Len Shulman leaned heavily on his spade at the far eastern corner of the grounds at Fairshot Court. In the afternoon stillness of a hot summer’s day the sound of his laboured breathing jarred against the peaceful droning of the honey bees. At long last he had moved out of the sun and was recovering under the shade of a lofty privet hedge which bordered the grounds at the old school house.

Over the decades the hedge had risen to such a height it had become a protective shield and deterrent for any inquisitive ramblers who might be traversing the fields nearby. It was not the common garden variety, a rather uninteresting dullish green colour, it was golden privet, with bright foliage, margined and splashed with yellow and today it shimmered in the sultry glow of the sun, surrounding the burgundy brick house in a bright golden shroud.

Len raised his arm in a vain attempt to mop his brow, his shirt sleeve already saturated from earlier efforts to stem the flow, until finally he’d given up, allowing the sweat to drip freely off the end of his nose and chin as he dug.

After a few moments inactivity Len’s breathing became less noisy and his heartbeat regulated to a slow steady rhythm signifying that he was still in good shape for a man now well into his forties.

He gripped the top of the spade’s hickory handle with ruddy calloused hands and with one heavy boot perched high on the rim he shoved it down hard into the solid earth, the spade’s silver edge sliced deep so that it stood on its own, secure and stable, and Len was able to let go of it, abruptly, walking away from his instrument of torture with relish.

He always found comfort here at the farthest corner of the grounds, encircled in peace and tranquillity, and away from the stress of the house. He stood silent and still allowing the dappled sunlight to dance and play around him as the gentle breeze caressed and cooled his skin, a solitary figure, hidden from view under the tangled branches of the dense hedgerow, reluctantly accepting the lonely nature of his job.

Finally he raised both his arms, stretching them way above his head, spreading his aching fingers wide in the process. He lifted and arched his shoulder blades releasing an agonized guttural groan through clenched teeth as his spine straightened once more after being way too long in the same stooped position.

Feeling a little better, he ambled over to the nearest flower bed and casually relieved himself over the roots of a pink petalled rose bush, not as an act of vandalism mind you, but as a deliberate fertilizer to encourage its growth and vitality. Zipping up his denim dungarees he left his bib and braces hanging down haphazardly in front of him as he walked purposefully back into the sunshine eager to quench his thirst at the ornate bronze water fountain jutting out starkly against the old brick wall. The resplendent spout of fresh water gushed in abundance from the lion’s mouth and Len gladly gulped down its cool clear nectar. As the ice cold water struck the back of his throat the persistent throbbing headache he’d nursed for an hour or more gradually started to ease.

He stood in front of the fountain his legs astride on well trodden but exquisite monochrome tiles laid more than a century before in a pretty mosaic semicircle. He had always admired and revered the workmanship on display in this place and once again he paid homage to the imagination and splendour of the Victorian age wishing with all his heart that he had lived during that time and not this.

With tired fingers he clumsily untied the red spotted handkerchief which hung loosely around his neck and soaked it in the water-filled trough below. He swirled the material round and round in the fresh cold water for a minute or two before squeezing it out firmly and pressing the cool cloth against his throbbing temples. After a few soothing seconds he moved it lower to his closed parched eyes, bathing them in blissful relief, before finally securing the damp scarf once more around his tanned sinewy neck.

Once his vital fluids had been replenished he returned to the soothing shade of the overgrown privet hedge and crouched down on his haunches to smell and feel the soft springy grass beneath him.

At this corner of the garden he was hidden from view behind a large moss-covered statue of an eagle in flight and thankfully out of sight and earshot of his plague of a wife. He strained his ears for any remote sounds coming from the kitchen at the back of the house but mercifully all was quiet.

Easing his back against the base of the statue, he rested his aching shoulders on the broad white column while his right hand searched deep within his trouser pocket fumbling for his fags and lighter.

