Fingernail Moon

by Tony Clerkson

Danny was done. Beyond tired. He wasn’t used to getting up at this time of the morning, in the pitch black. A fingernail moon dangled above the tower blocks. A single, distant star viewed it with suspicion.

He went through to the bathroom and pulled the cord. The harsh light stole the colour from him. It was too early to look healthy. No wonder his face was in revolt. He splashed it with water and rubbed a little blood into his cheeks. He’d better have that egg. He’d been keeping it for a rainy day.

Things were looking up a bit. Once he worked his couple of weeks, he’d go to the council to see if he could get a start on the gardens. You couldn’t even get a job as a Womble these days without experience.

He brushed his teeth. There seemed to be more colour in his cheeks now. Maybe the breakfast had helped. Go to work on an egg. Why, thank you very much, I think I will.

He pulled on his boots and his jacket. It felt snug, like wearing a continental quilt with sleeves. He stuck a woolly tammy onto his head then pulled the door behind him, a flask of tea in his poly bag. It was great. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like, going to work.

The streets were hard, dry and bare, exposed bones of a town with the meat picked off. Shutters were drawn over shop windows, the heavy eyelids of a tired world. Some would never open again and only needed giant penny pieces to be placed over them.

Requiescat in pace.

The streets were quiet, but every now and then, he would see a dot of light going on in the towers and the satellite flats. Kettles switched on… sandwiches being made in the cold. It was freezing; a battle to stay warm. The council had stuck in storage heaters, but they weren’t up to much. You were supposed to store it up throughout the night and then release it during the day, but if you were out during the day, that was that. By the time you got back indoors, the heat had disappeared into cold, thin air. The underfloor heating did a better job, magic on the toes, but it was too dear.

Same as most folk, he settled for the three-bar fire with the imitation coals. Luxury! The bedroom was like a fridge, though. He still used an electric blanket. It was embarrassing, an electric blanket at his age, but what was he supposed to do, freeze to death? He was near enough starving; one cold night could be the end of him.

‘Any fags pal?’

A passerby. He’d never seen him before, no surprise there. This wasn’t his neck of the woods. He was pretty edgy being here in the first place, keeping his eyes peeled left, right and back to front. It wasn’t too bad first thing in the morning, but he’d need to be on his toes on the way back. It would be early, but it would be dark.

‘Sorry, no.’

The guy looked at him suspiciously. ‘I’ll buy one off you.’

‘I don’t have any. If I did, I’d give you one.’

The guy didn’t believe him. There you have it. That’s what you got for being polite, thought Danny. It’s nice to be nice, that’s what he tried to live by. He sometimes met his Da, George, in the club for a pint. One of the older guys who drank in there, one of the ones who wore a suit because every day was a special occasion, used to say that. Nice to be nice, nice to meet nice people. Then he’d kick his height for a pint. It was harder than it sounded, especially for someone that age.

Danny had tried it once and gave it a good go, but the old fella kept going higher and higher. He was kicking even higher than his height. Danny gave it one last lunge and his standing leg gave way. He hit the deck like an ironing board, his head, back and coccyx smacking the ground at once and knocking the wind out of his sails. He groaned and got up, getting the old boy a pint. He’d won fair and square.

The light was breaking through by the time Danny reached the cemetery. It was going to be a beautiful day, this first day at work. He opened the gate and entered the graveyard.

A moody guy eyeballed him, silently. It was as if he wasn’t expecting anyone.

‘I’m here for the job,’ said Danny. ‘I’m covering for the guy who’s off.’

‘You are?’ He looked Danny up and down. Danny followed his eyes, to his own feet, covered with Doc Martens, up to his Sta-Prest trousers and his pilot jacket. The clothes were practical. The jacket was padded, the boots comfy and waterproof. The strides and the Fred Perry, that was what folk wore. What else was he going to wear, a suit?

He took off his tammy and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He didn’t have a skinhead. Another suspicious look. The guy had been expecting him to have one.

‘This way,’ he finally said.

Danny followed him into the graveyard. He wondered what he’d be doing. It didn’t look as if there was much that could be done in this weather. He could murder a cup of tea. His throat was like sandpaper, all that walking and breathing in the cold air. He was taken to a hut where he was introduced to another guy.

‘Just call me Gaffer,’ he said. He wasn’t as miserable-looking as his mate. ‘Have a drink and then we’ll get you started.’

