Life in the Land (4 page)

T
HE
rhythmic beeping was the first thing that burrowed through the cloudy barrier that separated him from the waking world. Robert groaned as the repeating, high-pitched noise was accompanied by the pounding in his head and the aches in his body. The aches were too widespread to isolate—everything hurt, every part of him resenting his consciousness.

“He’s awake,” came a voice. “Bobby can you hear me, love?”

It was his mum, the worry and stress clear in her voice. Someone stroked his hair, and he tried to speak but managed only a low moan.

“Get the nurse, John,” his mum ordered, and he heard a chair being scraped across the floor.

His eyes flickered open. Assaulted by the brightness, he blinked rapidly as he adjusted to the light in the room. The fuzzy sight of his mum leaning over him was the first thing he saw, and as she swam into focus, he saw she was smiling, her cheeks stained from tears and her eyes red.

He licked his dry lips and tried to speak, but she stopped him. “Shush, don’t push yourself.”

“What happened?” he finally managed, croaking around his parched throat.

“You got caught up in an explosion, love. You’re on the mend, but it’s been touch and go.”

When Robert tried to sit up, his mum put a hand on his chest, but from the pain that shot up his spine, he doubted he’d have been able to manage even if she hadn’t stopped him. A nurse bustled into the room, followed by his dad. She checked his IV and his chart, but Robert didn’t take much notice of her. Instead he held his dad’s hand and saw his gray hair and wrinkles, suddenly realizing that his parents were getting old.

“You’ll be up and about in no time, Bobby,” his dad said with a smile and squeeze of his hand.

The tiredness hit like a freight train, and he drifted back to sleep. Knowing his parents were there made everything a little better.

A
FTER
five days of drifting in and out of consciousness and being prodded by doctors when he was awake, Robert was beginning to feel more human, even though his doctor didn’t think he was ready to be on a ward just yet. The doctor had muttered something about how the cocktail of medicines they’d given him had seemed to have an unusual but dramatically positive effect, and he was healing faster than they had expected. He hadn’t wanted to be drawn into an argument, so he kept to himself the knowledge that it wasn’t the drugs that were making him better.

Alone in the hospital room, Robert reached out and stroked the azalea that sat in a pot by his bedside. The first plant his mum had brought had caused an exchange of heated words between her and the nurse, but his mum had won and the plant stayed; this was the third to grace his room.

His finger tapped lightly on its leaves. The gentle hum of life beneath its surface purred, and golden tendrils of energy spiraled around his fingers and seeped into his skin, recharging him and helping to heal his body. He welcomed each small spark assisting his recuperation, step by tiny step; the rush as his cells quivered in thanks for the precious donation was wonderful.

The plant could only give so much, and as its leaves began to droop, he withdrew his hand and poured some water from a plastic jug into its pot. There was no way even a hundred potted plants could fully heal him, but they had done enough for now.

His peace was broken by the arrival of his doctor. He was a harassed-looking man in his late forties, and from the pinkness of his eyes and the yellow stain on one of his fingers, he didn’t follow the advice he gave to his patients of limiting their alcohol consumption and not smoking.

“Quite frankly, I’m amazed, Mr. Sawyer. By rights, considering what happened, we should be preparing you for a long rehabilitation and physical therapy sessions, but instead, we should be able to discharge you in the morning.”

“If it makes it any better, I still feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”

The doctor looked up from the clipboard. “You were very lucky.”

Robert shrugged, and the muscles in his shoulders protested. “Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”

“Buy one for me while you’re at it,” the doctor replied with a wry smile. “Visiting hours begin in a few minutes. I’m sure your parents will be glad to hear the news.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll go back home for a few weeks—recharge the batteries.”

“Good idea, Mr. Sawyer. A few weeks of being mothered will do you the world of good.”

Robert smiled, and didn’t mention his mum’s home cooking would have very little to do with his convalescence.

