Crows at the allotment
The lane that skirts the allotments smelled of leaf-rot and damp creosote, the sort of afternoon perfume that arrives once hedges thin enough for the wind to get purchase. Murphy trotted ahead, nose skimming the brambles, until something snagged his attention at the fence line. He froze, one paw raised. Then the air split with black wings: half a dozen crows burst out of the sycamore canopy, cawing like a dropped bundle of fire irons, then wheeled low over the plots before melting into the grey sky. No fox bolting, no gardener’s radio — just that brief, ripping noise and the hollow that followed it.
The timber gate — ancient, blister-green — stood ajar. I’d walked this cut-through for years and never seen it unlatched. Curiosity tugged; I nudged it wider. Murphy hesitated, gave a whine that might have been etiquette, then trotted after me.
Inside, a hush that felt padded, as though sound itself congealed on contact. Summer’s fervour had drained away: vines slack, runner-bean poles tilting, rotten evidence of marrows ballooned then split where no one had bothered to pick them. Near one bed a plastic deck chair lay on its side, legs mud-stained like an abandoned foal. The crows had settled along the far boundary, black commas punctuating the wire, heads cocked as if grading our intrusion.
Against a shed wall a mirror leaned, the cheap kind once used to scare pigeons. Its silvering had freckled; my reflection arrived clouded, shifted half a finger’s width off true. I reached to square it. The frame — wood pulp, really — dissolved under thumb pressure and the whole sheet slithered forward, landing face-up on the damp soil. Murphy sniffed it, then turned back toward the gate. When I followed, Ronnie loomed beyond the fence, hands in jacket pockets, watching with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Didn’t know you came this way,” he said, not quite smiling.
“Change of circuit every so often,” I answered, slipping the latch behind me. “You?”
He shrugged. “Mate of mine used to have a plot up the row. Thought I’d see what state it’s in.” His gaze flicked to the toppled chair, then away.
We fell into step toward town, the lane narrowing between skeletal hedges. Ronnie’s usual patter about salvaged mahogany or council skulduggery stayed holstered. Instead he spoke in low gear about closures — road, shop, shoreline. “Everything’s folding in,” he said, scuffing a stone. “Like someone’s tidying the map.” I asked if he meant businesses or the cliff; he gave a half laugh that said the distinction was academic.
Mist began its nightly creep as we reached the high street. Outside the Anchor he paused, contemplated the doorway’s glow, then shook his head. “Another time. Got something on.” A pat to Murphy’s flank, a vague wave, and he was off, swallowed by the dim.
At home Emma sat cross-legged on the sofa, charcoal pad balanced on her knee. She’d sketched a crow mid-bank, wings ragged, beak open as if halfway through that metallic shout I’d heard earlier. Dust smudged her fingertips; a grey thumbprint ghosted her cheek.
“They’ve been noisy this week,” she said, not looking up.
I opened the fridge. A bottle of tonic tipped, clinking against glass, rolled to the shelf edge, and settled there. I watched it a moment, then closed the door, leaving it where it lay.
Outside, somewhere beyond the rooftops, a single crow called once, then stopped.