With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed (18 page)

‘I can wait,’ said Tim. His mind’s eye was consumed with
the picture of his living-room carpet alive with flame, his Post-it notes combusting spontaneously on the door-frames like the necklace of fairy-lights around Harrods. ‘Do you know what I really regret?’

‘No, what?’

‘That Margaret didn’t live to see this moment. You see, she always upheld I was worrying about nothing.’

As Mister Bunny hobbled up the lane towards Dunquenchin, he encountered Michelle and Trent Carmichael stooped double and agitatedly tracing a set of tyre tracks in the opposite direction. ‘There!’ yelled Michelle. ‘And there!’

‘If only I had a big magnifying glass and a fancy pipe,’ said Trent sarcastically.

‘This isn’t funny!’ she snapped. ‘We’ve got to find this wheelchair before it’s too late!’

It was at the word wheelchair that Mister Bunny decided to intervene.

‘Excuse me,’ he said.

‘Busy,’ said Michelle, waving him away.

‘Did you say you were looking for a woman in a wheelchair?’

‘Yes, she’s my mother. What’s it to you?’

‘Would she be wearing a track-suit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then she ran over my foot at the station just five minutes ago,’ said Mister Bunny, proffering his Hush Puppy for inspection. ‘And I’d like to say that a more reckless –’

‘The station?’

‘That’s right. But –’

‘Trent. Come on. We’ve got her.’

‘Perhaps you can help me, too,’ Mister Bunny called after
them. ‘I’m looking for a tall blonde woman in a pink coat.’

‘Really?’ Michelle narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, be careful if you find her. I happen to know that this morning she hit a man on the head with a shovel.’

‘Everything is going too fast,’ said Osborne, while Angela stroked his forehead and made nice, friendly, croony noises into his ear. ‘So slow down.’

‘Everyone’s dashing about, discovering things. We’re hurtling towards the edge and there’s a sheer drop and a small pile of gravel!’

‘You’re delirious. Perhaps it was the shock to your system of eating something other than cake.’

‘I’m not used to it, that’s all. I’ve just spent two days in cupboards.’

‘So ease up.’

‘It’s very agitating out here. And I miss the rabbit. Is he OK?’

‘He’s fine. He’s eating
Murder, Shear Murder.
He gave me a look that said it tasted like the gardener did it.’

Osborne rolled over. They were lying wrapped in a duvet on the sitting-room floor. Angela had pulled the curtains against the early night, switched on some lamps, and lit the fire. The only thing to ruin the mood was the music, which by an unfortunate but understandable error was not Al Bowly (as Osborne had requested) but Abba’s
Greatest Hits, Volume Two.

‘Did you miss me?’ shouted Osborne above the jaunty din of ‘Take a Chance on Me’.

‘What a question. Does cowpat stick to your shoes?’

‘I missed you very much.’

‘Like hell.’

‘Will we keep in touch?’

‘You going somewhere?’

Osborne thought about it. He pictured, for some reason, the Birthplace of Aphrodite; in particular, the woman with the grey cloth who slopped the tables while you were eating your toast, and who always put your cooked breakfast down on top of your newspaper, before you could move it out of the way.

‘You don’t have a job any more.’

‘I know. Thanks.’

‘But look on the bright side. You know a lot about celebrity sheds.’

‘Oh yes. I forgot.’ Osborne tried to remember when he had last seen a job advertisement that said ‘Knowledge of celebrity sheds an advantage’.

‘Angela, do you really think the
Observer
will snap up my column?’

‘Trust me, I’ve got a plan. Does the name Chimneypot mean anything to you?’

‘Something to do with Father Christmas?’ She tweaked his nose.

‘Yeah. If you like. Something to do with Father Christmas.’

Lillian stretched out her arms, yawned and snuggled closer to the fire. Virtuous exhaustion was a novel sensation, and one to be relished. This had been a great day for her, all in all – first the searing, cleansing conversation with Gordon’s dad, then the daring rescue of Osborne, followed by the modest disclaimers (‘Anyone would have done the same, Michelle, but funny how it was me’), and now the peace and quiet for reflection in the cosy lounge at Dunquenchin. ‘Mother Theresa of Calcutta must feel like this every day,’ she thought, wiggling her toes. Somehow the mental picture of Mother Theresa
panting, wiping her brow and resting on her shovel after heroically clouting a loony on the side of the head was a surprisingly pleasing one. She must mention it to Gordon’s dad.

