He just wanted to be.
Huddling into his armchair, left by the previous occupant most likely out of laziness more than kindness, Ernie pulled the old army blanket over his body. The leather that wrapped around his bony limbs was worn, threadbare in places. Over the years the stuffing had moulded to his shape, so comfy that many a time he’d nodded off and woken in the pitch black, stiff and hungry.
Hoping those fellow gardeners he’d nodded to earlier would take a hint and give him space, Ernie had chanced leaving the door ajar, allowing him to look onto the rows of vegetables that lined his precious allotment. This was his patch of happiness, and nothing gave him more pleasure than seeing the rewards of honest hard work.
Getting his lily-white hands dirty had always given him a perverse kick, be it tending the flowerbeds in his garden at home or pulling up weeds amongst his vegetables.
He knew it was ridiculous and contrary. Belligerent perhaps. After all, had he been given the freedom to choose his own path, would his unblemished hands look any different? Unlikely.
So was it fair to hold on to the bitterness he felt towards his mother and ‘’owt for a quiet life’ father? Yes, Ernie thought it was.
Okay, so Ernest Walter McCarthy was from working-class stock and would have gone down the pit, if that were his only option. And truth be told, he’d have preferred a profession that didn’t entail a day of hard manual labour and getting muck under his nails. But he got on with it because he had to earn a living, just like his dad. Yet despite this, he’d always resented having his life steered and his options taken away. But in those days, the fifties, you did as your parents told you. Well he did, anyway.
And deep at the root of his long-held grudge was the fact that he resented himself, too. For not standing up to his parents or having the strength of personality to find a way to be who he wanted to be. The man he could have been. That was the real crux of the matter. The sense of failing oneself.
Ernie shivered: his feet were cold. Perhaps he should rest them on the stool but he couldn’t be bothered to move. He wasn’t dressed for the allotment but the lure of solitude, the four walls of his shed and the scent of earth and tomato fertiliser, were more tempting than an empty house. Again, he was being a contrary Mary.
Ernie didn’t mind living alone and it was preferable to spending the rest of his days in sheltered housing or a care home. He prided his independence and guarded the luxury of being in control of his life, his mind, his meals, the telly.
Regardless of those positives, there was no denying that his bungalow seemed too big, now that Nancy was gone. And it was a shame because their three-bedroomed chunk of middle-class utopia had suited them well. A lawn to mow on Sundays, a conservatory to keep up with that snooty lot next door. A fancy drive that cost a sodding bomb and was basically concrete stamped with a pattern. It had made Nancy happy though, and that was all he’d cared about.
But nowadays, her beloved fitted kitchen – with the posh blinds she’d had specially made – didn’t hum with activity and the waft of something cooking. The oven was never lit and instead the microwave pinged a lot. The kitchen echoed his footsteps, the click of the kettle, the clank of spoon against mug. The sound of loss and solitude boomed in his ears.
The lounge that Nancy dusted every day had become a Tardis where he sat alone in his recliner. The sofa and Nancy’s wingback armchair openly mocked him when he looked, expecting her to be there, and she was not.
The bedroom – well, that was the worst. The chamber of thoughts. A cell decorated in florals. A summer meadow of memories. Hour upon hour of them. Even the bathroom with all Nancy’s bits and bobs scattered around came second to that hell-hole.
Whereas there, in his creosoted shed, Ernie seemed to fit. Just enough room to make a brew or warm a tin of spaghetti on the camping stove. In winter he’d get the paraffin heater going and in summer, well he could happily stay there all night watching the sun set and rise over the treetops.
Come to think of it, he needed a brew, something to heat his insides, but he couldn’t be bothered. Looking over to his shelf, Ernie managed a smile when he saw the row of caddies that contained tea, coffee, and sugar and next to them the biscuit tin. They were always full. Refreshed and re-loaded by Beryl who’d wander up once a week bringing slices of cake she’d made. Mince pies in the winter.
Ernie closed his eyes, just for a minute, and imagined he was waiting for her to arrive. It eased the ache in his heart. Beryl might have been his younger sister by nine years, but somewhere along the way their roles reversed. She became his guardian angel, the person he was closest to in the world before Nancy came along.
Beryl was the peacekeeper, the mender of bridges, the soother of hurt feelings and the one person who understood Ernie.
Then when her marriage broke down, and after their mum had passed, there was another shift in their brother–sister relationship. A kind of equilibrium. It was Ernie’s turn to look after Beryl. Take care of the stuff she couldn’t, like repairs to her house, running her about if she needed to go further afield. She’d never had the confidence to learn to drive, thanks to their mother who’d said it was a man’s job and anyway Beryl only worked five minutes from home so what did she need a car for? Typical.
With Mother gone, their sibling bond grew stronger, and Beryl seemed to relax. The tension she’d always carried around Mother eased, and she seemed to enjoy life a little more.
She would come for tea one night a week with him and Nancy, who saw Beryl as a friend, not just a sister-in-law. They’d all holidayed together, too, so she wouldn’t have to travel on her own. Beryl was there the night Nancy went. Keeping vigil. Holding her hand on the other side of the bed to him, and then right by his side at the funeral. He thought losing his wife was bad but now his sister… it was too much.
Keeping his eyes closed, Ernie listened to the voices drifting on woodsmoke from further down the allotment. His body relaxed and his head lolled as he allowed sleep to sweep him away, memories of Nancy and Beryl cushioning his head and his heart.
CHAPTER6
‘What’re you doing, sleepyhead? You’ll get nowt done nodding off. I thought I’d pop by with this banana loaf and a nice packet of Garibaldis. Shall I pop the kettle on?’
Ernie roused and his heart lifted when he saw Beryl at the door of the shed, a wicker basket on her hip and a smile on her face.
‘Sorry lass. I was having forty winks. Here, you take the chair and I’ll have the stool. Flick the kettle on and I’ll make us a brew.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Stay where you are. I’m a woman so I can multi-task. Anyway I’ve brought us a thermos of cocoa so I only have to pour it out, then we can have a nice natter. It’s getting nippy and me knees are aching so you can run me back home later. How’s that for a deal?’
Beryl set about unloading her basket while Ernie, knowing not to argue, did as he was told.
Minutes later Beryl was settled by his side on the low wooden stool, sipping her drink and gazing round the shed. ‘I hope you’re not going to be a hermit in here, our Ernie. I don’t want you moping about and being an awkward bugger now I’m not around to give you a kick up the bum.’
‘I’m fine Beryl. And I’m not hiding, just came here to think, I s’pose. Can’t get used to it… you know… not having you to talk to.’ Ernie took a bite of his cake and swallowed the soft sponge, along with a lump that had formed in his throat.
