Dead People Gardening

‘Darragh!!!! Get up, I need help up at your Grandfather’s grave.’

Darragh twitched underneath the covers of his bed, the stench from his own body turning his stomach. It had not been twelve hours since he arrived back in Dublin, returning home from years away in Asia. The money had gone and real life beckoned he had supposed. He made good money teaching English in Hanoi, but spent it so fast he hardly got to touch it.

In one clean sweep he pulled the covers off himself and rose up; his lip pulling on the pillow a little, stuck from his own drool.

‘Dar …’ The high pitched holler began again.

‘… I’m up, I’M UP.’ Darragh minced both his palms into his dark green eyes to rub away the remaining flakes of sleep. His toes wiggled hitting the icy floorboards and a shiver sprang up through his body. It was almost summer in Ireland yet he felt the subtle chill in the air … he had been away too long, he mused to himself.

There were parties in Vietnam, almost every night. And on the nights there were no parties to attend Darragh had sat naked on his shitty little balcony, sipping a beer and watching the effervescent glow of the city lights expand before him. He jumped into a pair of cotton shorts and a hoody and made his way downstairs to the little kitchen where his Mam sat cupping a mug of tea.

‘You’re so tanned,’ she had said to him when he arrived home the evening before … ‘and skinny.’ In Dublin Darragh had never been skinny. He had left his native city a touch on the hefty side, but returned lean and brown and with more length in his fair hair than he’d ever had had before. Life had been different in Asia. He swam almost every day … he ran … he practised Muay Thai. He volunteered for beach clean-ups and hosted friends for one-pot dinners. He hiked a lot and for one whole month tried to become a tattoo artist. He learned a new language and shopped in fresh food markets. His weekend goals were scuba depths and when it rained it poured but he still wore shorts. And then there had been the people. So many people had come in and out of his life to the point that attachment was something he only remembered from long ago. But what could anyone expect? When one was as Dad had put it “finding themselves in the orient with the rest of the dropouts,” one couldn’t simply do so without the regular passing of irregular people. Life had been different there … and if he was honest with himself … he already missed it.

‘I need your help with the mower,’ his Mam smiled that big broad smile of hers. The grass on the grave grows quickly this time of year and your father is golfing. Darragh mustered up a nod to show he understood and clicked the switch on the bright orange electric kettle. No surprise there. Dad hadn’t said a word to him since he got back and hadn’t been around for video calls in recent months. Twisting the knife to let Darragh know how disappointed he was that he gave up building a life to travel Asia instead; abandoning his family and more importantly, his future.

With a stiff black coffee in his gut Darragh loaded the old metal push-mower into the boot of his mothers little lopsided car. It was ancient and beginning to rust and had grass as old as time caught in its whirl of blades. Darragh hadn’t been to his grandfathers grave in years … even when he lived in Dublin. He wasn’t religious at all but he could’ve done better on this he knew; even for the sake of the gesture.

In flip-flops, jeans and long-sleeve t-shirt Darragh rattled in the passenger seat beside his Mam who wore tan shorts, rugged boots, an old hurling jersey and a pink bucket hat. The graveyard was a twenty minute drive into the mountains that bordered Dublin and Wicklow. Darragh still wasn’t able to talk yet, it was far too early for that. But not for Mam … not at all. She chatted and asked questions and when Darragh didn’t answer she just asked another. Poking and prodding. Ignoring the hints that for now Darragh just wanted to be left alone with his own thoughts. He pressed the buttons on the radio until he found a news station.

With rents continuing to soar Ireland’s housing crisis is at an all time high, the voice from the radio sounded off - Up next we learn how you can use your discarded toe nails to create environmentally friendly serving plates.

‘Jaysus,’ Darragh couldn’t curb his mutter. What had he come back to, he wondered. He loved Ireland. He loved his family. But both could be incredibly testing.

