In the Year That King Uzziah Died

Toby Hartwell stood knee-deep in a hole, spade in hand, when Mrs. Okafor's voice cut across the garden fence.

"Toby, what are you doing there?"

He froze, dirt-streaked and guilty, beside the peacock's magnificent corpse. His Majesty lay sprawled beneath the climbing roses, tail feathers fanned in one final display of theatrical vanity.

"Gardening," Toby said weakly.

"Gardening." Mrs. Okafor's tone could have corrected a misbehaving child from three streets away. "In your good trousers. On a Tuesday morning."

She appeared at the back gate without invitation, seventy-three years old and wearing a flour-dusted apron like ceremonial dress. Her eyes took in the scene with clinical precision.

"How long?" she asked.

"Since dawn. Found him like this."

Mrs. Okafor knelt beside the peacock, her movements careful and reverent. "Ah, look at him. Still performing, even now. Twenty-three years of vanity and morning concerts."

"I thought I'd just... you know."

"Just what? Bury him quietly?" She straightened, fixing him with a look that had probably terrorized pediatric wards across London. "And what about the paperwork?"

"What paperwork?"

"Oh, my dear child." Her voice mixed pity with the kind of professional interest that came from decades of watching people make predictable mistakes. "You truly have no idea."

The kitchen phone rang as Toby scrubbed dirt from his fingernails. He let it ring. Then it started again.

"That will be your work," Mrs. Okafor observed, settling at the table with tea she'd made herself. "Wondering where their housing officer has disappeared to."

"They can manage without me for one morning."

"Can they? What about those quarterly reports you're always fretting over?"

Toby paused, hands dripping over the sink. "How do you know about quarterly reports?"

"Your aunt worried about you. Said you worked too hard solving other people's problems while your own life fell apart."

The phone rang again. This time, Toby answered.

"Toby? Christ, where are you?" Janet's voice carried that particular edge of administrative panic. "The council's breathing down our necks, and the Henderson assessments aren't filed."

"I'm dealing with a family situation."

"What family? You haven't got any family."

Through the window, Toby could see the peacock's tail feathers catching the morning light, the abandoned hole beside the roses like evidence of a crime in progress.

"I have Mrs. Okafor," he said.

"Who the hell is Mrs. Okafor?"

"My neighbor. It's... complicated."

Mrs. Okafor raised her eyebrows, clearly following both sides of the conversation.

"Toby, I need you here. We've got real people with real housing needs—"

"And I have a real peacock with a real burial problem."

Silence. Then: "A peacock."

"Yes."

"You're taking a sick day. Because of a dead peacock."

"I'm taking a sick day because some things matter more than quarterly reports."

He hung up. Mrs. Okafor was smiling.

"Your aunt would be very proud."

"I've just destroyed my career."

"No, child. You've just remembered you have a life."

Mrs. Okafor pulled out her phone, scrolling through contacts with the efficiency of someone who maintained extensive networks.

"I'm calling Jerome."

"Who's Jerome?"

"My nephew. He's... between opportunities at the moment. But he understands delicate work."

She stepped into the garden, phone pressed to her ear. Toby watched her pace around the peacock's corpse, gesturing with her free hand.

"Jerome, dear, I need assistance... No, not that kind... A burial situation... Yes, there will be tea."

She returned looking satisfied. "One hour."

"What kind of work do they do?"

"The kind that doesn't require detailed explanations."

Toby stared at her. "Mrs. Okafor, I can't ask your nephew to help me break environmental laws."

"Environmental laws?" Her laugh was rich with disbelief. "You think burying a beloved pet in your own garden is criminal?"

"According to the internet, there are procedures. Health assessments. Veterinary inspections."

"Procedures." She spoke the word like it tasted bitter. "Your aunt and I spent years fighting procedures. We learned that sometimes the best approach is creative interpretation."

The doorbell rang. Mrs. Okafor checked her watch. "That's remarkably quick, even for Jerome."

