Ants in the Plants

 

The lawn which had started out flat and sloping had grown mysterious little humps. Early Sunday morning, Granny Mary, gone seventy, and frail, went to look at the garden to see what needed doing before the gardener arrived, but she nearly fell over and twisted her ankle. To cheer herself up, she played Always look on the bright side of life. Not being too good at technology, she played the same song over and over. She turned off the music to listen for the gardener's knock at the front door.

She tried not to complain to the gardener,  Alf, who arrived at ten past nine. 

She began warmly. "Glad to see  you. It's the end of the month. You missed three Sundays in a row. Are you well?"

"Yes. Just busy. I'll start by mowing the lawn."

"That's good," she replied. 

He turned to go.

"What are the lumps?" she called. "Will the mower flatten them?" 

He could not hear, because of the sound of the mower.

He spent the entire three hours mowing the lawn. Nearly three hours. He came knocking at the door for his money, at ten minutes to twelve. She looked at the clock and pursed her lips, but didn't mention the time. Hard to get a gardener, these days. Just like the old days.

Mary said, 'You haven't cut the hedges. I've made you coffee. Bring it with you while we check the lawn, together."

He limped after her. "The grass is cut," he said, downing the cold coffee in one swallow, holding out the empty cup in his left hand, and holding our his right hand for the money, "You owe me for three hours."

"Why are you limping" she frowned.  "Why is the lawn still lumpy?" She held onto the money, until she got the answer to her question.

"Ant hills," he said. "I tripped over one. That's why I'm limping. But I won't sue you! For money."

She handed over the cash and smiled, "Ants is it? Sue the ants. Or kill them!"

"Next time," he said.

She turned back into the house and watched from behind the curtain. She trusted him. Had no choice. But needed to check he had not stolen any tools. You can't be too careful. However hard you try.

He quickly reversed his van, accidentally hitting the gatepost, which fell behind his back wheel. 

He jumped out, wincing. Leaving the engine running, he swore at the offending gatepost. He pushed the post back, from 45 degrees to thirty. He drove off. The narrow entrance was now even narrower. For his car. If he returned. Or others, negotiating the obstacle course.

Three weeks passed. The end of summer. The grass grew, in wave shapes, like a green sea. More turbulent each day. Like a huge body, breathing out, but never in.

Her son called Ant, short for Anthony, came around on Sunday afternoons. A bit annoyed about hitting the gate post.

"Never mind. I'd already dented my car on one side. Now I have twin dents. Let's have tea in the garden, Mum. Last chance."

"Sorry, darling. I have ants. Ant and ants. The lawn is lumpy. The table will tilt. The sunshade will tilt and fall over. The chairs will tilt and fall over. I will tilt and fall over."

He went out to look. He came back to report, "You were right, Mum. I fell over. Pay somebody to kill the ants."

"I already looked. They charge thousands. Besides, their lorry needs access to the lawn. I'll buy ant killer. 

Mary bought ant killer, a month later. The entire bottle of powder, cost only three dollars ninety nine. However, it covered only a two foot wide area around the back door.

She measured the feet with her feet. Her feet were small. She told her son, "It's hard to work out the number of inches."

He raised his eyebrows. "Yes. That's why everybody has gone metric. The whole of the rest of the world. Except you."

The following summer the anthills were still there, larger. The lumps made it impossible to walk without lurching like a person crossing the deck of a ship in a high wind with high waves. Drunk.

The gardener appeared, wrinkles around his face, as if he had been squinting all summer, lines like a maple leaf. The calendar showed it was nearly Christmas. He admitted, "I've been ill - but want money, for presents." 

"Stay an hour longer. Do the ant hills and the ivy on the garage."

"The ground is too hard to dig." 

Instead, he cut down the ivy which had grown over the garage. He cut down the side of the garage, on the neighbour's land, leaving the ivy over the garage roof and the other three sides.

Mary asked, "What about the ants?"

"Next time," he said.

The next time was a year later. Not January. He phoned the following September. He said, "I've been ill but want to see you, as it is autumn. Nearly Christmas.

A note came through the door on Sunday morning. She didn't bother to read it because she was busy listening out for the gardener. 

At one o'clock she gave up listening and watching out. She read the note. It said, "Regret to inform you that Alf has died."