With one hand on the wheel and the other picking her ear, Mam expertly navigated the winding roads that snaked around the mountains edge. Darragh looked at the greenery. The trees and the fields divided unevenly by old stone walls that ran to the horizon like thick, grey veins. It’s not that there wasn’t green anywhere else … it just wasn’t this kind of green. And the forrest they were skirting was where Darragh played as a boy, camped in as a teenager and got stoned in as a slightly older teenager. He sniggered to himself remembering the time Sean tried to hot-box in his own jumper and passed out, a lifetime ago.

Under the almost militant instruction of Mam, Darragh unloaded the mower and the pair made their way from the pebbled carpark through the graveyard where Darragh’s Grandad was laid to rest; the mower clicking on its buckled wheel as it went.

‘There you are now,’ said Mam. Darragh stood blinking at the grave. It stood between two others, the one to its right a plain grass plot just like Grandads though even more overgrown. The one to the left was a different story. It didn’t so much as encroach on Grandad’s grave as it had moved almost half way across onto his plot. They had a grave and a half worth full of obnoxiously large petals of pink, white and yellow. While Grandad had to settle for simply a half of his own allocated death bed. To some, the neighbours grave may have looked impressive, full of love and attention. But what Darragh saw was a gaudy display of blatant disrespect and inconsideration. Who the fuck do they think they are, Darragh growled within his own skull.

Without saying anything, Mam began tending to the base of the headstone with a large rusty sheers.

‘Eh … whats going on here?’

Mam paused, clearly confused. ‘Gardening of a sorts. Dead people gardening.’

‘Mam,’ Darragh pointed at the neighbouring grave to be certain he was being understood. ‘Their grave is sitting on half of our plot.’

‘Oh that. Yes it happened over a few years. They kept edging in more and more.’

‘Edging in? Has Dad seen this?’

‘Of course he has. It’s made him very upset and unsure what to do. He comes up here even less now and I’m convinced this is the reason why.’

‘Would we not just simply take the land back?’

‘He thought about that but didn’t want any repercussions.’

‘What repercussions. Each grave has a clear border,’ Darragh stood where the border should be and began wildly gesticulating his arms as if he were casting a spell. ‘And they’re clearly crossing ours. Is there at least someone we can report this to?’

‘There is. Your father sent an email.’

‘And?’

Mam just shrugged her shoulders and continued to clip away at the wild grass. In his core Darragh was outraged, he could feel himself burning from the inside out. This wasn’t the way things were done, he told himself. This wouldn’t have happened in Vietnam. People could be right pricks in the western world. His mind started to race and his heart thumped like beats of air from a passing train. It was like people took advantage while he was away. Did his Da feel like he didn’t have the support should there be backlash? Was this in some small way his fault? Darragh began pushing the mower, feeling his teeth grind together with every push under the blue summer sky.

‘LOVELLLY SMELLLLL,’ called Da as he bound in the front door. No lunch was served but he always got his compliment in as soon as possible. As he entered the kitchen he looked at Darragh who sat at the table with a burger, a beer and a rugby match playing on his laptop. Da’s caterpillar eyebrows pressed down over his eyes as he scanned the room.

‘Where’s my lunch?’ he asked his son.

‘We’re fending for ourselves this evening. Mum’s heading out.’

‘She’s what? Where is she going? Did you make any of that for me?’ The questions came in a panicked quick-fire as he looked around the kitchen. This was his biggest fear Darragh knew, making food for himself.

‘Going out, I don’t know and no I didn’t.’ Darragh sank his teeth into his burger and quickly followed with a slug from his bottle.’

At that moment Mam strutted into the room wearing a blue dress and scarf on her shoulders awash of every colour of the rainbow.

‘Your’e going out I hear …’ said Da with a glimmer of hope in his tone. That this was all a joke. That really there was a meal prepared that he would just have nip into the microwave.

‘I am,’ Mam responded putting her handbag over her shoulder. ‘It’s Helen’s birthday. I mentioned it to you last week.’

‘So eh …’ Da’s tone was tiptoed. ‘There’s no lunch so …’

Mam turned to give him the stink-eye. Looking him up and down in his golf wears, presuming she had nothing better to do than prepare him food. Darragh could not only feel the tension … he thoroughly enjoyed it.