The man at the door carried a clipboard like a shield. His polo shirt bore an Environmental Health Services logo, and his expression suggested he'd found violations before and taken considerable satisfaction in the process.

"Mr. Hartwell? Inspector Davies, Environmental Health. We've received reports of irregular animal disposal activities on these premises."

Toby's throat went dry. "Reports?"

"Anonymous tip, see. Something about exotic birds and unlicensed burial procedures." His Welsh accent gave every word careful weight.

Mrs. Okafor appeared beside Toby, wiping her hands on her apron. "Inspector Davies, how wonderful to meet you. I'm Eleanor Okafor. I made that telephone call."

Davies blinked, clearly thrown off his prepared script. "You reported a violation on your own neighbor?"

"I reported a peacock in distress. Seemed to be having some sort of episode in the garden. I thought he might require professional attention."

"The peacock is deceased, madam."

"Is it? Oh, how very sad. When did this occur?"

Toby watched this performance with growing admiration. Mrs. Okafor's expression was a masterpiece of concerned bewilderment.

"According to our information," Davies continued, consulting his clipboard, "the bird has been dead for several hours. We're here to inspect the disposal methodology and ensure compliance with environmental regulations."

"Of course you are. How very thorough."

Davies pushed past them toward the garden, stopping short at the sight of the peacock's theatrical final pose.

"Pavo cristatus," he said, making notes. "Highly regulated species under the Wildlife and Countryside Act. You do have proper documentation for this animal?"

The silence stretched. Then Mrs. Okafor spoke.

"Inspector Davies, would you care for some tea? You look like a man who appreciates proper procedures."

Jerome arrived as Davies was photographing the peacock from multiple angles. He was tall, lean, with the careful posture of someone who'd learned to navigate authority figures without drawing unnecessary attention.

"Afternoon, Auntie," he said to Mrs. Okafor, then nodded to Toby. "Sorry for your loss, mate. Beautiful bird."

Davies looked up from his clipboard. "And you would be?"

"Jerome Okafor. I'm here about the landscaping consultation."

"Landscaping consultation?"

Mrs. Okafor stepped forward smoothly. "We've been discussing drainage improvements. This wet weather has been terrible for the roses."

Jerome nodded with professional gravity. "Terrible for roses, standing water. They need proper drainage, raised beds. I was just going to assess the soil composition."

He produced a small spade and knelt beside the half-finished hole, testing the earth with the attention of someone who'd done this before.

"Clay content's high," he observed. "You'll want to add sand, maybe some aggregate for drainage."

Davies watched this performance with growing suspicion. "This has nothing to do with the deceased bird?"

"What bird?" Jerome asked, not looking up from his soil analysis.

Jerome pulled a bag of lime from his kit, examining the peacock with professional attention. "Right then, let's have a look at this root rot situation."

Davies's pen stopped moving. "Root rot?"

"Nasty business," Jerome said, studying the peacock's positioning among the roses. "Once it takes hold, you've got to get the whole root system out or it'll spread to the healthy plants."

He examined the peacock more closely. "This one's been struggling for a while, I'd say. Extensive root damage. Going to need a proper hole to extract it all."

Davies looked from Jerome to Mrs. Okafor, clearly sensing deception but unable to identify its exact nature.

"This is highly irregular," he said finally.

"What's irregular about garden maintenance?" Mrs. Okafor asked with perfect innocence.

"The bird—"

"What bird?" Jerome and Mrs. Okafor said in unison.

The burial proceeded with Davies watching from the kitchen window, making notes he would later struggle to explain. Jerome worked with practiced efficiency, treating the peacock's body with surprising gentleness while maintaining his fiction of diseased plant removal.

"Lovely specimen," Jerome observed, carefully arranging the peacock's tail feathers. "Shame to lose one this established. Twenty-three years of growth, by the look of it."

Mrs. Okafor supervised from the garden bench, occasionally offering suggestions about soil composition and drainage requirements. Toby found himself moved by the careful dignity of Jerome's work.