Later that day, Mary's husband, Tim, tall and thin, with less hair than when he had left, came back from his overseas business trip. 

She said, "Welcome back. That was a long trip. Ten years."

"Ten months, actually."

She raised her eyebrows, "Really? Seemed like ten years. To change the subject, can you fix the ants?"

He frowned, stroking his dyed black hair over his bald patch, which had doubled in size. "I'm doing the ivy. You know the rule. One job at a time. Why don't you do something useful? Fix the ants!"

"I tried"' she sighed. "I'll buy more ant killer when I go out. I have to buy some flowers to send to the gardener's widow."

"I'm not spending money on flowers. We have roses in the garden. Summer flowers. Winter flowers. That's what we've been paying the gardener for. To grow flowers. Now we have to give him the flowers. Which we paid him to grow. Let's have tea in the garden. It's sunny, although it's cold. We can wear ski jackets. Like smokers. And people afraid of Covid. I can admire the roses, or the thorns."

"The standard roses have all died. Like the gardener. Anyway, you can't walk around the garden, because of the ant hills."

He shrugged, "Are they winning? Aren't you fighting back? No. Thought not. 'There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza,'" he said. "The old songs are the best. Nothing changes."

A year later he died. 

Mary had no gardener and no husband but high grass and lots of ant hills. She didn't bother going into the garden. The ant hills were double in size. Like cancer.

The roses grew. Tall. Too tall to cut. You could see the roses above the trees.

After ten years, Mary died. Her son went to the house, to see the house and garden.

The ant hills had grown a foot high. 

The ivy made it impossible to open the door into the garage. The car could not be put away. It was left in the front drive.

One group of villains removed the catalytic converter. Another group siphoned off the petrol. 

The walls of the house were cracking. A surveyor called with a tape measure. Like a noose. Or a lasso. And a clipboard.  His head kept shaking, either a perpetual no, or Parkinson's disease, or both. 

"It's bad," he said. "The house is uninhabitable. I must tell the council. They will board it up. If I were you, I would sell it to developers."

 Ant showed the house to the developers. He picked up the old house name which had fallen off. 

"My mother had called the house Antigone. She ordered the sign online. It was supposed to say ant gone, in the hopes that the ants would read it and go away. But spell check turned the name into Antigone."

The house was sold, cheaply because of the ant hills.

Four houses were built where the old one had been. The lawn was concreted over. The ants had gone.

Until the next year, when the patio stones started to lift.

Ant went back to see the houses. A young Chinese woman with a toddler was loading her car. With karate outfits. 

She had short curly, black hair and was cute. He would have married her tomorrow, or proposed marriage to her tomorrow, if she hadn't been Chinese, a karate expert, married - to a karate expert, and with a toddler, probably also a karate expert. Besides, she was half Ant's age. And he was already married.

She said, "Pat-ee-oh lift-ing. Res-i-dent think ghost of Mare ee."

Ant shook his head, "No. She died in hospital. I'm a vegetarian. I don't believe in killing anything. I'm not anti ants."

"Yes ant all oh ver. Hus band put up a sign for car den con trap hers,' she said, pointing.

A sign read: Please ant go away!

"It's the ants again," agreed Anthony. 'The ants do not care what trouble they cause. In any case, they don't speak English - and they cannot not read."

Fearing that he had inadvertently insulted her, he said, "You and I are friends"

She nodded, 'Yumi friends. En-em-ee ants."

He got back in his car. He gave her a cheerful wave.

She reciprocated with a wave and deep bow,"Thank for vis it! Mr Ant. Us and ants." 

He drove away, muttering to himself, Not my problem. He whistled happily as he drove home. 

He was not one to dwell on the past. He imagined a bright future.  Kick boxers would kick the ant hills. But there were more ant hills than kick boxers. 

The ant hills would grow and knock down the housing estate built by the developer who had paid under market value. Nothing would kill the ants until an earthquake. Then Martians would land. With no humans to kill, they would say: "Let's kill the ants!"

The car sound system automatically played his compilation of his family's favourite funny songs. First, his father's favourite ironic round song, 'There's a hole in my bucket'. Finally, to ensure he reached his destination with a smile on his face, his mother's favourite song, 'Always look on the bright side of life'.

-The end-