S
ITTING
in the back seat of his parents’ car made Robert feel like he was eight years old again. His parents squabbled between themselves about the radio, but there was no real heat in it. They passed around soggy ham sandwiches rather than stopping for food to make better time back to the farm.

His dad was driving, which was always the case on a long drive, since his mum was only comfortable to do the quick hops to the shops.

Robert managed to drown out his parents’ random chatter, watching the English countryside bleed into the Welsh.

“Oh, did you know that young Mike had broken up with his boyfriend?” his mum asked, handing over a segment of orange.

Robert shook his head, but while he could feign disinterest to his parents, it was more difficult to lie to himself. “Since when did Mike have a boyfriend?”

His mum looked surprised at his question. “You didn’t expect him to sit around and wait for you to come back, did you?”

“I, well…. No, of course not.”

“Still it’s a pity—he’s such a nice boy.”

A song with a bouncy beat and unintelligent lyrics made his mum turn away and turn up the volume of the radio. “I like this one,” she said as she popped an orange segment into her mouth.

Robert rested his head against the glass of the car door window. It wasn’t that he’d expected Mike to be a monk. It was just that in the e-mails they’d sporadically exchanged, not once had his ex-boyfriend mentioned he was seeing someone. He’d been honest with Mike—perhaps a little too honest—about his random pickups, and he’d expected some reciprocation. The fact Mike hadn’t been as open with him grated more than he would admit, and his mood plummeted—not that he’d been in a particularly joyful frame of mind to start with.

The drone of the car engine and the warmth from the sun made him drowsy, and he drifted off to the soundtrack of his mum’s off-key singing.

R
OBERT
jolted awake at the knock on the car window. The car had stopped, and his dad was grinning at him through the glass. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and stretched out the kinks in his back.

His dad opened the car door. “Out you get, Bobby. We’re home.”

He levered himself out of the car, his muscles soft from the long drive and his nap. Their early start meant it was only late afternoon, the sun lazy as it hung low in the sky. The reconnection was almost instantaneous as he stepped out of the car and onto his family’s land. His ears rang with the chatter of life: the mutters of the ready-to-harvest cabbages moaning about how their roots were crushed and that they were trapped next to the obnoxious broad beans. The rudeness of the hedgerows made Robert laugh as they teased the sprouts about being the world’s most hated vegetables, and he shook his head at the nah-nah-ne-nah-nah reply of the sprouts.

“Good to be home?” asked his dad.

“Brilliant. I never remember how noisy they are.”

“Oh, this is nothing. You should’ve heard the fuss last summer when a cow trampled through the carrots—I’d never heard such language!”

“Will you two stop gassing and help me get the bags in?” said his mum, opening the boot of the car. “I hope that milk hasn’t turned into yogurt on the drive—I’m desperate for a cup of tea.”

The milk had survived, and once the bags were inside, his mum put on the kettle and guided Robert to sit at the kitchen table. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Didn’t stop you making me bring in the shopping, did it?” he replied with a cheeky grin, which earned him a gentle slap to his arm.

“You’ve always been a little sod.”

“Not so little now.”

She laughed. “You’ll always be my little boy, Bobby. And don’t you forget it.”

Robert sipped the tea he was given, not quite getting the same level of enjoyment as his parents, who both sighed happily at their first taste.

“Weather’s looking up, Bobby,” began his dad. “You thinking of a wander up to the top field?”

“Yeah, I think so. Would be good to say hello.”

“Have something proper to eat first,” she said. “You’ll need your strength to traipse up there.”

His mum’s idea of something proper consisted of a large pork chop, boiled potatoes, and cabbage, and he thought there would be no way she’d approve of his usual Wednesday-night kebab. He waved away the offer of apple crumble despite his mum’s insistence that he needed feeding up.

Robert pushed away from the table, and his dad looked up from his pudding. “You want company?”

“Nah, think it best I go alone.”

“I understand, lad. You’re no longer a lost pup who needs leading.”

Robert thought it was better not to argue with his dad over his choice of endearment and just hummed noncommittally.

