Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Title Page
- Intoroduction
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EITHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- CLIMATE EMERGENCY
- Copyright
I’d explained all of this to my father, fully convinced I’d understood.
That’s where I’d been, not at home.
‘Pizza for dinner this evening, love?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Any homework?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘You’re a good boy, Josh.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY EIGHT
Friday. On the way home, I stop at the point on the road with the bent stinging nettle, where the bushes and undergrowth grow to a height against an unseen wall.
The nettles look a little bit trampled today – a larger than normal hole in the green. Still almost indistinguishable, but definitely there.
Checking I’m not seen, I step through, careful not to make too much damage.
The gate is locked. I look up into the canopy of the bush. It looks climbable enough. Leaving my backpack against the wall, I start to push up through the leaves. The bottom layers have hardened yellow and brown. Some tip cold water onto me as I climb, small reservoirs trapped in their crinkled cups. The top of the wall, when I reach it, is still a good distance beneath the top of the bush. I crawl a little way along it, the mortar crumbling under my palms, before emerging into a place where I can see into the garden.
Dana is there. She hasn’t seen me yet. She is using a small spade to turn the soil in one of the beds. I’ve watched Grandad do this countless times, and she has the same, smooth action, leaning into the top of the spade, the arch of her foot meeting the shaft and its angle with the top of the blade – Grandad calls it the shoulder – and wedging the blade into the soil. When she leans into the handle, standing entirely on her spade foot, there is a rasping shuck as the spade drives into the ground. Watching her, it’s as if she and the spade are the same creature.
After a few minutes of watching, she stops turning the soil and begins cutting the turf where it meets the bed. She cuts a straight, clean line. The spade, with Dana steering it, moves quicker – a series of neat little slices. There’s a piece of string set up as a guide, but from up here I can see it’s not quite straight – it leans slightly away from parallel with the wall. I want to call out and tell her, but something about her actions, how self-contained they are, suggest she’s in a different universe all together. She won’t hear me.
As I watch, she starts to sing to herself, softly. Not a song I recognise, but one which seems to match the rhythm with which she works. She pushes the spade in, lifts it, lines up against the string and sinks the blade again in time to her singing.
Go to sleep, little baby.
Go to sleep, little baby.
Everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn