The House of Broken Bricks by Fiona Williams

Author:Fiona Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Faber and Faber
Published: 2024-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Spring

Richard

Stark, early morning sunlight hammers on Richard’s retinas as he drags a large sheet of black plastic over to warm the asparagus beds. Progress is slow and painful today, but he must carry on because the endless list of jobs to be completed in the garden is the only thing keeping him out of the pub. He had not planned to stay out so late but was caught out by the easy atmosphere inside the Swan, six miles away in Heycott, where no one knew him and he was not required to do or say anything, but could simply sit inert with his crossword, letting the bar hold him up. The relief of forgetting everything for a while had been intoxicating – free from thoughts of Tess and the ticking time bomb of his marriage imploding. Really, he should not have driven home, but this past year he has had plenty of practice, careering through the lanes in the van blind drunk.

The base of his spine throbs. There is coffee waiting in the shed, but Richard cannot stop yet, cloches are needed, just a few, ready for the early carrots – Scarlet Horn and maybe a couple of rows of Pioneer if any of last year’s seeds are still usable. In the shelter of the fence, the hard ground has already been worked and sown with parsnips, onion sets and clusters of elephant garlic. Fussy cauliflower seedlings are protected in the warmth of the greenhouse, while in the cold frames, lettuce and radish seeds split and sprout. On the gate hangs a brace of pheasants, no doubt from Les, two drab hens this time, their brown speckled feathers camouflaged against the perished fence post. Richard pockets a few long ones from the tail to add to Max’s collection.

‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full,’ says Marge when Richard stops in after lunch to drop off a small crate packed with cavolo nero and an assortment of root vegetables. Her rheumy eyes are partly obscured by soft folds of skin, but their keen brightness is unmistakable. With her gaze on him, her fingers tear apart a roast chicken that still steams from the oven. Oil splatters darken the front of her shirt. ‘You sure you’re going to get it all in the ground in time?’

‘Probably not,’ Richard replies, head bent low to avoid smacking himself on the wooden lintel above the door frame. ‘But I have to try.’

‘Ah well. It won’t be easy, but don’t fret … you’ll figure it out eventually,’ Marge says, tipping the stripped chicken carcass onto a sheet of newspaper. Ignoring Angus’s hopeful whining, she folds up the paper’s edges to prevent the bones from escaping. ‘At the very least, this gives you summat else to think about.’ Richard manages a tired smile and rubs his hand through his hair. Marge thrusts the newspaper parcel in his direction. ‘You couldn’t take this with you and chuck it in the hedge for the badgers?’

Out in the front yard, half a dozen marans scratch in the thin grass sprouting up through the concrete.

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