Over the next three weeks the new tenants of Plot 27 made a favourable impression with the neighbouring allotment holders by keeping largely to themselves and not changing anything too much. There was so much litter and overgrowth that it took them that long to clear and level the first few metres. Everett was often in the Pavilion making small talk with the old-timers and picking their brains for tips, though they told him he’d be lucky to get that wreck of an allotment into a fit state for planting by next spring, never mind this year. If any of them told him the Neary story he didn’t seem to be bothered by it, because he and his ‘brother’ kept right on hacking and digging. He didn’t make small talk with Dennie, though, and she wondered why.
Then their shed appeared, and first feathers began to ruffle.
It wasn’t just that it seemed to spring up overnight – it was the kind that you bought as a kit from a garden centre and put up in a few hours with a drill and an extra pair of strong hands, if you knew what you were doing. It was the size of the thing. The Briar Hill Allotments by-laws stipulated that a shed could be no larger than six feet by eight, which was more than enough for most purposes, including the occasional illicit sleepover. The newcomers’ shed was half that again, a size which caused much shaking of heads and muttering in the Pavilion about ‘that bloody aircraft hangar’.
The first Friday of the month was Committee Night at the Pavilion, and more often than not there was so little allotment business needing to be sorted that it was not much different from an ordinary Friday night’s drinking and chatting, but on this occasion Angie and the other committee members were pressed to Do Something About It. The loudest voice belonged to Hugh Preston, a grizzled man in his sixties and former Welsh Guard with one eye. He claimed to have lost its partner in a hand-to-hand scrap with an Argentinian soldier in the battle for Port Stanley in ’82 armed only with a spatula, and whether this was true or not his undisputed military credentials gave his opinions the weight of authority. ‘They might very well be a nice couple,’ he said to Angie. ‘But if you let that sort of thing slide at the start then who knows where it will end up?’ He was playing darts at the time and was being given a wide berth by the other drinkers; despite claiming that his lack of depth perception didn’t affect his accuracy in the slightest, the wall to the left of the dartboard was pocked with holes that suggested otherwise. ‘They’ll be having raves and orgies before you know it.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ said Edihan ‘Big Ed’ Rimedzo, to general laughter. He owned the Turkish barber shop in town and was so called because he stood only a little over five feet tall. ‘It’s just a shed, Hugh, not a massage parlour.’ Big Ed was deep in a game of dominoes with Ben Torelli, himself a veteran of three tours of Afghanistan, who made no secret of his disdain for Hugh’s pronouncements and usually avoided the Pavilion altogether.
‘Don’t worry,’ Angie replied. ‘I’ll have a word with them about it.’
But she didn’t have to, because later that evening Everett came in with a home-printed A4 flyer that he pinned to the Pavilion noticeboard beside the bar. He cleared his throat a few times to get everyone’s attention. ‘So, just to explain,’ he said, nodding at the flyer. ‘Ardwyn and I would like to invite you all – and your families too – to a barbecue that we’re throwing as a way of saying thanks to you all for welcoming us here and being so generous with your time and advice. It’s next Sunday, and it’s mostly going to be kind of a hog-roast thing, though of course there will be other options if pork isn’t your thing. And it’s all on us. Just bring your own good selves. And a big appetite,’ he added with an embarrassed smile as if it were a lame punchline that he’d been rehearsing. ‘Anyway, the details are all there. Hope to see you.’
He ducked out, leaving a murmur of surprise rising in his wake.
‘They can’t be short of a bob or two if they’re offering to feed everyone,’ said Torelli. ‘Hey Angie, are you going to throw the book at him before or after he treats the whole allotments to a free hog roast?’
‘I told you they seemed like a nice couple,’ said Hugh, with a wink of his good eye that raised laughter from the room.
* * *
Viggo was growling again. Dennie twisted in her sleeping bag, consciousness trying to fight its way clear of a smothering weight of sleep that gummed her eyes and chained her limbs. ‘Brian,’ she murmured. ‘The dog’s going off again. See what he wants.’ But Brian didn’t answer, and when she rolled over to prod him her hand whacked against something hard and wooden and the pain was like a cup of cold water in the face.
She sat up.
