The smell of beetroots

It felt like a rugby tackle, low, secure, sturdy - but but not violent enough to knock him off his feet. The kitchen was still dark in the early morning making it difficult to see, and he was not quite awake enough to react with surprise - nothing’s ever a surprise when you’re asleep is it? Even the oddest dreams make sense until you’re having your second cup of tea of the day.

He rubbed his eyes, straining to see what was going on down there around his knees, and just made out what looked like, well, what did it look like? A knobbly swede with hair. Two beady eyes blinked at him, and the hug at knee height continued for a few seconds longer. The smell of earth hung in the air.

‘Erm,’ Joe cleared his throat. Not sure what to say after that. It’s not every morning that you come across a…

‘A troll,’ said the troll. ‘I’m a troll - that’s how you folk refer to us. We’ve not all gone, you know.’ The troll released Joe’s legs and stood there looking up at him. ‘Of course, that’s a derogatory name you lot saddled us with that’s stuck; we’re actually Earthkin, and in particular those of us who tend gardens are Bloomwardens. It’s not all about bridges, you know, despite the Bridgekeepers’ PR machine.’

Joe was at a loss. What do you do when you find a troll in your kitchen? Especially one that appeared to be slightly cross that Joe hadn’t been expecting the encounter.

‘You could offer me a cup of tea,’ suggested the troll. ‘In the circumstances, that would be the polite thing to do.’

‘Yes, yes of course. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just a drop of whisky thanks.’

Firewater. Makes sense.

Joe put the kettle on and moments later they were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table. The troll had laboriously climbed up his chair and sat with a sigh, legs just poking over the edge of the seat.

The mug was large enough that the troll had to take it in both hands to keep it steady as he drank. He seemed not to be bothered by holding something as hot. The troll took a big slurp, placing the mug carefully back on its coaster and wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.

‘I just thought I’d pop in before I left,’ said the troll.

Absolutely nothing about this conversation (if indeed that’s what it was) was making any sense.

‘Give you some tips for the dahlias, you know,’ the troll continued.

‘The dahlias?’

‘Well yes, I know you’ve been using that fertiliser stuff, but that’s not what makes your dahlias award winners.’

‘No?’

‘Not At All,’ the troll, thick eyebrows almost joined together in emphasis. ‘I mean, you’re welcome to keep using the fertiliser, but you’re wasting your money. But for best results, you’ll need to sing to them. And it must be in the key of G minor. That’s the one with F-sharp in it,’ he added. As if the key signature would mean anything at all to Joe who was entirely tone deaf and hadn’t sung since Sunday school 60-odd years ago.

The troll didn’t appear to be surprised that the conversation was so one-sided.

He reached a stubby but muscular arm over the table towards Joe: ‘Pleased to meet you at last, Joe. I’m Embertoot. It’s been a pleasure working for you.’

‘Working for me?’ Joe asked faintly.

‘Aye. Helping you with your entries to the garden produce show, making sure our efforts are good enough to win. Your diligence, and my persistence with, ah, singing to your dahlias and your pot leeks. I think you’ll agree that the last 22 years have been highly productive.’ He gestured now at Joe’s noticeboard which was covered with pictures of Joe smiling and holding a rosette next to giant leeks, orange dahlias, pumpkins, turnips and even a couple of rudely shaped parsnips. ‘Those parsnips,’ Embertoot shook his head in disbelief and admiration. ‘I think we really achieved something there.’

‘And you’re leaving?’ asked Joe.

‘Want to see a bit more of the world you know, now the little’uns are off. Twig’s apprenticed to a Stonewalker up at Hadrian’s Wall, and my Wren’s just married a Grovewarden at Dalby. Thought it was a good time, you know?’

‘Oh?’ Joe raised an eyebrow and took a swig of tea. ‘Nepal? Venezuela? I’ve always fancied Georgia.’

‘Pontefract,’ said Embertoot dreamily. As though it was the most exotic place on earth, despite being only 30 miles away.

‘Right.’

They drank the their tea in silence.

‘I’d better just quickly show you how to sing to the plants, and I’ll be off then,’ said Embertoot as he lurched sideways and dropped down from the chair. He pottered over to the back door, and Joe wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen it, but Embertoot lifted the door of the catflap which he was clearly far to wide to fit through and sucked himself through it. It took a second, and there he was, on the other side of the locked door. At this point, Joe thought it might be an idea to ring his GP for a quick check-up when the surgery opened at 8am. Now though, he unlocked the door and left the house in the boring way he usually did. 

In the garden, among the runner beans, the rows of carrots and onions, Embertoot was limbering up. Jumping jacks, furious jogging on the spot. Joe hung back, not wanting to draw attention to his presence in case he would be forced to join in doing physical jerks. In his garden. With a troll.

The Earthkin turned round. ‘Ready?’ he beckoned. ‘Do it like this,’ he took a deep breath, paused and then began to sing. The sound was surprising. It sounded earthy like a spade pushing through peat, but light, like the wings of a swallow, and yet ethereal, like the air you get between the wind in the trees. Just like that. And yet like nothing he’d ever heard. Embertoot stopped. Listened. ‘They like it; do you hear that? They’re growing.’ Joe listened, but all he could hear were outside noises.

‘You don’t need to practise now, but to get really good you will need to.’ He shrugged his coat tighter about him, and made a move towards the side gate.

‘So what will you be doing in, um, Pontefract?’

‘I’ve got a job as a parking attendant with Parking Magic in partnership with the council.’

Wow. That would be a change. Cars and trolls? Do trolls know much about cars?

‘Aye. It’s perfect for me; I’ll be able to use my magic - I can’t imagine parking magic is any different to the ordinary sort - and actually as a parking attendant, I can’t think there’s anything nicer than helping people to enjoy parks - what could be more fulfilling? I mean really, you people just walk past so much without even noticing so much as a leaf. It’s so frustrating.’

Oh dear God. He doesn’t know… ‘You know, if you’re not sure about it and you want to come back…’

‘Well thanks, old friend. But I think this might be it - might be just the change I need.’ And with that, he bowed, turned smartly and bustled off into the morning.

Joe rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he watched the Earthkin leave.

* * *

The garden produce festival that summer was a washout, and not just because of the weather. The dahlias were limp, the leeks were skinny, and Joe had been singing his heart out all summer. The young couple next door had put their house up for sale.

Joe readied the the garden for the long winter fallow, clearing away what wouldn’t last through, breaking up the soil and preparing it for the next planting. As he straightened up at the end of a long day’s gardening, he watched the sun dip below the houses at the end of the street. He didn’t have the energy to cook anything tonight - it’d be a good evening for fish and chips. He stretched, put the tools in the greenhouse and went in the house.

The kitchen was dim with the evening light and cluttered with yesterday’s dishes on the table and the sink. Joe took a deep breath to let out a sigh, and what was that? The smell of beetroots. Earth.

Rustling came from the pantry, and the door opened.

‘Oh, you’re back!’ said Joe.

‘Thought you might like a hand with the leeks.’

‘Well, certainly. It’s not been a good year for produce.’

‘Well it’s as I always say, if you give them plenty of care and fertiliser…’

‘You do? I seem to remember…’

‘Oh that, nah, I just liked the thought of you standing in your garden singing every night.’

Joe flopped onto a wooden chair, speechless.

‘Humans will believe anything trolls say,’ Embertoot explained. ‘Anyhow, were you thinking about fish and chips?’

‘You’re staying then?’

‘I feel I’ve seen as much of the world as I need to. Wasn’t as I thought. Things never are, are they?’