Authors: William Nicholson
“You don't usually remember that sort of thing.”
Now's when he should say it, how beautiful she looked in the sunlight. But the words won't come out of his mouth. Instead he says,
“So we should have a not very important celebration on Saturday.”
“Well, we are. We're having a dinner party.”
“Oh, yes. So we are.”
He goes back to the living room and sits down again. As he reaches for the newspaper he glances out into the garden and there it is, right in the middle of the lawn. A huge rabbit.
He rises at once, and opens the French window on to the terrace, careful to make as little noise as possible. He keeps his eyes fixed on the rabbit as he treads softly across the brick paving. The rabbit senses him, turns, and bolts. At once Henry sets off in pursuit, not to catch it, but to see where it goes. The rabbit dives beneath the hedge into the orchard. Henry, panting,
bursts into the orchard after it, and sweeps the far fence with his gaze. Nothing. The rabbit has vanished.
He paces the wire netting that protects the orchard from the meadow beyond, looking for holes in the wire or in the ground. He finds nothing. There is no way a fully-grown rabbit can escape. So it must still be here, among the apple and plum trees.
Slowly Henry's agitated breathing returns to normal. He claps his hands, hoping to startle the hiding rabbit into breaking cover.
The rabbit stays silent, invisible.
Returning to the house, Henry asks himself why he cares so much about rabbits getting into the garden. There are obvious answers, of course. Rabbits can do a great deal of damage. But it feels like there's more at stake, that the power of the rabbits to penetrate all the defenses he erects against them threatens his security at some deeper level.
I suppose it's a phobia or something, he tells himself. I suppose the rabbits represent the encroachment ofâof what? Of unemployment? Of old age? Of the gradual erosion of status, purpose, self-respect? If I can't hold the breach against the rabbits, what hope of standing firm against the onrush of the years?
Ridiculous, of course. Fifty-four is hardly old age. No, it's not dread of decline, not yet. It's a different kind of challenge, one not fully identified, not named. You spend the first two decades of your adult life becoming something, then a third decade being that something, then the arc of your life begins to turn downward. It's not that you stop, it's that you're no longer on your way to somewhere. You're there; or perhaps you're already leaving.
That's the question. How do you manage your life when the best of it is already in the past? Too late for ambition, too early for death. A wise man would say now is the time to live most
abundantly. But we're not built for stasis, we're built for motion. So we dream on.
Are you following me here, Justin? Modern art defines itself as that which repels the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie redefines its taste accordingly and applauds only when discomforted. So the golden thread between art and delight is broken, and in its place we forge an iron chain, between art and status.
Sitting in Terry's kitchen, Dean can see his own shadow cast across the table by the low rays of the sun. He doesn't like the way his ears stick out. That's why he could never shave his head close up the sides the way Terry does. He doesn't like anything about the way he looks, if you want the truth. Twenty-nine years old and people think he's still a kid. Terry's one year older and he could be his dad. But you know something? So fucking what. It's not what you look like that does the business. Take Brad. Nothing special about Brad. You'd never pick him out in a crowd. But Brad's a professional. He could kill you with a fucking Get Well card.
Dean hasn't yet decided he'll do it but he's here, isn't he? Sitting in Terry's kitchen looking round, noticing how nice Terry and Julie have made it, it's got what you call character. All these pretty touches. The old iron range is still there in the chimney recess, but now it has a crowd of ornaments on its hob, a white-and-gold jug, little china birds, one of the old glass milk bottles. For real cooking they've got an electric stove with a flat glass top that's easy to wipe clean. Julie keeps it all very clean. My house, she says to Terry, my rules. Funny how it's the women who own the houses these days.
Even so, thinks Dean, I like ours better. There's an armchair in the kitchen for starters, a chair you can get comfortable in,
right by the radiator so you can warm your hands when you come in on a cold day. And the mugs are hanging just where you want them when it's time for tea. And they're big generous mugs. So it's all comfortable and big and generous, because that's Sheena. People make jokes when they see Dean and Sheena together, they say, What's that you've brought with you, Sheena, your dinner? I'm trying to fatten him up, says Sheena. I don't know where he puts it.