‘Who was at the door?’ she chirped, hearing Gordon’s dad return from answering the bell. And turning, she found herself face to face with Mister Bunny.

‘Bunny,’ he said, simply. ‘Smee.’

‘Bunny. Oh.’ She looked at Gordon’s dad, who deliberately looked the other way.

‘Er, hey-wo bunny. How doin?’

They stared at one another. Mister Bunny extended the suitcase.

‘I bwung Dexie,’ he explained.

‘Shall I leave you?’ asked Gordon’s dad. ‘Or shall I try to interpret?’

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Lillian. ‘Do you think we could have a cup of tea?’

‘My pleasure.’

Gordon’s dad paused before leaving the room, however. ‘You must be Mister Bunny, then?’ Mister Bunny nodded.

‘And is this Dexter, the teddy bear that’s not very well at the moment?’ He pointed at the tiny suitcase. Mister Bunny nodded again.

‘Well, I just can’t tell you how lucky you’ve been in your timing. My niece Margaret would have grabbed you, chomped you and minced you up into little pieces – bones, fur, little ears, squeaker, button-eyes and all. But you will be relieved to hear she succumbed to an unexpected bombardment of garden implements today at about half-past two p.m. Cup of tea, then, Lillian?’

Mister Bunny signalled at him to wait, and then produced a cup-soup sachet from his coat pocket.

‘Bunny, look, got crutongs,’ he smiled.

It was a difficult moment.

‘Just the tea, please, Mr Clarke,’ said Lillian. And she wondered whether Mother Theresa likewise was sometimes cruel to be kind.

‘Right. Hold on,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s nearly there.’

Tim watched amazed as his new friend voyaged into the dark interior of a computer program, stooped in deep concentration over his keyboard, his body shaped like a human question mark as he tapped and thought and tapped some more. ‘No wonder Makepeace went off his rocker,’ Gordon commented wearily to no one in particular. And then went
tap, tap, click, tap, tap
again.

‘Sorry,’ said Tim, casting an eye around Gordon’s office, ‘but I’ve only just put two and two together. Did you invent
Digger?’

‘That’s right.’
Tap, tap, tip, tap-tap-tap.

‘Hence Digger Enterprises?’

‘Mm.’
Tap. Tip.

‘But
Digger
was enormous, Gordon. Why aren’t you offensively rich?’

‘I am. I just bought Frobisher’s, remember.’

‘But why aren’t you a big company?’

‘I didn’t want to be.’
Tap, tap, thump.
‘I wanted to work at home. I wanted to keep my own life simple. But I’ve got lots of people working for me, one way or another, in the town, in London, in the US. And Dad’s been marvellous.’

‘Lumme. I had no idea. And this one’s called
Phototropism?
I hate to be critical, Gordon, but it’s not quite as catchy as
Digger.’

‘Oh, I know.’
Tap, tap, tip-tip, tap.
‘It’s just provisional.’

‘Would you like me to think of a name? I’m pretty good with
words, especially horticultural ones. Well, it’s my job. I mean, you know. Was.’

‘That would be great.’
Tap, tap, click, click, whir, tap, tap. Thump.
‘In fact, you can tell me your ideas when you get back from your journey into the unknown.’

Gordon helped him into the glove and helmet (‘Sorry, specs off’) and sat back.

‘Just stop whenever you feel like it,’ he said. ‘But tell me first, what can you see?’

Tim took a while to reply.

‘A really intense black,’ he said at last, ‘as though light has never existed.’

‘Do you feel anything?’

‘No. Unless, yes, the hairs of my arms are tingling. And I seem to be stretching, relaxed, turning very slowly. Am I floating?’

‘Not visibly.’

‘Oh, but I am. Weightless, warm, drawn out. And now there’s music coming from somewhere. Gordon, you’re a genius, this is beautiful.’

‘What does it feel like?’

‘Well. I don’t know how to put this without sounding crazy, but I think I’m, um, germinating.’

‘I’ll shut up, then. Good luck.’

‘You could call it
Come Into the Garden.
In memoriam, sort of. You could give away free packets of seeds.’

‘Now you’re rambling.’

‘Like a wild English rose?’

‘Like an idiot.’

‘Bye, then.’

‘See you later.’

Gordon set a stop-watch for fifteen minutes and quietly left the room. Outside, he leaned on the door.

‘What’s up?’ said his dad, arriving with some mugs of tea. ‘Gordon, you’re crying.’

The boy wiped the tears from his eyes, and blew his nose in a large hanky.

‘I don’t know why, Dad. I just feel a lot better now, that’s all.’