‘There is,’ said Mam. ‘You just have to make it.’ With that Mam left the room and the house and her husband with his mouth hanging low and an expression on his face as if he were calculating complex math deep inside his head.

‘Listen,’ giggled Darragh happy to have his father alone while thoroughly entertained at his misfortune. ‘I was up at the grave today, what’s going on with Grandad’s neighbour?’

Da, who was now looking in the fridge didn’t look at his son. ‘Oh that,’ he called nonchalantly as he rummaged through each shelf. ‘Yes I’ve been meaning to get on to the caretaker of the cemetery but things kept popping up. You know how it is.’

‘Mam said you sent an email?’

‘Yes well you know how things like that work … the damn thing was probably never read. That caretaker is a ham-bone if ever I met one.’ Da plucked out a lettuce leaf and studied it as if wondering if there was some meat hidden inside it. He found cheese and a jar of mayo and tomatoes and balanced them all against his chest as e pivoted towards the counter top.

‘You wouldn’t think of taking matters into your own hands? Darragh asked.

‘We’re talking about graves here Dar. Religion, faith and dead bodies. This needs a little tact.’

This sentence riled Darragh. ‘Well where was their tact Da. I mean, this isn’t an accident you know what I’m saying?’

Da was laying out slices of bread, silently listening to his son’s words. There was silence and Darragh knew not to push. ‘I’m not sure what to do,’ finally Da uttered. ‘They go up regularly, they’re a big family with a few lads. I should’ve said something before but never did and now things are the way they are. That’s my father up there, of course I want something done. But it’s just me and your mother down here and it’s not worth the hassle. So please … just leave it.’

Da began assembling a sandwich, while Darragh took another sip and brought his focus back towards his game.

In the darkness of his parents bedroom stood Darragh, staring down at the two snuggling bodies. Mam had got home late from wherever she was and was already in a type of wine-coma. Da’s long nose reached up towards the ceiling releasing loud, clunky snorts of air. Darragh stared at his fathers nose with fascination, wondering how it could produce so much noise as well as such long and sharp spears of hair. He leaned in close. Quickly and carefully Darragh gripped one of the protruding nose hairs and pulled hard. Da’s eyes opened wide as if a bolt of lightening had just struck his nostril. Darragh pressed his hand on his fathers mouth to muffle his scream. Da wriggled, unsure of what was happening. Darragh wondered if he thought he was being robbed and if that was the case was concerned at the fight his father was NOT putting up. Mam didn’t seem to notice and continued to chew her pillow. Darragh brought his lips to his Da’s ear.

‘Please relax and come down to the kitchen. I’ve something important to show you and I don’t want to wake Mam.’ Da stopped squirming and blinked his confused understanding.

Da blinked some more when he entered the light of their little kitchen. Laid out before him was a watering can, a rake, a shovel and two pairs of worn wellies.

‘What the hell is this,’ he looked at Darragh.

‘I picked up a roll of sod, it’s in the boot of the car. We’re sorting out this grave issue.’

It took a second for Da to realise what his son was talking about. ‘Now? It’s three in the morning!’

‘Exactly. This is the time weird people do weird shit. People don’t dig graves without permission in the middle of the afternoon.’

‘I’m not weird,’ Da declared while taking hold of the rake to address Darragh.’

‘Yes you are. I’m weird and my apple hasn’t fallen far from your tree and tonight we’re going to embrace our weirdness and do some covert dead people gardening. So let’s …’

‘What is going on here?’ Mam shuffled into the kitchen bundled in a thick night gown. Darragh mused that she looked like a well insulated hotdog with crazy hair. She appeared confused at the sight of her husband standing in his boxer-shorts while pointing a rake at their son.

‘We’re going up to take back Grandad’s grave,’ Darragh proudly blurted out.

‘Is this true?’ Mam directed her sleepy eyes towards her husband. There was a moment of silence between the three of them.

‘Yes … yes it is,’ Dad pushed his chest up and out. ‘Just like the rebels did from the sons of Cromwell, we are going to take back our land.’

Darragh noticed a sudden energy in his father that wasn’t there moments ago. Like he were now a general upon a horse and riding it into battle using his rake as a lance.