Everyone loves Sheena. But no one loves Sheena as much as me. You couldn't. You'd have to be dead. I love Sheena more than I love being alive. You can't say better than that.
Terry is supposedly repainting the kitchen unit doors while Julie and the girls are away. Just white again, but Julie doesn't like scuffed paintwork.
“The paint's no fucking good,” Terry says. “They've got new rules from Europe about how to make the paint and now it's no fucking good.”
Terry hasn't asked Dean if he's come over because he's agreed, but maybe he's just assuming it.
I've not said I'll do it, says Dean to himself.
“What's wrong with the paint?”
“Doesn't cover, does it? Doesn't stay on. Doesn't dry. Come on, lads, what the fuck else is there for paint to do?”
The
News of the World
lies on the breakfast bar beside the tin of paint and the jar of water for the brush. On the front page there's a photograph of a blond in a nightie holding up one arm to show her injuries. Dean can't read but he knows what the story's about. It's about Raoul Moat.
“What do you reckon to that, then?” he says, pointing to the paper.
“Fucking nutter,” says Terry. “But I'll tell you what. He fucking stood up for himself.”
He opens the
News of the World
to a middle page where Raoul Moat's letter to his girlfriend is displayed. He reads some lines aloud.
“âYou can kill a person without ever physically harming them, you just make them harm themselves. That is what the police and the social services have done to me.'”
“What do you reckon to that?” says Dean.
“Well, he's got a fucking point, hasn't he?”
He closes the newspaper. Dean looks again at the young woman with the wounded arm.
“I could never hurt my girlfriend,” he says slowly.
I could never hurt Sheena. Not that warm soft body. You lay a glove on her, I'll kill you.
“Course you wouldn't,” says Terry. “No more would I. But she was going with another feller. He's doing time, and she's jumping this other feller. What would you say if that was you?”
“I'd never hurt Sheena,” says Dean. “No matter what.”
“Course you wouldn't.”
“And I'm not doing time. Never again. I promised Sheena.”
“Nor me, mate. Nor me.”
He doesn't mean to tell Terry but it comes out anyway. And they are best mates. He wants Terry to know that if he's going to do this job it's only for one reason.
“I want to marry her, Tel.”
“Hey! Good one! Congratulations, mate! About fucking time. How long is it?”
“Three years. Coming up four.”
He can feel himself blushing like a kid.
“I want to do it right. Propose and everything. With a real ring.”
“You're a fucking romantic, Deanie. That's what you are.”
“Did you propose to Julie?”
“Not exactly, mate. It was more like, guess who's up the duff?”
“Didn't you want to marry her?”
“Not bothered either way. Can't see the point, myself. But Julie wanted it.”
Dean stares at him, not understanding. He's wanted to marry Sheena for so long. Ever since he met her, really. He wants to say to her, Till death us do part. But for years he didn't dare ask, still hasn't asked.
She's too good for me, that's the truth. Christ knows why she puts up with me, but she does. I'll stand by you, Dean, she says. You're my boy. No one's ever loved me like she does.
“So have you got a ring and all?” says Terry.
“Not yet.”
Terry gives a little nod like he's putting two and two together.
“How much you want to spend?”
“Maybe five hundred. I don't want any cheap shit.”
“What if she says no?”
“Then I'm fucked, aren't I?”
It's not like he hasn't thought about it. Why would Sheena want to marry a loser like him? Only because she's got the biggest heart in the universe. But she might say no.
“Five hundred's no problem,” says Terry.
Now they're into business talk.
“I haven't said I'll do it,” says Dean. “I made Sheena a promise.”
“So don't tell her.”
“There's no fucking work, is there? What am I supposed to do?”
“Fucking right,” says Terry. “And it's not like you'd be hurting anybody.”
It's an insurance job. Jimmy Dawes has this RS Cosworth he can't shift, not at a fair price. So he needs a lad to take it and
roll it. Then the insurance writes it off and pays up. Top-of-the-range motor in its day, should clear four or five grand. So Jimmy Dawes pockets the money and passes some of it down the line. No aggravation, no harm done.
“You know what else? If I could, I'd buy Chipper a BMX.”
