly. Otherwise, don't bother.

Like, some plants needs a good bit of stuff in the soil. Blood and bone. Others need as little as possible. It's taken me ten years to get the meadow I planted for Miriam right, cutting twice a year. You should see it now.

I went into the winter in decent shape, everything nice and neat, good and ready. It had been a decent year, a bit too hot maybe, but all in all I was pleased with how things had gone. A good harvest. Not going to pay the bills, but it gave me bragging rights at the Fleece.

I'm used to bad winters. used to having to wrap the fruit trees in fleece, used to running repairs on the outbuildings. But this one was something else. You needed to be everywhere at once. Eyes in the back of your head, as they say.

Pretty grim if you think about it Dad.

I speak and think in truisms and commonplace phrases, it's how I was raised. No one's ever accused me of being the cleverest. I learned them at my mother's knee, so to speak. I always liked being told how stupid I was being.

Eyes in the back of your head, and an extra pair of arms. Pipes burst, the fuel tank sprang a leak, and every day there was something else to fix, something else to repair, some other damage to limit. Since Miriam died it's been a full-time job looking after the house and the girls. Most of the time I do a good job. Sometimes I take my eye off the ball.

When was the last time you played football? Ah clever miss, I said, it comes from cricket, watching the ball to see it move. When was the last time you played cricket, then?

An answer for everything.

Everything?

No, as it turns out.

Not everything.

Small mistakes. Little disasters. A moment's inattention.

I was in the greenhouse when it happened, Jessie came running out of the house and her eyes were so wide. I will never forget the look on her face. Never Jessie is the one that knows about planting, the one who helps me with repairs, knows where things are kept. Capable, is the word they use, isn't it?

Annie was the one that liked to tease me. Too clever by half, her mother's brains. But it was like she had one layer of skin less than the rest of us. Always took things hard. And, as I say, it was hard winter, what with one thing and another. I think his name was Toby. I've never met a Toby I liked. Posh bastard's name

After Jessie found her, I went and found him. I'm not saying it's right.

So I'm late on the seeds this year. But they'll grow, right enough. I'll see to that. Some plants just need enough in the soil, blood and bone. They'll grow just fine.

I’m fine, thanks

 

It’s a rank north-westerly and the sea’s whipped into choppy peaks. A striated sky, layers of slate-grey clouds rendering the sunlight between them all the brighter. Ian is closing up for the afternoon. There have been a handful of customers all afternoon, not enough to make it worthwhile opening but enough to keep him busy.

The last few are just finishing up. There’s a bust-up looking sort of a bloke slumped in the corner, a pair of women chatting at the table furthest from the door and a young woman on her own, who’s been staring fixedly at the street for an hour.

Ian’s been keeping an eye on her (without making it obvious) because, well, it’s what you do these days, isn’t it? You hear stories. And then there was that girl who disappeared a couple of years back, the one who lived in the caravan park. And everyone agreed that it was only a matter of time before something happened up there because that’s the sort of thing people say.

He also thinks she’s worth watching because, though he can’t be sure, he thinks that the man in the corner is, too. Even though he’s been doing a crossword, every once in a while his gaze flicks up, and around the room, and over her.

She reminds him of Rachel at that age. Weight of the world on her shoulders. Her Mum’s brains. You want to be thick like me, he always said. You don’t worry so much. She still phones regularly, which is good of her. He looks forward to it.

He empties the glass-washer and gives it a good spray and a scrub, busy work to keep him going until they leave and he can lock the door, pour himself a beer and cash up. Then it’ll be a brisk walk along the front, hopefully not get too wet, home in time for the Antiques Roadshow. He laughs at himself.  Rachel tells him he needs to get back out there, but it just seems so much effort. Besides, who’d look twice at him now? He sucks in his gut, and laughs at himself.

The two women have left, and he realises suddenly how much their chatter had been providing the background music. The silence is uncomfortable, the change clinks on the saucer as he picks it up.

Cath lives in France now. He’s retired already. Very nice. The last thing she said was that he should look after himself. He’d have preferred it if she said sorry. But5 Rachel says it wasn’t her fault.

Ian’s worried now. He wants the girl out of there, he wants her away and safe. He wants whoever she’s waiting for to turn up. But he knows they won’t. he’s already decided not to charge her for the coke she’s been drinking for an hour.  She can just go.

But it’s the other man shifting, he pushes his chair back with an audible scrape, folds his newspaper up and puts it into a canvas bag that’s slung round one shoulder. He walks up to the counter and smiles at Ian. He looks tired, could be anything between forty and sixty, a bit of grey in the stubble.

