Mary had known darkness but she buried it. Sometimes what she buried turned into something that gave her strength because even the foulest of things could flower. Mother Nature produced plenty of poisons but She also provided the remedies. Sometimes they even grew side by side. Sometimes the only difference between one and the other depended on dosage. Plants were like people that way, Mary thought, standing straight and wiping sweat from her brow.

  She was up to her waist in a hole she’d been digging for three days. Since the Turners had moved in: Elijah and his improbably named wife, Pixie, plus their daughter Jasmine. And Peter. She’d had a wonderful chat with Peter. About digging.

  Occasionally a well intentioned neighbour would tell Mary she was getting too old for some of her gardening work but she could never stop doing something she enjoyed so much. She felt particularly at peace when digging. The rasp of the spade in gravelly ground or the heavy scoop of sod levered by her foot or turn of wrist. It was hot work though, especially cooped up like she was in the garden shed. She had removed the floorboards some time ago, gaining access to the soil beneath, and now, shovelling load after load of the dirt into an ever-growing heap, she really felt the dusty heat, close and stifling. Almost the entirety of the shed’s floor space had been dug away with just a small area left for the mounting dirt. She would dig until she felt better, however long that took, and then she would refill the hole and tread the soil down flat once more. She’d long since given up replacing the floorboards—had burned them, in fact, on one November fifth or another—because eventually she would dig again. Sometimes the soil would still be freshly turned when she needed to and the going was easy (too easy, actually) but usually she managed months before the need returned.

  She took a sip of iced tea. It wasn’t some awful shop-bought concoction. No, this was lemon iced tea she made herself (the secret lay in letting it steep with lemon peel rather than using the juice, and adding a great deal of sugar). The glass had lost a lot of its coolness but the drink was still refreshing and the sugar perked her up for the work she still had to do.

  She took a final sip of her tea, set the glass back down on a shelf of empty plant pots, and wiped her forehead with a sleeve grimed with dirt and sweat. It was already going to need a good wash but, safe in the privacy of her modified garden shed, she began unfastening the buttons.

  When she’d seen Peter digging, he’d been grubby with mud all up his front. In his lap, clods of dirt had gathered like tiny earth-babies nuzzling for comfort.

  Mary arched her shoulders back to remove her clothing and mopped her brow a final time with the bunched up blouse before hanging it on the handle of the shed door. She contemplated taking off her bra as well, not liking the way the straps rubbed or how the sweat built under the cups, but the way she’d sag and swing without it depressed her more and more these days. She was no Charlie Dimmock, not anymore. There was something to be said, though, for the freedom of being without it. If she was honest with herself, and she always tried to be, there was a wonderful frisson to be had in being so exposed amongst the earth. It gave her pleasure, being so intimately close to Nature. Even thinking about it gave her a shivered thrill that was more than the coolness of the soil seeping into her skin.

  Mary retrieved the spade and stabbed it at the ground, treading the blade into the soil to lever up a fresh heap of dirt and stone. Her grip was firm. She felt no pain in her back or knees. She took strength from the ground she stood in, letting the labour keep her mind from other things.

  “Good morning, Peter,” Mary had said. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  She’d smiled. She had crossed the road to pass the Turner place, taking inspiration from her neighbour James in that she carried a handful of letters to post (she liked to enter competitions, and there were letters she sent to gardening magazines—one of those had once been ‘letter of the week’, winning her a £50 voucher to spend at the garden centre). She had planned to post them at the weekend on her way to the shops but when she’d seen Peter in the front garden, turning soil with the sort of spade best used at the beach, she’d changed her mind.

  “My name’s Peter Lewis Turner,” he’d said. “We just moved here.” He’d been bringing the plastic spade towards himself in a series of pulls, dirt flicking up his t-shirt as he scraped a shallow trench. A matching bucket sat nearby as if he was going to make mud castles.

  “I see you enjoy getting dirty,” Mary had said with a soft chuckle. She’d pointed at his t-shirt and the small mound of earth building in his lap.

  “I’m looking for treasure.”

  “Well, there’s lots of that in the ground.”

  Peter had looked up, clearly delighted. “Is there?” And Mary had smiled.

  “Of course. All the nutrients plants need to grow, for starters. And all sorts of precious metals and pretty gem stones. People dig them up all the time, though personally I think they’re supposed to stay there. I think they’re in the ground for a special reason.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know, dear. I just don’t think Mother Nature would put anything in the ground that wasn’t meant to be there.”

  “I like stones. I’ve got seven with holes in them but I found those at the beach. Dad says they’re lucky.”

  “If you like stones, you should see my fossil collection. I have them in my garden, bordering the lawn and standing in some of the flower beds. Sort of like garden gnomes, but much prettier.”

  “Fossils are like stone dinosaurs, aren’t they?”

  “Sort of. They’re special rocks that show you something that died, years and years and years ago.”

  “Coal’s a special rock that burns,” Peter had said. He’d said it like it was something he’d learned recently, new knowledge, shiny and fresh, that he wanted to show off.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Mary had said. “Did you know, there’s a place where anthracite, which is a type of coal, is burning right now? Lots and lots of it, all underground, burning and burning. It’s been burning for over fifty years, nobody can put it out. Imagine that.”

