3 days ago
13
I am in the kitchen watching the dog and the cat fight when the tortoise suddenly appears. Or to put it another way: I watched the dog and the cat fight for a while, until it became tiresome; the next time I looked up – possibly 15 minutes later – the tortoise was also there. That’s what I mean by suddenly. In real terms, the tortoise doesn’t do anything suddenly.
“Where have you been?” I say, even though I know the answer. I haven’t seen the tortoise in six weeks, but I’m certain he’s been butted up against the left rear leg of the sofa for that whole period.
“Are you trying to get in on this?” I say. That’s what it looks like. The tortoise is poised at the edge of the fray, head up, waiting to bite an unguarded appendage. For a moment the dog has the cat pinned to the floor, and the cat’s tail is waving slowly back and forth in front of the tortoise’s face. But he misses his chance: the cat rears up, sinks its claws into the dog’s neck and bites in the manner of a leopard trying to take down a wildebeest. The dog steps over the tortoise and drags the cat to the opposite corner of the room, where the fight continues.
The tortoise angles its head so its eye meets mine.
“Lettuce?” I say.
“Look who’s up,” my wife says, walking into the kitchen with two dirty mugs in each hand.
“Yeah,” I say, opening the fridge. “Spring is here.”
Spring is not here. A cold rain is falling outside and the mid-morning light is sepulchral. But a rapid overnight thaw has jarred the tortoise out of suspended animation. He’ll stomp around the kitchen in a fury for a few days before he finds a new place to hide – under the dog’s bed perhaps, or in the gap between the dresser and the wall. Once he’s settled he’ll retract his legs and head and stay put for another month.
But his premature appearance isn’t the only sign of spring. Later, while my wife is at the supermarket, the manure men ring the doorbell.
There are two of them, dressed in flat caps, scarves and worn jackets, offering farmyard manure on spec off the back of a lorry. They come round twice a year, generally in autumn and spring. I think of these dung-sellers as part of some lost and deeply English tradition, which is why I prefer it when my wife is on hand to deal with them.
One of them says almost nothing; the other talks non-stop. He also prefers to deal with my wife, who likes listening to the biannual updates on his many ailments. On the other hand, she drives a harder bargain than I do. I ring her.
“The manure men are here,” I say.
“Oh God,” she says. “Just tell them we don’t want any.”
“It’s already gone beyond that,” I say. “I’m making them tea.”
“How much did you agree to pay?” she says.
“I’m not ready to tell you that,” I say.
When I’ve made the tea I take the two mugs out. The rain has stopped.
“No sugar, two sugars,” I say, raising the mugs in turn. The one who talks all the time takes the two sugars one.
“Leave his there,” he says, pointing to a windowsill.
“This is early for you, isn’t it?” I say, thinking of spring.
“Yeah,” says the one with two sugars. “We was here six weeks ago, but your missus said to come back in January.”
“Did she?” I say.
While the quiet one does all the work, we chat for a while, about illness, about life, about the ups and downs of the door-to-door manure game. Finally, I have to get back to work.
Eventually they go, and my wife returns. Together we look out the window at the neatly mulched beds.
“How was he?” she says.
“In and out of hospital all summer,” I say. “Still having tests.”
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“And they got a new truck, exactly the same as the old one,” I say. “And his daughter converted to Islam.”
“Really?” she says.
“She lives in Dubai,” I say. “And I guess she married a fella out there.”
“What else?” she says. “Did he go to the wedding?”
“I think so,” I say. “I can’t remember.”
“You’re useless,” she says.
“You should have been here,” I say, shrugging. “Anyway, they did a good job.”
“How much?” she says.
“Still too soon,” I say.
