Free Small Holdings by Nicola Barker Page B

moment, choked, stuttered, lurched, kept lurching, until CRUNCH . It hit the main glasshouse, shattering and clattering, bending metal, running, roaring, covering, collapsing. And shards fell from above, the engine cut. More collapsing, more shards, a tiny, silly tinkling, a rumble, a small, metallic burp.
    Doug didn’t pause to look at or appraise his handiwork. He didn’t turn, he kept on walking. ‘He’s so cool,’ Nancy whispered, ‘like John Wayne or that other guy with black hair and funny eyes who’s in The Gunfighter.’
    ‘Gregory Peck,’ Ray mumbled.
    ‘That’s the one. Yeah.’
    A woman in a headscarf who had been walking her miniature collie nearby called out the dog’s name harshly and then, when he didn’t come to heel, put two fingers between her lips and whistled. And strangely enough, it was that whistle, that sound alone which made my legs shake and my eyes fill, not any of the others. That sound alone.
    ‘Oh shit,’ Ray said, ‘Doug’s heading back this way . I’m off.’ Ray scarpered.
    Doug was strolling back in the general direction of the house. He was wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. He seemed extremely interested in the condition of the flowering borders. At one point, I swear it, he stopped and removed a dead flower head.
    Saleem turned to me. ‘Phil,’ she said, gently, ‘maybe you should find some rope and cordon the greenhouse off, make sure it’s safe before someone gets hurt over there. We’ll handle Doug. Between the two of us. Me and Nancy.’
    I nodded. I turned. I went to get some rope, a canvas sack, some tape and a large, strong, natural fibred, needle-bristled brush.
    It was arduous, it was risky and it took just about forever. I wondered where the hell Ra y had got to. I couldn’t imagine he was helping Nancy and Saleem with Doug at the house. And he certainly wasn’t here, helping me, clearing away the glass and mud and metal and vegetables. More than likely he was on the tennis courts, weeding.
    I was almost glad to be alone. Things were moving slowly. I was moving slowly. Like something newly born, inhabiting a fresh and different body; testing out what I could and couldn’t do, establishing my limited capabilities.
    Luckily the damage to the greenhouse was acute but also clearly defined. After a few hours of sweeping and chipping, of taping up sharp corners, of knocking out half-spent panes, I managed to clamber on to the tractor, clear out some of the glass, pull away the axe-head from the accelerator pedal, straighten out one of the mudguards which had bent and hit its tyre, and then switch on the ignition. Using my dodgy foot, my dodgy arm, I stuck the gears into reverse and roared on out of there.
    I looked up nervously, as I reversed. I looked up at the glass ceiling and waited for a reaction, waited for it to shatter and crumble, but nothing happened. It kept its clarity.
    And this was the curious part: I had so many other things on my mind - so much to keep in my head - but all the while I felt like everything was flowing. A liquid sensation. Maybe it was the blood in me, travelling through my body, blooming in my face, my cheeks, but then moving on, carrying on, flowing. And I should have been thinking and sorting and planning in my head, organizing, controlling, but in fact all I could think of were natural things. Concrete things. Physical substances. Substance. Nature. Bark, rock, soil, water.
    And gradually I started thinking about water and rock. How they are the two most extreme substances, two opposite poles, and yet, and yet they can work together. They can work together and be together and live together and although they both have their own energy, their own terrible strength and power, at the same time, they do not violate each other. Because that’s how nature moves, how it works. It cooperates. And that’s how I wanted to move - no more smashing and crashing and thumping and punching, I wanted to move like the water around