Small Holdings - Nicola Barker

Nicola Barker

Small Holdings

Three Days

Wednesday

SOME PEOPLE OPEN up like flowers; slowly, painstakingly, each petal unfurling, reacting, affirming. Responding, simply, to warmth and to tending.

Other people can be peeled; like a fruit like an orange or a pomelo the skin comes off, and underneath is something full and ripe, perfectly segmented, waiting to be apportioned by deft and inquisitive fingers.

Doug was like an egg. A boiled egg. Hard-boiled. He was knocked once, twice, many times, and his shell cracked, and it crumbled, and underneath was something slippery and rubbery and not especially digestible.

If he hadnt been hard-boiled, he would have dropped from his shell, moist, sloppy, just a mess. In certain respects, in retrospect, that might have been preferable.

Id been wrong about Doug all along. Id thought he was an oyster: barnacle-hard outside, abrasive even, but with a vulnerable interior, maybe a pearl in there somewhere, hidden, precious, protected. I also considered at certain points that he might be a beetle. Beetles, it seems, like some other insects, have a skeleton on the outside and the flesh, the soft bits, inside. People are traditionally soft on the outside, and the bones, the frame, the supports are hidden away within layers of skin and fat and muscle. Thats exactly how I am. Soft and yielding, like tripe to the touch.

Well Doug, Doug was a boiled egg, hard-boiled with a blueish pallor white turned blue a pale yellow yolk (his heart, not soft either), and he was extremely entrenched, obscenely contained and mystifyingly, ridiculously, maybe even deceptively proud of himself.

Wed all worked as gardeners in the park for several years before the whole enterprise was privatized and a group of us me, Doug and not forgetting Ray (Big Ray) formed a partnership and along with Nancy, our driver, made a successful bid for the contract.

Doug was always nominally in charge. Im too shy to do anything but blush and blunder. Ray, well, hes moonish, and tender and completely unfocused. Doug is incredibly reasonable, too reasonable monosyllabic, in general, admittedly awesome, though, terrifying, as hard as a nut; a literal tough-nut. He is fair-minded but merciless. If he has a rule book (and hell usually find one close at hand) then hell play by it.

Working with Doug is like playing a game of snooker. The park is the green baize. We all look after the baize, we nurture it, we love it but more of that later and Doug is the white ball. He sets all the other balls in motion. He doesnt confer, he doesnt request, he doesnt even cooperate. Doug simply knocks into the other balls, slams into them, bangs into them. Balls of all colours. And Im a red ball. Shy. Embarrassed. Always the first to be pocketed, to scamper and scarper.

Dougs technique is remarkably simple. Physical. Hes the big ball, the biggest ball. Thats all. He is also, and I guess this is ironic or else this whole snooker business just isnt working Doug is also the black ball. He is the first and the last. If he leaves the table then the game is over.

Theres one question you should never ask Doug. Never ask Doug where hes from. I know where hes from because many is the time Ive heard him talking French, a strange French, like a list of exotic ingredients from a fancy cookbook, to his wife, Mercy, who he walked out on a fortnight ago after thirty years of marriage.

Doug comes from a place full of bright birds and sun and tall trees. I can imagine this place so clearly, can even imagine Doug there, kicking up sand, shouting at people. Its an island. One island in the Lesser Antilles: Martinique. I looked it up in my big old atlas. I saw the arc of Dougs islands, islands humped in the Caribbean sea like the backbone of a long-forgotten animal. Barbuda, Antigua, Guadeloupe, Dominica, Martinique, St Lucia, St Vincent, Grenada, Dougs Islands.

Everything about him gives him away, external things, so he holds himself in, his real self, his inside-self, every-part. Every muscle tenses, resists, contains. Thats Doug all over. With his neat greying beard, his black hair, his hands like clams, his dark, bloodied eyes, his accent which is as strong and thick as rich molasses.

In fact, though, in truth, he comes from Palmers Green, North London. We all do: me and Ray and Doug and Saleem (one-legged Saleem, our squatter, my persecutor, our old curator) and Nancy. That Nancy.

Well, the park is my soul. I live off it, I work on it, I live for it. I love it. Doug loves it too, but lately hes taken to growing vegetables out back, in the greenhouses which are no longer open to the public. Giant vegetables. He thinks the punters dont notice when they peek through the glass, expecting succulents, orchids, exotica. He thinks they arent surprised, shocked, maybe even piqued when they see only row upon row of onions (Dougs an onion, yes, I like that. An onion) or marrows, cabbages, tomatoes. The occasional giant, merry sprig of a carrot top.