Chipper is Sheena's boy but Dean loves him like his own. A smart kid, and proud as shit. Never asked for a BMX, but you can tell how he hates it, waiting on the charity of other kids for a ride. Can't do stunts on the ramps in case he damages some other kiddy's bike.
“How much for a bike?” says Terry.
“Five hundred,” says Dean.
“Five hundred! For a kid's bike!”
“That's cheap, mate. You can spend five thousand on a BMX. And the rest.”
“So it's five hundred for the ring or five hundred for the bike. You got a choice there. Jimmy Dawes says he'll give us a grand for the job.”
Takes two to roll a car, one to drive, one to follow. You don't want to be walking home.
What would Brad do? He'd say you do what you have to do. It may not be pretty, but if the job gets done who's counting?
“Cash?”
“Of course cash.”
“You'll never tell Sheena?”
“Swear on my mother's grave. Not that she's dead yet. Worse luck.”
Dean's gaze falls once more on the front page of the
News of the World
. He's telling himself he hasn't said yes yet.
“My dad used to beat up my mum,” he says. “Went for her with a hammer once.”
“Your dad was a nutter.”
“Christ I hated him.”
“Couldn't take his drink, your dad.”
Dean and Terry go back a long way, kids growing up on the Landport Estate. Terry's got out, nice little house, nice little village, bit of gardening, bit of hedging. But you don't make a grand in cash gardening and hedging. And the Landport Estate's not so bad. Sheena calls it her island. Come off the Offham Road and down the ramp and you're in a different country. Roll an artic across by the Tally Ho and you'd be cut off from the rest of the world, all on your own between the Downs and the river. You could declare independence and make your own laws, the Republic of Landport. Dean grew up on Evelyn Road and now he's living on Stansfield Road, which is all of a couple of hundred meters away, so he hasn't exactly moved far. Except Evelyn Road was hell and Stansfield Road is heaven because it's where Sheena lives, and he's going to ask her to marry him, and she has to say yes or it's over. Nowhere to go from there. The end.
Terry says, “So are you on, mate?”
Dean nods and it's done. He was always going to say yes, why else is he here? But he's shaking.
“We go in your van,” says Terry.
“Why my van?”
“Because I'm going to roll the Cozzie, aren't I? Or do you want to do it?”
“No. You do it.”
“So fair's fair.”
Share the risk, share the reward. Won't be the first time. But it will be the last.
Ask Brad. You have to know when to quit. Thirty-seven combat operations for Special Forces and who even knows his name? But when you're pinned down by enemy fire and there's
no way out, you want Brad in that foxhole by your side because he's smart and he's fast and he's a survivor. He'll do whatever he has to do and you won't hear him speak of it again. You could meet him in the pub and chat to him for an hour and you'd never know. Just don't get in his way.
“I'm only doing this for Sheena,” says Dean. “You know that?”
“So you can propose. With a real ring. You're such a fucking romantic, Deanie.”
Evening is the best time for watching rabbits. At the back of the new house, which is actually a very old house, there's a field where sweetcorn grows. The stiff straw-colored stalks with their sheathed cobs are nearly as tall as Caspar himself. Everyone tells him he's average height for an eight-year-old but he can see just by looking that he's one of the smaller boys in his year. If you go right through the middle of the standing corn you can't see anything but the corn and the blue sky above so you could be anywhere. Keep straight on walking over the crumbled stony earth between the lines and you come to the end of the field. Here there's a bank covered with brambles, with small trees growing up out of the brambles. In the bank are the rabbit holes.
You have to come up to them very slowly and make no noise, which is actually impossible, but you do everything in slow motion as if you're in a film. Then just where the corn ends you sit down on the last raised furrow and you wait. The rabbits are all in their holes where they've run while you're stamping and crashing toward them, because however careful you are, to them you're a huge heavy frightening giant. Rabbits are gentle, timid creatures, they don't hurt anyone. They don't eat other animals, not even worms. Other animals eat them. But
they can hear everything. They can hear when your tummy rumbles. And they're so fast. If you startle them they vanish and you don't even see them go. They've got special eyes, they can see in all directions at once. But there's something they can't see, which Cas has learned all by himself. If you stop moving and just stay still, after a while they can't see you any more.