  Peter had looked around as if it might be right underneath him. His expression had been part excitement, part fear.

  “It’s in America somewhere,” Mary had assured him.

  “What about the people who live there?”

  “Nobody lives there, it’s too dangerous. The land is really hot and the fumes are really poisonous. It seeps up out of the ground.”

  “There’s poison in the ground?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What else is in the ground?”

  The boy had stopped digging. Cross-legged, spade held across his lap, he’d sat looking up at Mary.

  “Well,” she’d said, “buried treasure, as you know.”

  Peter had grinned.

  “But also things that lay forgotten, waiting to be rediscovered.”

  “Like a bone? Our dog used to bury bones but then forget where she’d put them.”

  “Yes, like bones, I suppose. I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “She died.”

  “Oh.”

  “She was killed. She ate something bad.” He’d frowned, bringing his hand up to his eyes. Mary had thought he was about to cry and she’d panicked but it was only that the clouds had moved and Peter was saluting to shield his eyes, squinting a little into the sun.

  Mary had wondered what on earth to say next but then there’d been a creak and screech from the side gate and Peter’s mother had appeared. She’d been surprised by Mary but only for a moment. She’d smiled. “Hello.”

  “Hello.” Mary had introduced herself, pointing across the road. “Number 42, if ever you need anything.”

  The woman greeted her again. “Hi, Mary, I’m Pixie.” She’d brought her hands up as if to ward off a blow. “I know, I know. Awful, isn’t it? I sound like someone from Harry Potter or something.”

  Mary had smiled. “I think it’s a wonderful name. Magical.”

  Pixie had smiled in return. “My husband, Elijah, says the same thing.”

  “You have a daughter, too, don’t you?”

  The woman had nodded. “Jasmine. And this little one—” Here she’d crossed her arms and scowled at her son. “Peter Lewis Turner, look at the mess you’ve made!” It had been pretend anger, though, the woman suddenly sweeping in low, arms outstretched, to scoop the boy up for tickles. He must have been rather heavy at his age but maybe mothers didn’t notice that kind of thing.

  “We were talking about buried treasure and fires and bones,” Peter had said between laughing and trying to breathe. A beautiful sound.

  “That sounds lovely, but you’ve got to come in now and get ready for lunch.” Then, to Mary, “It was nice meeting you.”

  Mary had watched as the woman ushered her child inside. When she swatted playfully at his behind to hurry him along Mary had looked away.

  In the ground at her feet, a small hole, a narrow trench, had gaped vacant, a plastic spade protruding from one end like the headstone of a grave, or an invitation to keep digging.

  In the shed, in the hole, Mary scooped heaps of ground from around her feet and tossed them aside at a near frantic pace without caring that most of the dirt fell back into the opening she had made. She was sweating profusely now (or rather she was perspiring—she was a lady) and she could feel it running down her sides from her armpits. She could feel it at the nape of her neck where curls of grey hair were sticking to her skin. She was wearing comfortable trousers but even so they were damp around the elasticated waist and crotch. She couldn’t tell if it was the physical activity or the exertions of her mind that made her feeling this way. Still, she levered up more earth, raised it, and tossed it away.

  Abruptly, her spade bit into something softer than soil. She stopped and angled the blade carefully to see . . .

  Yes.

  “Hello Adam.”

  When she dug this deep, Mary always found Adam. The first time it happened had panicked her and she’d wondered if somehow she’d forgotten where she’d put him. She soon discovered, though, that it didn’t matter where she put the blade of her spade or shovel, Adam would always be unearthed. Sometimes the other children followed—not always, only sometimes—but Adam was always there for her. His eyes were clogged with soil but he saw everything.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked, his throat choked with dirt. His teeth were black with soil and clumps fell from his mouth as he spoke. His was a voice that bubbled beetles and things that burrowed moved his tongue, itself a writhing twist and turn of worms that dropped in tangles with each of his words.

  “Go away,” Mary said. She plunged the spade into the boy’s face and he crumbled into sodden clods, all muddy blood and stones for bones. He fell apart into a fleshy compost that Mary tossed aside with an enthusiastic swing of her arms.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  She spoke it to the ground beneath her feet, and to all the dark that had gathered there as the light outside faded.

  “Yes you do,” it said.

  A chill had descended as day faded into early evening. Mary didn’t feel it until she left the shed and it made her wish she’d brought a cardigan out with her. Often, especially when digging, she lost track of time. In the shed, that was. In the hole. Sitting at the flower beds, trowel in hand, transferring potted plants to the great outdoors or picking at weeds, she was fine.

  The light had diminished a great deal with the onset of evening, more so than was usual for the hour, because low-lying cloud, dense with rain, had settled over the neighbourhood. Mary took the opportunity while it was still dry to transfer her rubbish from the bin to the kerb. She only had to do it once a fortnight because with all the recycling, and the amount of household waste she used for compost, she had very little to dispose of these days.

