Clay (11 page)

TC nodded. ‘If there’d been footprints as well – you know, people’s footprints – I would’ve known it was a dog, but it was just one set so I didn’t even think of it.’

‘It’s possible. She was lost for a long time. But where do you think she was living?’

‘On the common somewhere, I reckon. Do you think she can catch her own food?’

Jozef looked down at her; she was cracking a fried-chicken bone nonchalantly between her back teeth. ‘Maybe she wouldn’t have to.’

‘Bins . . . that’s true.’

‘I hope you are not too disappointed.’

TC thought for a moment. He knew he should be, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter quite as much as it had. He shook his head.

‘So what did you think it was?’ Jozef asked. ‘Something more exciting than my Znajda, yes?’

‘Yeah . . .’  TC hesitated, then looked up at Jozef’s face.
‘Like . . . like a wolf, maybe,’ he said, and was surprised to find it felt OK to say it. ‘An escaped one. There are panthers out there, all sorts. People see them all the time. A man got bit by a big cat in Luton last year, taking his bins out, I saw it.’

‘Ah. Well then, that is not so crazy. And anyway, all dogs come from wolves. That means Znajda is almost a wolf; so you were almost right.’

TC finished his chips and began folding his napkin up very precisely. ‘Ain’t no wolves here, though.’

‘Maybe not,’ replied Jozef. ‘But you know, there are wolves where I come from. Poland. In the forests of the north are wolves still.’

‘You ever seen one?’

‘No. But I have been to the forests. I think the wolves have probably seen me.’

TC looked up, his napkin now a tiny triangle like a folded flag, his eyes wide. He looked at Jozef properly for the first time, this man known to wolves.

Jozef handed him his own napkin. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘My dad.’ But he did not fold Jozef’s, instead getting up and putting them both, with the greasy boxes, in the bin.

‘Thank you,’ came a voice from behind them. It was an old lady, leaning on a stick.

‘What for?’

‘Putting the rubbish in the bin. Lots of boys don’t.’

TC regarded her for a moment with his dark eyes. She smiled to show no criticism was about to follow, but with a quick ‘Bye, mister’ to Jozef, he turned and was gone.

She came and sat beside Jozef. ‘He is not your boy.’

‘No. He comes to the takeaway often.’

Znajda sniffed at her stick with precise and thorough interest.

‘He plays truant, you know. Misses school.’

‘Yes. But what can you do.’

She looked at him speculatively. ‘Indeed. It is not easy. And you? I see you here sometimes.’

‘I work at the takeaway. Jozef.’

‘I am Sophia. You are Polish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like it here?’

‘Yes, I do. Now is cold, but in summer it’s very beautiful.’

‘It is, isn’t it. I’m so glad you think so. Such a
green
city, even around here. So many trees.’

‘It’s true. So big, so old. And many different ones.’

‘Did you know, from this bench you can see eleven different species? Eleven. Think of it.’

‘That is very many. I can see . . .
d
a
?b
, that is one.’

‘Oak,’ said Sophia quietly, and smiled.

‘
Jarz
ą
b pospolity
–’ he pointed at the rowan – ‘that is two;
klon jawor
, three – what do you call that one, in English?’

‘Sycamore,’ said Sophia. ‘How funny, it rhymes.’

‘And that one, that one is my favourite, I call it
jesion wyniosly
. . .’

‘Ah, the tree of the world. Mine too. I take it you are from the countryside yourself? Not a city?’

‘Yes. A small village. Many farms. Today, though, it is all EU, you know? They want to make it like one big farm. All the small farmers, they have to leave. They do not understand the rules, or they cannot afford changes, they get inspection, they get a big fine, too big, and then –’ he clicked his fingers – ‘
koniec
. It is over.’

‘That is very sad. You miss home?’

‘Yes,’ said Jozef, simply. ‘I miss it.’

‘Well, you should be working outdoors, at the very least. You are still a farmer, after all. Aren’t you? I expect the council would be glad of you.’

‘Council? To do what job?’

‘In the parks. You know, upkeep. Planting bulbs. Tree felling. Whatever it is they do.’

The image made his heart leap, but it was too easy. He looked down at his hands, then away.

Outside the West African restaurant the rusting Victorian gaslights were hung with palms and little calabashes. ‘Good Lord,’ muttered Sophia as she passed, and wondered what the long-dead lamplighter would have made of it.

It quite put her off her train of thought. She was on the way to the shops, repeating the things she needed to buy under her breath. She despised lists.

‘Scotch,’ she began, starting with the most important. ‘Ritz crackers. Writing paper. Flour.’ A black-and-white dog tethered outside the cab office wagged its tail hopefully as she passed. ‘Fairy. Eggs. Lenor.’ Surely there had been more. Bugger the calabashes. ‘Aha!
Reader’s Digest
!’ She looked around in triumph.

Henry used to bring the papers home every day, but nowadays she found they were just too much. Travel, cars, sport – half of it usually went straight in the bin, she just didn’t have the time. And the adverts! As she grew older she found they seemed to be written in a kind of code that had no currency with her. Yet they remained alluring: as insidious as petrol and just as dangerous. You could look away, of course, but it took willpower, and not everyone was as stubborn as she was. It was the kids she worried about most, always being told to want things, rarely being shown how
not
to, which, after all, was the trick. Yes, age came with many benefits, and she was glad to be no longer in the admen’s sights.

She got her news from the radio these days, if she wanted any, and the local paper that got pushed through the door. Half the time it was just upsetting, though, the way things seemed to be going wrong. You couldn’t do anything about any of it; the next lot would just have to fend for themselves, just like they had. Better not to leave it too buggered up for them, but it was probably too late anyway.

