Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 83
CLUCK
by Matt Ingoldby
Police have pulled me over twice this week about my orchids. They think I can’t see the road
through the forest on the dashboard and the trellises over the back windows and the pots
hanging from the wing mirrors. I say jungle predators have the best eyesight on the planet.
They say not on the bypass to Grinshill. Both times I’m let off because Mr Car smells so much
of fertiliser and my laundry and sleeping bag. And I keep the windows up because chids need
body heat, especially in winters like this. All the same, once a week I roll one down outside
Maud’s new semi-detached. On the freezing lawn, my son Jeffrey guides ants into a more
efficient path. He recoils a bit when he sees me, but not much.
“Hey buddy!”
His back says no thanks. Not a talker, our Jeff, but Maud says he’s treated well at the
new school, has laminated his timetable and stuck it on his bedroom wall, with annotations.
Steve’s marching out in his bathrobe.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing! It’s me, Steve. Jason.” My hands have gone up.
“I know it’s you. Stop harassing my boy.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking. “He’s my son, Steve, come on.” Obviously he knows that’s
my son.
Two 14-year-olds crash outside, hoofing a ball: Steve’s sons from wife number one.
The ball whacks Mr Car. “Careful!” yells Steve, forearm on my roof. Jim and Marcus pound
upstreet, laughing.
“Just like my Jim and Marcus,” I say, pointing out Orchid Jim and Orchid Marcus,
hardy twin dendrobiums. Steve pats my roof.
Maud comes out in the coat I bought her in Aberystwyth. My heart goes watermelon
— Maud could shave her head and wear a binbag and still no one would believe she married
me.
“Here’s your sustenance.” Maud scowls. But a wonderful smell escapes the tupperware she
hands through the window. Steve rocks Mr Car until curry slops onto my lap.
“Steve, come on! There’s Jeffrey’s inheritance in here,” I protest.
Not kidding either. Splicing Jim and Marcus has produced a breed of chid native only
to the glovebox of Mr Car. There’s no research to oppose it; Orchid Jeffrey must be worth a
fortune.
“Just jokes.” Steve lets go and spanks the boot. “Enjoy your free meals.”
Mr Car stalls on the curb, as per tradition. Maud puts a grin into Steve’s back. Steve
shoves the boot with his foot and Mr Car lurches off like a supply teacher with his shoelaces
tied together.
In the overhead mirror, Jeffrey catches my eye, looks at the dirt. The best nutrients for
orchids can be bought online for mad money or obtained for free from the bowels of ordinary
chickens. I drive 40 miles to a stretch of the Severn where a battery farm ejects
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