  Each of her neighbours had already put their rubbish out, slumped sacks lining the street like squat little sentinels, and she realised it must be even later than she’d initially thought. The streetlamps were on, heavy rain clouds reflecting the light so that the road seemed to simmer in a sulphurous sodium glow. It made Mary think of how the Earth’s volcanic sky must have looked, back when the planet was young and still forming, cloud-filled and lava-lit, all aglow with fire.

  She deposited her rubbish and was about to return to the house when a mobile phone beeped twice, loud in the quiet of the evening. It made her pause.

  The new girl across the street, Jasmine, was lingering at her gate with a young man. There was another double bleat, the technological heartbeat that seemed to keep teenagers alive these days, but Mary saw that neither of the two made any effort to check their phones. They were too engrossed in each other, their hands on each other’s waist. They looked as if they were about to kiss, or had recently been kissing.

  “Careful,” Mary said quietly. “Boys are bad for your heart.”

  She glanced away and down at the plants in her front garden, uncomfortable watching the couple in their private moment but too curious to go inside just yet. She focussed her attention on the gladioli she had growing at either side of the front gate where they’d catch the sun. Gladioli were great for bringing colour to a garden, a bright array of simple flowers hardy enough to use year after year, if the winter was a mild one. That said, and it was difficult to tell in the poor light, it looked like the leaves of these were mottled. She bent to look closer rather than kneel, wincing at the crack in her back, and took a few of the leaves into her hand. They were certainly wilting a little. She’d check in tomorrow’s daylight but she thought (hoping she was wrong) it was perhaps greenfly.

  Across the road, the two shadowy forms at the gate melted into each other as they kissed. Mary thought of the young brother, and what he might think of it. She thought about the hole she had made in the back garden, in the shed, and that maybe she should fill it in again already.

  When the outside light came on at number 45 the teenagers pulled away from their embrace. The front door opened and there was the father. “Jasmine, time to let the boy go. School tomorrow.”

  Mary thought that as far as reprimands went, Jasmine had been lucky. Mary’s own father had been a far sterner sort. He had made boys afraid of him, and her afraid of men, and she thought it no exaggeration to say that as a result of such a strict upbringing she had become the seventy-year-old spinster she was today.

  She watched as her new neighbour retreated inside to allow his daughter a final moment of privacy, though he left the front door open to emphasise his point about curfew. Mary waited in case she caught a glimpse of Peter but the boy was probably watching television or maybe even in bed. Then the door was closed and Mary was alone again except for a teenage boy walking away, face lit eerie green by the light of his phone.

  A movement to her right caught Mary’s eye and she turned in time to see the curtains of 44 twitching closed. James or Claire had been watching as well, it seemed, but the show was now over.

  Mary retreated to the warmth of her own home for a much-needed drink.

  Mary had not been much of a drinker until recent years. Oh, she used to enjoy the occasional tipple on special occasions, and once or twice she maybe had a glass of wine in the bath, but otherwise she was very much a tea-drinker. Tonight, though, she needed something a little stronger. And for Mary, that meant whisky. Just a wee dram.

  Her hands were sore from clutching the handle of the spade so fiercely and for so long. The skin of her palms had been rubbed raw and it hurt to straighten her fingers. She looked, in fact, like she had been stricken with the arthritis she had so far been lucky enough to avoid, her hands curled into fleshy claws. Still, she managed to twist the bottle open easily enough. Only a supermarket own-brand (on her pension, it had to be) but it would do. She half-filled a cup and took it through to the living room where she could put the electric heater on for a few minutes, just to take the evening chill from her bones.

  The island of Islay produced a wonderful whisky, she’d heard. It had a delicious smoky flavour, apparently, thanks to how the malt was dried over a peat-heated fire, the barley infused with the flavours of the smoke.

  Peat-heated fire, she thought. Pete-heated.

  Peter.

  Peter: the stone, the rock. From the Greek, petro. Mary had looked it up.

  Peat was similar to coal in that it came from plants but it burned down more quickly, delivering a lot of heat but only for a short period of time. Coal took a lot longer to form, but it burned for longer.

  She put the whisky down on the drop-leaf table beside her but her hand remained bent into the shape that had held it. Or rather, the shape that had pushed and raised and turned a spade for the last few hours. Like petrified wood, her hand looked like it always had but was locked in place the same way trees would transition into stone as minerals replaced organic matter. Fossils were mere impressions in rock, a trace of what was, but petrified wood had its own three-dimensional shape, not simply a trace of what once was but a stronger version of what it used to be. Solid, not hollow. It had substance, albeit one that lacked any kind of life. Like the Tollund Man, wonderfully preserved in a peat bog for centuries. Curled up like a child in the belly of Mother Nature.

  Mary took another drink, a petrified fossil trying to forget what had made her.

  Mary was in her front garden picking at mottled leaves when Mr. Turner came over to say hello. She hadn’t noticed him at first, examining the plants which were just as damaged as she’d feared. She turned each leaf to check the underside because often a problem lay underneath, unseen, and yes. Greenfly. She wasn’t sure how that had happened—she’d been spraying the garden regularly—but here was the proof. The leaves had curled and browned and she knew the combination of toxic greenfly-saliva and the plant’s lack of sap would prove to be its downfall if she didn’t act quickly.

 

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