The Delegates’ Choice. Ian Sansom
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fiction, for example, came in big and small sizes, and also in audio, and in hardback, and in several kinds of paperback, and trailing TV tie-ins; literary fiction occasionally came with a different cover relating to a film adaptation. And poetry was just poetry: he’d never come across a book of large-print poems; for poetry you needed eyes like a pilot, with twenty-twenty vision, opposable thumbs, and never-ending patience; on the mobile library they stocked only Seamus Heaney, and derivatives.
To get to the vegetable patch Israel had to pass by the chickens, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, having turned them out of their home. George had fixed them up with new runs using some old manure bags over wire netting, but Israel could tell they weren’t happy. They eyed him—gimlet chicken-eyed him—suspiciously as he hurried past.
George and old Mr Devine were indeed, as Brownie had suggested, in the vegetable patch, which was close by the main house, protected on one side by fruit trees and on the others by red-brick walls; it was a walled garden; or rather, it had been a walled garden. Like most things around the farm, it had seen better days; one might best now describe it as a half-walled garden.
‘George!’ Israel called as he entered through what was once a gateway, but which was now merely a clearing through some rubble.
George was kneeling down in among rows of vegetable crops. She ignored Israel, as usual.
‘George?’
‘What?’
‘Could I just—’
‘No, thanks. Whatever it is. We’re working here.’
‘Yes, sure. I see that. I just wanted to—’
‘Can you just let me finish here?’
‘Yeah, it’s just—’
‘Please?’
‘Sure.’
‘If you want to make yerself useful you could be thinning and weeding the onions.’
‘Yes, of course. I could…I’ll just…’
‘Over there.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
He looked around him at vast muddy areas where plants were poking through. He didn’t recognise anything. He wasn’t sure which were the onions. He went over towards Mr Devine, who was sitting on a wooden bench, a rug across his legs.
‘Lovely day,’ said Israel.
‘It’s a bruckle sayson,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Yes, I thought so myself actually,’ said Israel. ‘Erm.’ He pointed towards some green shoots. ‘Onions?’
‘Cabbages,’ said Mr Devine.
Israel pointed again.
‘Onions?’
‘Cabbages,’ said Mr Devine.
‘OK.’ Israel tried again, pointing at some sort of pointy thing. ‘Onions?’
‘Cabbages.’
‘Is it all cabbages?’
‘“Thou shalt not sow thy seed with mingled seed,”’ said Mr Devine.
‘Yes. Of course. Lovely. Beautiful. And they are…’ he said, gesturing vaguely towards the rest of the crops.
‘Cabbages. Kale. Cabbages. Radish. Potatoes. Chard. Cabbages. Potatoes. Shallots. Cabbages. Onions.’
‘Bingo!’ said Israel.
Israel got down on his knees. He didn’t quite know what to do next. The only thing he’d grown had been mustard and cress, at school, in a plastic cup.
‘Thinning?’ he shouted enquiringly, over to George.
‘Yes, thinning!’ George shouted back impatiently.
‘Thinning?’ he appealed quietly to Mr Devine, having no notion whatsoever what thinning onions might involve.
‘“And he shall separate them one from another; as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats,”’ said Mr Devine.
‘Erm.’
‘Two inches apart,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Ah, right, OK,’ said Israel. ‘Thank you.’
Israel occupied himself not unpleasantly, for about ten minutes, concentrating on the job. It was surprisingly satisfying. For about ten minutes he fondly imagined himself as a smallholder, with cows, and pigs, and a small orchard, and bottling his own tomatoes and mashing his own beer. He could be like Thoreau.
‘Ta-daa!’ he said, standing up and admiring his handiwork. ‘A perfect row of thinned onions!’ He stretched out and took in the view. It was idyllic here, really; it was pure pastoral. There were beehives down by the wheat field, and oats, some barley, sheep, the paddock. He took in these sights and breathed deeply, admiring a bunch of huge plants with bright yellow flowers.
‘They’re lovely-looking flowers,’ he said to Mr Devine.
‘Aye.’
‘What are those flowers?’
‘What do they look like?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Ye don’t know what a corguette plant looks like?’
‘Er…Is it a courgette plant, by any chance?’
Mr Devine’s eyes narrowed.
‘And you’ve some lovely trees there,’ said Israel, gesturing towards the fruit trees.
‘Plum,’ said Mr Devine. ‘And pears like a trout’s back.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Planted by my father. Cherries. Apple.’
‘Good,’ said Israel, as though he were a landowner inspecting a tenant farmer’s fields. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Good for you. Anyway, George,’ he said, as George approached. ‘I’ve done the onions.’
‘I’m just checking on these early croppers,’ she said, ignoring Israel’s onion-thinning achievements, and knelt down by some bushy patches of green.
‘It’s finding something early that’s floury enough,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Israel, faux-knowledgeably. ‘It’s quite a crop you have here.’
‘Mebbe,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Yes, you’re certainly going to get lots of…cabbages. And…potatoes. Have you never thought of diversifying into…I don’t know. Avocados, or artichokes?’
‘Ach, wise up, Israel, will ye?’ said George, from in among the foliage.
‘Asparagus?’ said Israel.
‘I refuse to grow anything beginning with “A”,’ said George.
‘Oh,’ said Israel. ‘Right.’
‘Och, Jesus. I’m joking, ye fool. What do you want, Israel? Get it over and done with and then you can be on your way.’
Israel stood up straight as if about to read a proclamation. ‘Well, actually, I’ve just come to say goodbye,’ he said.
‘What did you say?’ said George.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
George straightened up slowly from her potato row and raised an unplucked eyebrow.
‘Is this a joke?’
‘No. I’m going away, over to England.’