"There we go," Jerome said finally, smoothing the last of the soil. "Should settle nicely. Might want to plant something commemorative on the spot."

"Commemorative?" Davies called from the window.

"Memorial roses," Mrs. Okafor explained. "For the one we lost."

Jerome packed his tools with the satisfied air of a craftsman completing quality work. "Give it a few weeks, you'll never know there was trouble."

Davies appeared at the garden door, clipboard clutched defensively. "I'll need to file a comprehensive report about this incident."

"What incident?" Mrs. Okafor asked.

"The peacock—"

"Inspector Davies," she interrupted gently, "I telephoned about a bird in distress. You arrived to find us conducting routine garden maintenance. I'm not entirely certain what incident you're referring to."

Davies stared at the small patch of disturbed earth where the peacock now rested beneath a modest cairn of stones. His pen hovered over the clipboard like a weapon he'd forgotten how to use.

"There was definitely a bird," he said finally.

"Was there? How lovely. I do hope it found whatever it was looking for."

After Davies left, muttering about irregular procedures and follow-up inspections, the three of them sat in the kitchen sharing tea and biscuits. Jerome had accepted payment in sandwiches and promises of future landscaping consultations.

"That was bloody brilliant," Toby said. "The rose bush story, the drainage consultation..."

"Your aunt would have loved every minute," Mrs. Okafor said. "She had a gift for... creative approaches to difficult situations."

"What happens when Davies files his report?"

"He'll file a report about routine garden maintenance and a concerned neighbor who telephoned about a bird in distress. Nothing irregular about that."

Jerome stood to leave, brushing crumbs from his hands. "Any other landscaping needs, just give us a call. I specialize in memorial gardens."

"Memorial gardens?" Toby asked.

"Commemorative installations," Jerome clarified. "Very popular these days."

After they left, Mrs. Okafor moved to the window, studying the small cairn that marked the peacock's resting place.

"Your aunt used to sit out there every morning," she said quietly. "Cup of tea, her old Bible, reading aloud while that bird strutted about. She said it was like having daily conversations with vanity itself."

"What did she read?"

"Isaiah, mostly. Something about seeing clearly when the old certainties disappear."

Toby joined her at the window. The garden looked different somehow, more complete. The peacock's morning performances had been replaced by something quieter but no less significant.

"Mrs. Okafor," he said carefully, "what actually happened here today?"

She smiled. "You buried a creature you cared about. Everything else was just... administrative details."

The phone rang one final time as evening approached. Toby answered to find Janet's voice, more curious than angry.

"Toby? How's your family emergency?"

He looked out at the garden, where the last light was fading across the small cairn. "Resolved. Everything's sorted."

"Good. And the peacock situation?"

"What peacock situation?"

A pause. "Earlier, you mentioned something about a burial problem."

"Did I? I don't recall mentioning any peacock."

"Toby—"

"Janet, I'll be in tomorrow. The quarterly reports can wait until next week."

"But the council inspection—"

"Will have to understand that some things take precedence over paperwork."

He hung up and joined Mrs. Okafor in the garden, where she was adjusting the stones on the cairn.

"Any regrets?" she asked.

"About the peacock? No. About work..."

"About finally standing up for something that mattered to you?"

Toby considered this. "No regrets about that either."

They stood in comfortable silence, watching the garden settle into evening. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed the hour, and Toby found himself actually listening to the sound of his own neighborhood finding its rhythm.

"That verse you mentioned," he said. "About seeing clearly when the old certainties fall away. What did my aunt think it meant?"

Mrs. Okafor's expression was gentle. "She believed it meant you can't see what's actually there until you stop looking at what you think should be there."

"And what's actually there?"

"Whatever you're willing to fight for."

The last light faded from the garden, leaving them in comfortable darkness. King Uzziah's grave was barely visible among the roses, marked only by the small cairn and the memory of twenty-three years of magnificent vanity.

Toby felt something shift in his chest, a recognition he couldn't quite name. In the darkness, he could just make out the small cairn among the roses, and for the first time in three years, the garden felt like his.