Eventually he managed to strike a flame to the crinkled cigarette held shakily between his yellow brown fingertips and through tense lips he drew in a long juddering breath. Holding on to it for as long as he could he savoured the immediate euphoria it gave him as it flooded his perception, hoping fervently that some small scrap of solace might remain in his depressingly dreary world. At last he exhaled long and hard into the still air and watched as the bluish grey plume of smoke drifted aimlessly away.

As he peered down through the haze his eyes began to blur and he quickly blinked a few times, trying to concentrate minutely on each blade of grass surrounding him in the newly mown lawn. His eyes fixed upon a small honey bee climbing chaotically over a solitary clover flower, the only one left standing after the cut, and he watched as it clung on, wobbling precariously for a second or two, before reluctantly flying off to find a more stable quarry.

After another lengthy draw on his cigarette Len laid his head back against the reassuringly solid support behind him and rolled his unhappy eyes heavenwards, Lord how he hated this job!

For ten long years he’d worked in this godforsaken place and what did he have to show for it, nothing! His life was going nowhere; he was a dogsbody, a nonentity! All he did was clear up after those good for nothing freeloaders, always returning drunk after a night out, thoughtlessly puking everywhere and leaving it just where it lay, before stumbling off into the darkness back to their beds.

Once Len had cleared up their mess and the place was quiet he would lie awake in his small bedroom at the back of the house which doubled as an office in the meagre caretaker’s quarters. He’d been sleeping alone for some time now in the small double bed, his wife preferring to sleep separately in the spare room, or occasionally she would stay overnight with her ailing mother in the nearby village, which at least allowed him some respite from her constant nagging.

At first he tried to suppress the frequent, unbidden, sinful thoughts which rose to occupy his mind when he was lying in his bed alone at night. Sometimes they would veer towards his stingy, spiteful wife and the way she made him feel, worthless and useless, but then he would feel shame for his infidelity and despise himself for his rising hatred of her. As for the bunch of idiots sleeping in their dorms, he’d succumbed happily to that temptation, continually plotting different punishments for each of them, acting them out in his mind, embracing the pleasure it gave him. If only, he thought, if only he had the power and the freedom to put those plans into action, he despised them all for their youth, their happiness, and their rosy future.

His thoughts would often turn to Luke, the worst of the lot in Len’s opinion, so cock sure of himself with an insolent disregard for authority that Len found increasingly irritating! Who did he think he was, sneaking girls into his room behind Len’s back, but Len knew alright, he would hide sometimes and watch him climbing up the drainpipe outside the dorm window hauling them into his bedroom, stifling the giggles, a different girl every night, sluts all of them! That boy knew the rules but he had no scruples, he did whatever he liked, regardless of the consequences.

Len was suddenly brought back to the present by cigarette ash falling onto the back of his hand and he flicked it away in exasperation. He shook his head suddenly to clear his mind of evil thoughts before slowly standing up once more, allowing himself a mere fifteen minute break, self-imposed, for there was no one around who knew or cared, and his muscles groaned loudly at the effort.

Irritably Len threw down the stub of his spent cigarette watching it land with weary eyes at the base of the statue, the end of it glowing brighter suddenly as it hit the deck. With his tired leather work boot he extinguished the last remaining smoulder and eased the remnant carefully across the plinth, edging it slowly towards a thin hollow groove secreted within the patterned stonework, and then he watched it plummet down a gap to join the many others.

He raised his eyes once more to the heavens above him searching solemnly for an answer just as a small solitary cloud drifted slowly across his gaze shielding the sun from view. A veiled curtain of glistening rays beamed down from the perimeter of the cloud, seeking out the small patch of garden where Len stood, lighting up the marble eyes of the eagle above him, turning them a reddish-gold as they looked down at him, glinting sharply.

Len sighed as he seized the heavy spade once more and trudged back into the full sun of the empty flower bed. He continued to dig for a further hour or more in the sweltering heat, lifting and turning the hard cracked soil, over and over again, his back crying out with the strain of it, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop, pushing himself onward through the pain, the relentless repetitive motion becoming almost trance-like as his mind drifted back to a murky past long ago when digging was all he did, day in day out, huge rectangular holes, nearly twenty metres in length!

Next Chapter: Chapter Two