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Israel pointed again.
‘Onions?’
‘Cabbages,’ said Mr Devine.
‘OK.’ Israel tried again, pointing at some sort of pointy thing. ‘Onions?’
‘Cabbages.’
‘Is it all cabbages?’
‘“Thou shalt not sow thy seed with mingled seed,”’ said Mr Devine.
‘Yes. Of course. Lovely. Beautiful. And they are…’ he said, gesturing vaguely towards the rest of the crops.
‘Cabbages. Kale. Cabbages. Radish. Potatoes. Chard. Cabbages. Potatoes. Shallots. Cabbages. Onions.’
‘Bingo!’ said Israel.
Israel got down on his knees. He didn’t quite know what to do next. The only thing he’d grown had been mustard and cress, at school, in a plastic cup.
‘Thinning?’ he shouted enquiringly, over to George.
‘Yes, thinning!’ George shouted back impatiently.
‘Thinning?’ he appealed quietly to Mr Devine, having no notion whatsoever what thinning onions might involve.
‘“And he shall separate them one from another; as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats,”’ said Mr Devine.
‘Erm.’
‘Two inches apart,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Ah, right, OK,’ said Israel. ‘Thank you.’
Israel occupied himself not unpleasantly, for about ten minutes, concentrating on the job. It was surprisingly satisfying. For about ten minutes he fondly imagined himself as a smallholder, with cows, and pigs, and a small orchard, and bottling his own tomatoes and mashing his own beer. He could be like Thoreau.
‘Ta-daa!’ he said, standing up and admiring his handiwork. ‘A perfect row of thinned onions!’ He stretched out and took in the view. It was idyllic here, really; it was pure pastoral. There were beehives down by the wheat field, and oats, some barley, sheep, the paddock. He took in these sights and breathed deeply, admiring a bunch of huge plants with bright yellow flowers.
‘They’re lovely-looking flowers,’ he said to Mr Devine.
‘Aye.’
‘What are those flowers?’
‘What do they look like?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Ye don’t know what a corguette plant looks like?’
‘Er…Is it a courgette plant, by any chance?’
Mr Devine’s eyes narrowed.
‘And you’ve some lovely trees there,’ said Israel, gesturing towards the fruit trees.
‘Plum,’ said Mr Devine. ‘And pears like a trout’s back.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Planted by my father. Cherries. Apple.’
‘Good,’ said Israel, as though he were a landowner inspecting a tenant farmer’s fields. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Good for you. Anyway, George,’ he said, as George approached. ‘I’ve done the onions.’
‘I’m just checking on these early croppers,’ she said, ignoring Israel’s onion-thinning achievements, and knelt down by some bushy patches of green.
‘It’s finding something early that’s floury enough,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Israel, faux-knowledgeably. ‘It’s quite a crop you have here.’
‘Mebbe,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Yes, you’re certainly going to get lots of…cabbages. And…potatoes. Have you never thought of diversifying into…I don’t know. Avocados, or artichokes?’
‘Ach, wise up, Israel, will ye?’ said George, from in among the foliage.
‘Asparagus?’ said Israel.
‘I refuse to grow anything beginning with “A”,’ said George.
‘Oh,’ said Israel. ‘Right.’
‘Och, Jesus. I’m joking, ye fool. What do you want, Israel? Get it over and done with and then you can be on your way.’
Israel stood up straight as if about to read a proclamation. ‘Well, actually, I’ve just come to say goodbye,’ he said.
‘What did you say?’ said George.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
George straightened up slowly from her potato row and raised an unplucked eyebrow.
‘Is this a joke?’
‘No. I’m going away, over to England.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said George, crossing her arms.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t take you long, did it?’
‘To what?’
‘Cut and run.’
‘I’m not cutting and running.’
‘Well, you’ve been here, what, six months?’
‘Nearly eight,’ said Mr Devine.
‘Eight months,’ said George. ‘And then you’re away? That sounds to me like someone who’s cutting and running.’
‘Aye, I always thought he was a quitter,’ said Mr Devine. ‘“Because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet—”’
‘All right, yes, thank you, Granda,’ said George.
‘I’m not a quitter, actually,’ said Israel.
‘Are ye not?’
‘No. I’m going to be coming back.’
‘He’s coming back?’ said Mr Devine.
‘Are ye coming back, Armstrong?’ said George, crossing her arms. ‘You don’t want to dash our hopes now.’
‘Ha ha. Yes, I will be back. It’s just a…business trip I’m going on.’
‘A business trip? Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘With what, your job as an international financier?’
‘No.’
‘With the mobile library?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Mr Devine started wheezing with laughter.
‘A business trip!’ said George. ‘That right? What is it, an international conference?’
‘Well, yes, as it happens.’
‘Ach, you’re priceless, Israel, so you are.’
‘A mobile library conference? Holy God!’ said Mr Devine.
‘A junket then,’ said George.
‘Junket? No. It’s not a junket. It’s the Mobile Meet, which is the UK’s premier mobile library conference and—’
‘Paid for with our taxes no doubt?’ said George.
‘“Render unto Caesar,”’ said Mr Devine.
‘No,’ said Israel.
‘Not paid for with our taxes then?’
‘Well—’
‘You’re paying to go yourselves then?’
‘No. It’s—’
‘A holiday then, is it?’
‘No. It’s work. And—’
‘Good. How long are you gone for?’ said George.
‘It’ll be—’
‘Can we sub-let?’ said Mr Devine.
‘Sub-let?’ said Israel. ‘The chicken coop?’
‘You’ve it looking rightly,’ said Mr Devine.
‘How long?’ said George.
‘We’ll be gone about a week, I think. Few days visiting my family, and then to the Mobile Meet.’
‘A whole week?’ said George. ‘Sure, what are we going to do without ye?’
The conversation had not gone as well as Israel had hoped. He’d half hoped that his departure might excite some small favourable comment and wishes for a good journey and a safe return. He was wrong.
‘Is he here for the Twelfth?’ asked Mr Devine.
