SLOW DEATH BY KIKUYU
Mick Pryor is 47. 47 and a bit. It’s the day he realises that you die a piece at a time, like instalments. No, that’s not true. It’s the day the germ of the idea slips into his brain. Less than a germ. The shadow of the germ in the seed of an unconscious thought. Probably less than that even. But it sticks. Starts growing. Like liverwort.
It’s the day he digs out a big chunk of the front lawn. For the front rose bed. Because it’s time. They’ve been in a month already and the cottage has been repainted and the clothes-line is done. The garage is up and the drive’s been concreted. Now the front needs seeing to and only a row of roses along the footpath will do. So she says. She also says take it easy. Don’t kill yourself.
He stands there with the spade in one hand and the fork in the other and looks out to sea. Diamonds of afternoon light on the water. Can’t believe their luck.
The front lawn is kikuyu. Old kikuyu. Old kikuyu that has had godknows how many decades of salt sea blast. Most likely every day since the 1920s when she went in. And the last owners haven’t watered it for so long it’s only been growing out of meanness. Because it’s kikuyu.
Kikuyu normally is just a bastard. Rough tough resilient and drought-proof but green when it’s kept wet. But this is old dry kikuyu. Old and dry kikuyu is a total bastard. When it’s time to get rid of it. And the slightest bit that’s missed will sprout. Even after it’s dead. It’s the Dracula of the grass world. He’ll have to go down a full spade blade depth or it’ll just rise up during the night and take over.
He steps out a space about eight metres long by one wide. Thinks about it. African kikuyu. What colonial idiot thought this stuff was the go? If he had any brains he’d water it every day for two weeks till it all went green and soft. Soft-ish. But Mick Pryor can’t wait that long. It has to be today. It’s like he can only do one project at a time and this is today’s. The rosebed. And the roses are waiting.
Eight metres by one.
He starts digging. Stab-jump-wriggles the spade in to the hilt, works it this way that way, cuts it into spade-wide blocks, heaves it out, grabs it by the hair, belts the living crap out of it on the back of the spade till the sod falls apart, shake shake shake, dirt flying off, clump of empty grass and roots, tosses the stringy tangle behind him. Picks through the dirt for stray bits.
He has about six and a half metres cut out when his back starts pinging. Pile of kikuyu that’s never all going to fit in this week’s green bin. But he’s not stopping. The whole bed is today’s project. He goes on stomping the spade down. Because that’s how Mick Pryor is built. Always been his own worst enemy. Him and his arrogant self-belief.
His back is now barking. It’s saying stop NOW! You’re doing yourself some serious mischief here you fuckwit! But he keeps going. Keeps going till he’s done all eight metres, project finished.
But so’s his back.
And it’ll never work quite the same again. It’ll pinch and wince him for the rest of his sorry days. It’s the first piece of him to die. Except for his hair but hair doesn’t count. Baldness doesn’t diminish you. Buggered back does. That’s what Mick Pryor now thinks. Knows it’s just the beginning.
© T. R. Edmonds 2018
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