They sat in silence, drinking their tea. It wasn’t really up to Danny to start the conversation. They might like sitting in silence. What would he talk about in a graveyard? It would have been okay if there was a paper lying around. He could scan the sports pages. There was nothing, just this empty hut with a table in the middle and a couple of stools, which Danny left for the gaffer and his mate. When they sat down, he planked himself onto an upturned milk crate. Quickly, the plastic started digging into his cheeks, so he stood up.

‘Getting cold,’ he said.

‘It’s getting that way,’ smiled the gaffer. ‘C’mon, we’ll show you what you need.’

He led him to the gardening tools.

‘The grass is too damp to cut, so you’ll be raking up leaves. You’ve used a rake?’

‘No, but it can’t be that hard.’

‘It’s not, but it’s easy to stand on it when you put it down.’

‘I thought that only happened in cartoons,’ laughed Danny.

‘It only happens in cartoons because it happens in life.’

So, that was the raking apprenticeship. He’d gather the leaves and put them into bags.

‘Then what?’

‘Then,’ said the gaffer, ‘we give you a shovel.’

 It took a second to sink in. Why had it not occurred to him? What did he think he was going to be doing? It sent a shiver down his spine.

The gaffer’s mate had broken into a smile as well. They seemed friendly enough, the gaffer and his mate, with their big friendly smiles plastered across their big friendly faces. Warm smiles on a cold day, thought Danny. Nice to be nice, nice to meet nice people. That was something, though. A gravedigger! Wait until he told the boys about this.

<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>

He only lasted four days. It wasn’t the work; that was good. It was hard, but he was okay with that. He’d raked and bagged the leaves, which took longer than he’d thought. There was always a new batch the next day, like a Forth Bridge of gardening.

Then he’d got on the shovel. It was good exercise. He did a couple of hours the first day and was done in. The second day, he took a while to get into it. His back and shoulders ached, like someone winding the head of a hammer into his flesh. Once he started, though, he got into it. He could feel muscles developing right then and there, muscles that he’d never used before, that he never knew he had. A few more days of this and his shoulders would fill his T-shirt.

So, it was tiring, but rewarding. It was good to be out of the house, as well. He didn’t want to end up like the gaffer, who looked as though he slept here, but it was fine for a few weeks, plus they’d already told him they’d need him again during the summer. That would be great, working in short sleeves, because it was cold now, freezing. He dug harder and harder, but his arms were on strike and his shovel wasn’t doing much damage. The sweat poured out of him, while his teeth chattered. Within the hour, his head was bursting and it felt like the hairs on his back and arms were small pins being dragged across his body.

He had to get out of there before he lay down in the pit. He clambered out of the hole and stumbled over to the hut. The gaffer opened the door, his mouth hanging open. It was the first time Danny had seen him without a smile.

‘You’re not well.’

‘I don’t feel too hot.’

Danny wrapped himself up in his own arms. Soon, he was boiling. How was that possible? His head was being squatted in by a giant Orangeman beating a Lambeg drum.

‘You have a fever,’ said the gaffer.

He disappeared and came back with his jacket. Then Danny noticed it, lying on the table. A body. A dead body. He’d never seen one before.

‘I’ll drive you home. Drink lots of water and go to bed. Don’t worry about work. We’ll get you back when we need you.’

That’s good, thought Danny. I’ve done well.

He had his eyes closed for most of the journey. He felt like he was on a boat, feeling the rhythms of the sea as it lifted and dropped him. It was only when the gaffer asked him for directions that he snapped out of it, then closed his eyes again and returned to his seagoing reverie. He sang shanties in his head. Shoals of Mackerel, that was a cracker. The Corries or the Clancys? What does it matter? Maybe none of them. Best not to think of mackerel. He’d spew over the side and, in this state, he might even fall in.

The boat bobbed and weaved. It wasn’t even mackerel anyway, it was herring. Mad wee fish, zooming this way and that way. Phhhht. Phhhht. Phhhht. Dragged out the sea, flapping about, served up on a plate or pickled in a jar and stuck in a cupboard. No luck for the silver darlings. No luck for the body on the table.

‘Is this it?’

Danny opened one eye, like a fish through a net. ‘Aye.’

He dreamt of lying down, horizontal, sinking into his bed and floating off.

He couldn’t remember anything other than that, not even how he got into the flat. All he knew was that when he got up in the middle of the night to go for a pee, his front door was lying wide open. He went out to shut it and could see the moon through the landing window, poking through the clouds like a torn toenail sticking through a sock.

The star was nowhere to be seen. Was it night? At this time of year, it could still be daytime.

He didn’t know and he didn’t much care. He found his bed, closed his eyes and crashed into a dark sleep, out like a lobby lamp.