His dad got up from the table and walked over to the dresser. Opening a drawer, he picked something up and turned back to Robert. “Hold out your hands.” Robert did as he was told, cupping his hands together, and his dad poured a handful of seeds into them. “Always good to carry something with you in case you need to practice.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Robert smiled softly at the seeds in his hand, and decided not spoil the gesture by telling his dad he always carried a packet of seeds in his wallet, even though he hadn’t had the chance to replace the one he’d used at the club. Robert grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

He’d walked this path countless times over the years, and it never seemed to change except for the seasonal variations. Now with the start of autumn, some of the leaves were beginning to develop a russet hue, and most of the summer flowers were gone or hanging in a limp but determined fashion. Robert climbed over the stile to the top field, swinging his leg over the gate with ease. The crop was due to be harvested, and Robert wondered who’d been looking after the farm while his dad had been away. There were rows upon rows of broccoli with their green sprouting heads, and as he stepped into the field, the whispering began; excited chattering and giggles seemed to be the trademark of the crop.

He ignored their wolf whistles and inappropriate catcalls about how “he’d grown up nicely” and headed straight for the tree in the corner of the field. The oak’s leaves hadn’t yet succumbed to the seasonal shedding, and Robert saw it wave its branches in welcome.

Robert sat at the base of the tree between two prominent roots that had broken through the surface of the earth, and he leaned back against the trunk. Head back, eyes closed, Robert buried his fingers in the topsoil and breathed in several long breaths.

The tree started to hum, an offbeat tune that didn’t sound as bad as he thought it should. Golden sparks began to rain down upon him, and the tree swayed, its leaves shivering.

Robert gasped as the sparks emitted tiny bolts of electricity as they landed on his exposed skin. He watched with curiosity as each spark stood on its end and pirouetted into him. His skin thrummed with energy, and it began to seep inside, trailing bursts of gold as they wormed through him. Each little spark added to the experience, building up the delicious warmth that spread through his veins and made him sigh with contentment.

Robert fished in his jacket pocket and grabbed a few of the seeds his dad had given him. He spread them out carefully across his palm using a gentle finger and lightly stroked each seed as he did so. Focusing on one seed, he pressed his finger against it and concentrated, filling his mind with thoughts of germination, sprouting tips, and elongating stalks. The seed did nothing.

He brought his hand up closer to his face so he could examine the seed that had refused to do his bidding. It wasn’t damaged in any way. Its smooth husk was intact, and there were no discernible dark marks or spots.

He tried again, holding the seed between the finger and thumb of his right hand. The seed vibrated briefly before falling dormant again. With a growl of frustration, Robert shoved the seeds back into his pocket and slumped against the trunk of the tree. Arms crossed over his chest, he looked up at the canopy of leaves for an answer.

The golden sparks stopped falling, but the tree continued humming, with no change to the tune or tempo. Robert closed his eyes, trying to listen for any explanation the tree might have for his failings, but nothing came. Shaded from the elements, the base of the tree made for a comfortable place to sit, and before he knew it, Robert drifted off to sleep.

T
HE
beam of the flashlight woke him up. Robert squinted at the figure that stood over him; he rubbed at his eyes to improve his focus.

“It’s not the best place to sleep, Bobby.”

“Mike?” The figure’s shape was right, as was the voice. “Is that you?”

The answering chuckle was all the confirmation he needed. “Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get you back to the farmhouse.”

Groggy from his nap, he needed the helping hand Mike offered to get off the ground and stay upright.

“I won’t ask why you think sleeping under that tree was a good idea,” said Mike, angling the beam of the flashlight so they could see where they were walking. “It’s probably one of the most normal things I’ve seen you do up here.”

Robert wished the light was better so he could get a better look at Mike to see how the last few years had changed him. “I’m trying to get my mojo back,” he replied.

“Your dad said you’d got caught up in something nasty.”

“Homophobic attack on a club I go to. I just happened to be there that night.”