Parsley. Mum gets me to pick some when we have scrambled eggs
for a Saturday treat.
With my cheek against the turned soil, the splayed fronds are
huge and camouflage the Christmas soldiers, crouched behind the sods dad turned
and watered last night. They advance towards the safety of tomato plants lined
out towards the fence. Sometimes all hell breaks loose when the cat springs a
surprise attack like Godzilla in a horror movie, but today it’s quiet.
Mrs Johnson’s vacuuming over the fence. She’s nice, never
minds when I get my ball back. She and mum are friends and have a sneaky
cigarette together sometimes, (don’t tell dad), and she goes home carefully
cradling some tomatoes.
She hasn’t been over for a while and the tomatoes are always
ready all at once. Mum puts some in a little wicker basket for me to take over.
I knock and wait but she must be busy. I put the basked carefully next to the
front step and run back to make sure the cat hasn’t been up to no good.
A lawn mower starts, and I see Mr Johnson moving back and
forth through the gap where the middle slat of the fence has slipped a little.
I’m glad he didn’t see me, sometimes I hear his voice. I don’t like loud voices;
dad isn’t even that loud when the All Blacks score.
The soldiers are dug in now, they aim the cannon at the gap
in the fence.
