Sheila is trying out the new garden swing; she’s got her white wine spritzer, her ciggie and her ‘sex and shopping’ saga, but when she tries to sit down the darn thing turns her arse over head, sprawled out on the lawn as the sodding thing sways this way and that, sparkling at her in the sunlight.
***
Graham is in the greenhouse, pricking out seeds. How many hundred in each packet? He’ll lie to Sheila later that it’s hard work, and that he doesn’t really enjoy dipping his fingers in the soil, waggling them in front of her face so she can see his dirt-encrusted thumb. Later in bed, she’ll imagine the seed dislodged from under a nail, how it takes root inside her. Sheila will wake up choking from the green tendrils in her throat, open her mouth to a blossom storm.
***
Sheila wants to pick the first tomato. She remembers from childhood how her granddad would hold them close to let her inhale that peppery goodness, her teeth biting through skin. She’s been watching the plants closely, seeing the turn from green to orange to red. There’s one she thinks perfect, and as her hand goes out to twist it free, the snail starts to climb up her arm.
***
Shhh… Graham is taking Sheila to see the bird’s nest. He’s been following the birds for days. Laughing at how they stumble even in flight due to the weight of the sticks in their mouths. He wants to cover Sheila’s eyes to make the most of the surprise, but as they get near, he spots the hair that the birds have used in their construction. It can’t be Beth’s hair, not so long after, but it’s red. Like Beth’s. He steers Sheila another way, his hand tight against her face now, and says he can’t find it. Perhaps the birds decided not to nest there, after all.
***
Sheila’s not sure the meat should be raw inside. Or burnt outside. Why can’t they just microwave it all anyway? Why isn’t Graham like other men who refuse to let their wives barbecue? Why does he keep going off to the end of the garden where he’d thought one day the birds were? As if she cared. She’s never liked birds. She tips the whole meal in the compost bin. Why can’t you remember you can’t put meat in the compost, Graham will ask her later. It was organic. That’s what she’ll say. As if natural made everything better.
***
Graham has to watch the bird chicks learn to fly on his own because he’s sworn to Sheila that they haven’t nested in the garden. Not this year. He ignores the way she clutches her belly because he doesn’t think even she realizes what she’s doing. He holds his breath as each one takes flight, not sure what he’s hoping for. A red flag maybe. The trail that will lead him astray again. But each bird is direct and sure, landing safe. He goes to find Sheila. To tell her the news.
Sarah Salway lives in Kent, England, and is the current Canterbury Laureate. The author of three novels, her debut poetry collection, You Do Not Need Another Self-Help Book, was published in March 2012.