Henry’s cronies had been given to complaining that the young ones had it all too easy – no national service, no world war. What rot. They had bigger problems even than that to contend with: they had to stop everything from really going to hell. Sometimes she felt she could weep to think of how all the lovely places would probably be lost: felled, flooded, poisoned, built over. Sometimes she was just glad she wouldn’t be around long enough to see it. Yes, she was a member of the last generation to have been able to live really recklessly, using what they wanted and throwing it away. Now innocence was lost, and there was no point pretending you didn’t know what having all this stuff really cost.

But nobody could save the world all by themselves. All anyone could really do was stick to what they thought was important, in a small way, and hope it rubbed off. And it didn’t always. Look at Linda: you wouldn’t have thought she had the father she did. When she was young Henry had taught her what all the different trees were, and the flowers, and the constellations, which just went to show that what you thought was worth knowing didn’t always take. Michael, on the other hand, was a different matter. But he was on the other side of the world.

Sophia sighed and began to cross the road. At least there was Daisy. Which reminded her: she had to get something for her birthday. What was it Linda had said she wanted? Damned if she’d phone her to ask. There’d be something perfectly nice in the local shops, she thought. There usually was.

10

Winnol Weather

March blew in soft and damp. The snowdrops were over, but there were plenty of crocuses in the front gardens still, some blazing like candles of yolky tallow and royal purple, some limp, their heavy heads collapsed, drained by their leaves which were coming up fast around them. Overhead, high clouds scudded over on a smart breeze.

After school TC went to look for owl pellets in the woods which bordered the railway tracks. Nothing; there probably weren’t any. He’d never even heard an owl, after all.

He made his way to the place where a huge fallen tree crossed the path and climbed to the top of its perpendicular root ball. The trunk had been sawn into sections, but apart from a gap for the path it had been left where it fell; most of its bark had long rotted off, and one segment was tagged with red graffiti: ‘mary jane’; ‘tree land’, oddly; the ubiquitous cock and balls. TC looked down at the ground beneath him and thought about how it was the surface of the earth, how if he were to climb down and lay his hand on the path, right now, he would be touching the very skin of the planet.

The brambles formed a dull, purplish carpet beneath the trees, but at the paths’ margins was the fresh green of the new season’s cow parsley and nettles, still just a few inches tall. The undergrowth was alive with birds: magpies calling
ch-chack
from the branches, blackbirds, heads cocked, listening for worms in the leaf litter, robins bustling across the paths. After the long winter they were suddenly voluble, singing out the fact of their survival and laying claim to territories for spring.

Walking back from the common TC pressed the button at the crossing by the station and waited for the lights. People massed around him off the train, purposeful and harried with their bags and mobile phones; you only saw that type twice a day, and TC wondered where they went the rest of the time. Offices, he supposed. He tried to picture what that would be like, and failed.

A man in a suit started out across the road and TC went after him, not thinking, but the lights had changed and a lorry leaned on its horn and TC had to run, heart kicking, eyes wide. The traffic snarled behind him; more horns, then, and a bang. TC didn’t look back.

A brisk March breeze blew Sophia’s thin hair about her head. Daisy was coming over after school, and she was returning from the shops where she had bought fish fingers and oven chips for their tea, against Linda’s specific instructions.

The hawthorn hedge near the tall tower blocks was studded with tiny green buds, and the lone ash had black knots on the end of its pendulous twigs. Over the coming months they would swell and become sticky before bursting late into leaves that looked far too fresh for a tree with such a riven, twisted trunk. As Sophia passed it she tapped it for luck with her stick. Also made of ash, she thought, as a siren wailed distantly behind her. Perhaps they had once known each other. Silly woman.

In the little park, last year’s leaves were the merest of brown tatters littering the grass, sinking towards the roots where the worms would take them down so they could slowly rot to make soil. And from that soil would come more leaves, and then more, long after she had died. She wondered when that would be, but curiously, not morbidly. As each year cycled past she was aware there was a dark corollary to her birthday somewhere along its line: her death day, through which she passed, unremarked, year after year.

Back at home she hid the shopping away in case Linda broke from habit and came in. She had tried to persuade her daughter that Daisy was perfectly fine walking the few hundred yards from school on her own – which wasn’t really on her own anyway, but with dozens of other children – but to no avail.

More sirens. As she looked out of the window she felt like a mother again – not that she wasn’t still, that was silly, but for a moment it was as though she were waiting for Linda and Michael to come home from school. The kids had loved the estate then, hadn’t known enough to be critical of it; not that Sophia herself had failed to see its growing problems, but her disappointment had always been tempered with love, and with pragmatism.

Only the little park around the estate, with its legacy of grand Victorian trees, had remained more or less the same. She had always loved it – Henry, too – but after the children left home it had become even more important to her. It was hard to say why she felt such responsibility for it; perhaps because Henry had loved it, perhaps because nobody else seemed to bother about it, not even the council, not really. She had begun picking up litter and, later, planting seeds; it gave her a purpose. And it proved such a consolation after he died that, now, she considered it more or less her own.

Would that Henry had had the chance to enjoy it with her. When the factory closed he was only a few years off retirement; he had taken it hard, but then had found work at the little garden centre nearby, and had found that he loved it. ‘I wish I’d done it years ago,’ he’d laughed, as though it had been a choice he’d made rather than a circumstance that had terrified him at the time.

He was good at it, too; he’d had an allotment for years, and he had a gentle way with the customers. ‘Sometimes it’s like they’re scared of the plants,’ he’d say. ‘They’ve lost touch, you see. I tell ’em, “That plant wants to live, see, and he knows how even if you don’t. He’ll be all right – unless you really mess him about, that is.” ’