Phil, Doug said, last time I broached the subject of the vegetables and the other things too, more recent peculiarities Phil. (He takes every opportunity to say my name, rolls it on his tongue, pronounces it feel, which never fails to activate something in me, something inside, something vulnerable and inadequate, something connected to feeling too much but expressing nothing, something soft and sad.) Phil, whosoever diggeth a pit shall fall in it.

Doug has another saying, equally incomprehensible, which hell interchange randomly with this one; Phil, Phil, what-yagonna do when your well runs dry? Huh? He wont wait for an answer. Hes too preoccupied. Hell saunter off (that saunter, a true gardeners gait) and hell be rubbing his hands, jangling the keys in his pocket and expectorating; drawing something deep from his throat which hell expel neatly into the border as he wanders past the perennials.

By then Ill be blushing. Fool. Im thinking about Feel. Feel.

Whosoever diggeth a pit.

Ray was digging a deep hole next to the perimeter fence on the east side of the park and preparing to sink a gate-post into it. He was glossy with sweat. He stopped digging as I approached.

Whosoever diggeth a pit, I said.

Now that, Ray answered mopping his wide forehead with his fat arm, Thats Bobby Marley.

Youre kidding me. I thought it was biblical.

Ray shrugged. Could be originally, but Im sure I heard it in a Bob Marley song.

Ray must be well over twenty stone, has long, frizzy blonde hair, a straggly beard, green eyes, the face of a cherub. I told him Doug had requested a meeting at five, in the house, the kitchen.

Fine.

You, me, him and Nancy.

Ray rested on his spade. It seems like Dougs finally cracked, he said, grinning gently. At long last. And thats what comes, he added, thats what comes of being too solid for too long.

I didnt like this kind of talk. Hes only left his wife, I said calmly. Thats all.

Ray remained undaunted. Hes talking to himself.

I do that too, sometimes, when Im not thinking clearly.

Youre like royalty. You talk to your plants. Dougs just talking. All the time.

Hes got a lot on his mind. Theres the meeting with the council to re-assert our tender on Friday. That wont be much fun. It wont be easy. And Dougs the man to pull it off.

Ray nodded his assent. Dougs the man, yes, but he hasnt done a stroke of work in weeks now.

I shrugged. I said, Hes keeping busy.

Ray scowled. Hes up to something, he said. Hes tipping the scales. .

Ray made a strange, scale-tipping gesture with his two arms. And I dont know, he added, what that actually means for the rest of us, and for this place.

He looked around him, at his spade, the mud, the grass, the fence.

I cleared my throat. I said, Things are chugging over, just like theyve always done.

Ray shrugged, yanked up his spade and returned to his digging. Someone, he said, grunting out every syllable with each cut of the soil, Someone is going to have to do something. And after hed finished speaking, the slice of his spade added a further five syllables: And it wont be me.

I watched Ray digging for a moment. If only, I thought, Dougd opened up gently, like a flower.

I had a thorough understanding of how flowers worked.

How big is it? Christ knows. An average size. Not a grand park. Not your Victoria, your Hyde, your Hampstead Heath. It seems small because of its unpretentiousness. Even so, it has pretensions. Used to have a Tudor museum black, white, criss-crossed beams stuck wham-bam in the middle of it, facing the water, reflected in the water; three little lakes and a round ornamental pond over to the right where kids paddle contravening the park regulations in the summer.

The museum was burned down, years ago now, but its black, burnt-out shell remains, and Saleem, its curator, well, more about her later. We used to have a proper athletics track: red, official, fenced off, very impressive, but we grew it over a while back. Athletes go down to Tottenham or up to Enfield now.

The tennis courts six of them, slightly overgrown, but in working order stand adjacent to the greenhouses. Theres also a wild section, which is purposefully unkempt, circled by silver birch, where the squirrels dart. A bandstand, Dougs pride and joy, recently built at his instigation out of raw, dark-stained, splinter-pushing pine. An adventure playground that any park would be proud of.

To the north is the hill which is grass, mainly, where people come to picnic. We have public toilets Ladies, Gents and behind these are the private areas, staff-only places, which consist of a barn a lovely barn and the house where Saleem squats, where Doug is skulking, now hes left his wife. Now hes opened up and gone crackers.

It was three oclock that same Wednesday afternoon and I was planting geraniums over by the bandstand. I had twenty plants in all and wasnt particularly optimistic about the contribution these would make to the display as a whole which was scruffy and sparse and relatively shambolic. This was Dougs patch, supposedly.