refinery was merely a stepping-stone to bigger things.
As the Hillman rolled silently up the driveway, Howard savored the quiet tap of the engine, the swish of another car going by, children laughing, the tinkle of a shovel. What an idyllic afternoon. Yes, this was a good life.
“Lament!” called a voice. Buck Quinn waved from across the street, limping from an old shrapnel wound sustained in Pakistan. Once a month Quinn blamed his injury for acting up, took a day off without shaving, and lurched around the neighborhood in his old combat fatigues, looking red-eyed and insane, quite the mad Englishman.
“Mr. Quinn,” said Howard. “How are you?”
Quinn frowned. “Children have been busy all damn day. No peace.”
“Have they?” said Howard, surprised at the major’s uncharacteristic interest in children.
“Damn glad it’s not in my garden,” said Buck Quinn, taking a moment to scowl at his cigarette.
“Me, too,” said Howard, tipping his head respectfully as he disappeared into the house. It was always a trap to get into a conversation with Buck Quinn—the man didn’t need a spatula to pontificate.
THE PHONE RANG as Howard removed his shoes and padded across the cool tile, took a beer, and watched the bubbles tumble and rise in the glass. The children seemed louder now. Must be a birthday party.
“That was the Pughs,” said Julia, shuffling into the kitchen with one hand caressing her tummy. “They say we’ve got their children.”
“What would we want with their children?” shuddered Howard, giving Julia a kiss and her belly a pat.
“Apparently there’s a party in somebody’s garden. They claim it’s ours,” she said.
“Where’s Will?” asked Howard.
“Playing with Ruth, I think.”
“I’ll investigate,” said Howard, refreshed by his beer.
The flower bed was a pit as wide as his Hillman was long, and the roses were missing. Gathered around the rim were a number of small creatures covered in red dust, busily passing buckets from hand to hand. Howard blinked. This was his company house. By extension, this was a company garden and a company lawn.
Now there was a company hole, too.
“Look here,” he said.
The activity around him didn’t stop; nobody looked up.
“Just a minute!” he sputtered.
The little red creatures went about their activity as though he didn’t exist.
A chant was spreading through the group.
“China! China! China!”
China? Something rang a bell.
“Will
?
”
shouted Howard.
“He’s down
ther
e
!” answered a voice, for the earthen faces were unrecognizable; a red hand pointed down into the hole.
Howard peered over, but the depth of the hole, and its darkness, made it impossible for him to see anything.
“Will! Come up here this minute!”
Howard looked at the faces sitting around the hole. Who could these urchins be? Then it occurred to him that they were the children of his colleagues at the company.
“What have you done to my flower bed!” cried Howard.
“What flower bed?” said one child.
“The one that’s been ruined! You’re a menace. The lot of you! Where are your parents?” he asked.
The busy circle of powdery faces offered blank stares. But one little fellow, caked in red clay, offered a shrill reply.
“My daddy said it was all right! He said you worked for him!”
Howard struggled to identify this impudent little savage and finally tagged him as Buck Quinn’s son. Another face appeared at the top of the ladder.
It was smeared with red earth, the hair matted and dusty, but there was something familiar about the downturned eyes. “Hello, Dad!”
“Ah, Will,” said Howard, momentarily relieved at being able to identify one familiar face. “Now look, Will, this has to stop.”
“We’re going to China, Dad!”
“Will, this is Mummy’s flower bed!”
Titters spread through the group. The hole and the flower bed were opposing realities. They couldn’t both exist.
“ YOU’RE JUST LETTING THEM DIG? ”
As the Hillman rolled silently up the driveway, Howard savored the quiet tap of the engine, the swish of another car going by, children laughing, the tinkle of a shovel. What an idyllic afternoon. Yes, this was a good life.
“Lament!” called a voice. Buck Quinn waved from across the street, limping from an old shrapnel wound sustained in Pakistan. Once a month Quinn blamed his injury for acting up, took a day off without shaving, and lurched around the neighborhood in his old combat fatigues, looking red-eyed and insane, quite the mad Englishman.
“Mr. Quinn,” said Howard. “How are you?”
Quinn frowned. “Children have been busy all damn day. No peace.”
“Have they?” said Howard, surprised at the major’s uncharacteristic interest in children.
“Damn glad it’s not in my garden,” said Buck Quinn, taking a moment to scowl at his cigarette.
“Me, too,” said Howard, tipping his head respectfully as he disappeared into the house. It was always a trap to get into a conversation with Buck Quinn—the man didn’t need a spatula to pontificate.
THE PHONE RANG as Howard removed his shoes and padded across the cool tile, took a beer, and watched the bubbles tumble and rise in the glass. The children seemed louder now. Must be a birthday party.
“That was the Pughs,” said Julia, shuffling into the kitchen with one hand caressing her tummy. “They say we’ve got their children.”
“What would we want with their children?” shuddered Howard, giving Julia a kiss and her belly a pat.
“Apparently there’s a party in somebody’s garden. They claim it’s ours,” she said.
“Where’s Will?” asked Howard.
“Playing with Ruth, I think.”
“I’ll investigate,” said Howard, refreshed by his beer.
The flower bed was a pit as wide as his Hillman was long, and the roses were missing. Gathered around the rim were a number of small creatures covered in red dust, busily passing buckets from hand to hand. Howard blinked. This was his company house. By extension, this was a company garden and a company lawn.
Now there was a company hole, too.
“Look here,” he said.
The activity around him didn’t stop; nobody looked up.
“Just a minute!” he sputtered.
The little red creatures went about their activity as though he didn’t exist.
A chant was spreading through the group.
“China! China! China!”
China? Something rang a bell.
“Will
?
”
shouted Howard.
“He’s down
ther
e
!” answered a voice, for the earthen faces were unrecognizable; a red hand pointed down into the hole.
Howard peered over, but the depth of the hole, and its darkness, made it impossible for him to see anything.
“Will! Come up here this minute!”
Howard looked at the faces sitting around the hole. Who could these urchins be? Then it occurred to him that they were the children of his colleagues at the company.
“What have you done to my flower bed!” cried Howard.
“What flower bed?” said one child.
“The one that’s been ruined! You’re a menace. The lot of you! Where are your parents?” he asked.
The busy circle of powdery faces offered blank stares. But one little fellow, caked in red clay, offered a shrill reply.
“My daddy said it was all right! He said you worked for him!”
Howard struggled to identify this impudent little savage and finally tagged him as Buck Quinn’s son. Another face appeared at the top of the ladder.
It was smeared with red earth, the hair matted and dusty, but there was something familiar about the downturned eyes. “Hello, Dad!”
“Ah, Will,” said Howard, momentarily relieved at being able to identify one familiar face. “Now look, Will, this has to stop.”
“We’re going to China, Dad!”
“Will, this is Mummy’s flower bed!”
Titters spread through the group. The hole and the flower bed were opposing realities. They couldn’t both exist.
“ YOU’RE JUST LETTING THEM DIG? ”
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