“What do I owe you?” Southern accent, about five ten. You need to remember these details, don’t you? Just in case. Ian rings the details on his little white orderslip into the till.

“5.75, thanks.” The man nods and fishes a card out of his pocket. Wordlessly, Ian pushes the machine over and he taps it on the screen. The card machine disgorges its receipt with a rattling sound. The man smiles at him, and leaves.

On his way out he passes the table where the girl sits, and leans over, says something Ian doesn’t catch, hands her a piece of paper. Oh Christ, is he giving him her number? Ian is just about to protest, just on the verge of asking him what he thinks he’s doing, the words are lining up in his head but the man’s gone already, out, off up the street, head angled against the wind.

The girl is reading the piece of paper, she’s reading it and she’s smiling, her face is transformed. She gets up suddenly, decisively, and walks towards Ian.

“Can I pay please?” He wonders what just happened, she’s completely different. He waves her away.

“I’ve already cashed up” he lies “it’s on the house.” She looks at him, and nods, as if she’d expected something of the sort. Another sudden, brilliant smile and she’s gone. He watches her walk off, in the opposite direction to the man. He picks the piece of paper up off the table, it says, simply, in neat, flowing handwriting.

“It’ll be OK”

And he thinks it will. He knows it will. He doesn’t know why, but it’s like stepping into a warm shower on a cold day. He feels the worry sluice off him. He’d barely known it was there. He cashes up, he’s taken a bit more than he thought.

He might go out tonight.

The High Water Mark

 - The problem, said Aoife, is that you, as a culture have never moved past Del Boy falling through the bar.

Joanna kept quiet. When her friend started talking like this it was best to leave her to it. She stirred her tea, wondering if it was supposed to be that colour. She was trying broken orange pekoe, she'd bought it on a whim from a shop that only sold tea and coffee.

-Whenever you get surveyed, whenever you get asked, you can't come up with anything funnier at all

The girl behind the till had seemed impossibly confident, measuring the tea out, Joanne had watched aghast, she'd assumed the loose stuff was for show, and there were boxes of teabags. Later on she'd had to go to Argos and buy a teapot.

 - That's literally it for you lot. Del Boy falling through the bar. Dads Army. Porridge. As far as you're concerned it's never got any better than that. that was the high water mark.

I don't think I've ever seen that one, said Joanne. She was still thinking about the girl in the tea merchants. She'd worn a halter top and had a snake tattoo all the way down her back. She took a sip. The tea was lovely.

 - Not you personally, Jo, you English.

Joanne smiled. Ever since Brexit Aoife had been making disparaging remarks about "the English", despite the fact that she, like Joanne, had been born in Harlow, they'd gone to school together. Her friend had started to cultivate an exaggerated Europeanism. Learning French almost aggressively. Talking about studying abroad. The more embarrassing the Government got, the more Irish she became.

 - I mean, it's like all your cultural references, all you talk about, are preserved in some sort of sitcom Museum. Don't tell him Pike, all that bollocks

Joanne sipped her tea, and wondered why she'd gone into the shop in the first place. One minute she was walking down King St thinking about nothing in particular, the next she was surrounded by arcane machinery, grinders and scales, and vast barrels and jars full of tea and coffee, Yirgacheffe, Silvershoots, Broken Orange Pekoe.

 -  I could understand it if nothing happened since, but it's been thirty years.

It had looked like Hogwarts, she'd thought, there was something reassuring about how old everything was, wood shined by the years, heavy brass instruments, scales with weights. But at the same time it was impenetrable and unknowable, a parallel world of tea and coffee that she'd never known existed before. Suddenly she'd been gripped by a desire to drink all of it, try everything.

- I suppose that's why I'm just finding this place so parochial now, you know? Everyone wants to live in some imagined past. It's like - Aoife mimed throttling herself - so constrictive. Oh, this is nice cup of tea, you were right.

Hmm, yes, said Joanne, it's nice to try something new. She wondered if you could get a job tasting tea. She suddenly wanted to be surrounded by the age of the shop, the history of the machinery, the vast jars of leaves and beans from all over the world.

- tell that to your comedy fans. Aoife grinned - look, sorry for going on, it's just that, you know, if that's your cultural high water mark, I don't think it's much of a culture. This, though - she tapped her mug - this is all right. Why d'you get it?

Joanne shrugged. The truth was there was no reason that she knew of. She'd stepped though the door now knowing what to expect. And something had changed.

 - well, whatever, it's lovely. Here's to your new tea -  Aoife raised her mug as if for a toast. Joanne smiled and raised hers back and laughed as Aoife suggested. - here's to better jokes.