‘Good,’ said Mam. Just be sure not to go up the mountains in your nickers or you’ll catch your death.’

‘We’re not fools woman,’ the general of the Irish resistance declared.

‘That’s exactly what you are but I wouldn’t have you’s any other way. So get dressed the pair of you.’

Both armed with their wellies, old pairs of jeans and jumpers, father and son made their way towards the cemetery. A sense of duty buzzed within them, making them both feel awake with purpose. In the dark under a full, bright and beautiful moon; they carried their equipment and the roll of sod from Da’s Range Rover to the grave. Here Lies William O’Neill, it read. Darragh wondered was it strange the excitement he felt? Probably, but feck it.

‘Right,’ said Da to signal they would be begin. Out from his pocket he took a spool of string and drew it down where the border of the Granda William’s grave lay. ‘Should we just sort of push it back or what do you think?’

Darragh reached down and took hold of a plant and pulled. He rooted it with one tug and tossed it to the side. ‘I think whatever’s on this side of the string goes. Keep it simple. I know this was my idea but I’m not spending an hour up here hanging out in a graveyard with you.’

‘Fair enough.’ Da pick up the shovel and started to dig as Darragh took care of the rest of the flowers, neatly tidying them away into a plastic refuse bag. Once the top soil was cleared Da signalled a break by opening the flask of coffee Mam had made for them. In twenty minutes they had done enough work to admire for a moment before continuing. As Da handed the flask to Darragh he clapped his son on the back but said nothing. Both men knew the sun would soon rear its head, sending the bright face of the moon to another part of the world. The summer days were long in Ireland. Eighteen hours of sunlight for almost three months. Now that was something Darragh did miss while away. Maybe he missed more about home than he had realised, he pondered.

Next was to level the area so the sod of grass could be rolled out. On their knees, father and son removed stones and pebbles in order to make their little trench even and the perfect depth to align with the rest of the earth. Darragh picked and tossed. His mind still unable to believe this had happened in the first place, but happy he was where he was at that moment beside his father getting more and more dirt under their nails; far far away from rush and the tranquility of Hanoi.

‘That should do it,’ said Da. Placing his fists on his hips while giving a satisfied nod. A warm glow began to creep out from behind the curtain of the horizon as the pair unrolled the sod of grass like a carpet. It fitted perfectly which awarded the men perfect smiles. They both began pushing down on the sod with there feet. Da even walked carefully along the sod’s borders, his arms out as if balancing the high-wire at a circus, in effort to make the borders blend.

‘Stay here and jump a bit more on this,’ Da instructed. ‘I’m going to get some water.’ He picked up the bag of uprooted plants along with the watering can and walked towards the cemetery’s recycling bins. Darragh pressed with his toes on the sod. Again and again until he found himself jumping as if upon a trampoline. He breathed deep in the mountain air, it’s sharpness cutting his lungs with a welcome sort of pain. He smiled and looked towards the city as the sunlight slowly unveiled it below.

‘That’s enough Dar,’ Da had returned ready to sprinkle the sod and give it its first breath of new life. He expertly swung the can so just a enough water flew out to splash Darragh who immediately issue a playful and exaggerated yelp. ‘Ahhhh,’ he giggled. ‘Get out of it.’

Once the sod was sufficiently watered … the pair … father and son, strolled back to the carpark under the bright morning sky. As they walked Darragh gave Da’s ankle a light kick to almost make him trip and giggled again and ran before Da could clip him on the ear. ‘Ya fecker,’ Da called.

‘We done it Da,’ Darragh called back. ‘How do you feel now? Now that we’re gravediggers?’

‘It’s not now I’m worried about at all,’ Da responded. A proud but concerned look on his face as he walked after his prodigal son. ‘What if we get a call about this tomorrow from some pissed off family members?’

Darragh skidded to a halt on the pebble dash and turned to face his father. ‘If that happens we will tell them whats what Da,’ Darragh made sure to look his father in the eyes with earnest and placed a hand on his aul fella’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it … I’m here.’

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