Under the Gnomes

Fred Williams was not a man who asked for much. He lived with his wife in the leafy English suburb of Maniton. A decent cup of tea, a relatively peaceful morning, and the absence of small, sticky-fingered humans were usually enough to keep him content. Unfortunately for Fred, his life had become a three-ring circus of shrieking grandchildren, overgrown gardens, and an increasingly unhinged wife with a passion for jam-making and ornamental gnomes.

"Are you awake, Fred?" came Sheila's voice, sharp as a bread knife. She poked a long red talon between his ribs a few times for good measure.

Fred groaned to himself. "No."

"I'm minding Jack today, so I have to pick him up. And I told Betty I’d drop off her jars of turnip chutney. Oh, and I told Mrs Morris you'd fix her garden."

Fred blinked at the ceiling, then turned to find Sheila hovering by the bed with hands on hips and an expression that said she’d already won. Their grey Persian cat, Silky, made rapid figure-eights around her feet like a sentient feather duster, somehow aware its breakfast time of 8AM-on-the-dot was rapidly approaching.

“You did what?” Fred groaned, rubbing his eyes.

“I told Mrs Morris you’d sort her jungle out. She said it hasn’t been touched since 2006.”

Fred squinted at the clock. It was 7:58AM.

“All right, woman, I’m up,” he muttered, lifting one leg out of bed with the drama of a martyr. As soon as Sheila left, Fred yanked the duvet back over his chest—bliss. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. And then came the screech.

“Yes! I’ve won! I’ve won!” Sheila burst into the bedroom, red-faced and almost hopping up and down with excitement.

“Really? And what have you won this time?” Fred feigned interest.

“Dinner at Thistle’s, that new place in town! Unfortunately,” she added with a glance of disdain, “I have to take you.”

Fred dragged himself to the window and peered across at Mrs Morris’s house—or rather, the jungle where it used to be. The garden hadn’t seen a pair of clippers in years. Sheila had volunteered him for this insanity during her last preserves party, tipsy on Sauvignon Blanc and euphoric over radish and pineapple jam.

Mrs Morris had said wistfully, “I should really get my garden sorted. Heaven knows what’s living in it.”

“I’ll send Fred over!” Sheila had declared, benevolent and rash.

A couple of minutes later, Fred reluctantly pulled on his clothes and peered through the curtains at Mrs Morris’s property. You couldn’t really see the house—just a fortress of foliage.

He crossed the street reluctantly, hoping she wasn’t home.

“Fred!” Mrs Morris shrieked, appearing like a rotund pantomime fairy godmother as soon as Fred had set one foot in the wilderness, “some coffee and cake?”

“Er, no, thank you,” he replied, trudging into the house after her.

“Too late,” she said cheerfully, already boiling a kettle that was definitely pre-millennium. Fred accepted the sludge that arrived in a cracked mug bearing the slogan ‘World’s Best Lover’. It tasted like betrayal and instant granules. The accompanying slab of cake looked like it could stop a bullet.

Silky, who had followed Fred across the street out of curiosity, sat on the outside windowsill, glaring in at Mrs Morris’s scraggly terrier, which glared right back out of its one functioning eye. Fred wasn’t sure which animal concerned him more.

“I want my garden to look like this,” she stated, sliding a picture torn out of a magazine across the table. Fred studied it as if it were a ransom note, recognizing it as the famous gardens of Versailles and looking bemusedly at the myriad manicured hedges and fountains. He almost choked on the particle board-like cake. Muttering something about “giving it a go”, he escaped outside before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon could occur to her. The “garden” in question was less of a yard and more of a botanical siege. He waded through chest-high grasses, carefully avoiding anything that looked like it might hiss, bite or give him tetanus.

By noon, he had cleared about four and a half square feet and found two dog-chewed tennis balls, a pair of rusted shears, and several wire baskets from the local corner shop.

Back home, Sheila was in full “project mode,” which was always bad news for Fred. She was preparing for an underwear party— “tasteful undergarments only,” she emphasized, as if that clarified anything. Bras the size of hammocks covered the kitchen table, and Silky was attempting to tunnel into a pair of floral knickers.

“I need Grace’s room cleared out for the new lodger,” she declared.

“The what? We’re getting a tenant now?” Fred asked.

“I put an ad in the newspaper,” she informed him, handing over the cutting.

Fred read aloud. “‘Walking distance to the bus station’—Sheila, it’s two miles!”

She raised one eyebrow slightly.

“Brilliant,” Fred muttered. “Another person to fight for the loo and trip over the cat.”

Silky blinked slowly from her perch like an empress surveying peasants.

Fred slunk away to the pub which was thankfully closer than the bus station. The Blue Bottle was Fred’s sanctuary. A humble pub with sticky floors, horse brasses on the walls, and a faint smell of pipe smoke that never quite went away despite the smoking ban having been in place for the best part of two decades, it was his second home. His mates were already there—Harry, Derek, and Albert—men who understood the value of silence, beer, and complaining about their wives without consequence.

“Sheila’s got a new hobby,” Fred announced.

“What is it this time?” Derek asked.

“Underwear parties.”

Harry perked up. “You serious? Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Fred nodded. “Lace, elastic, labels, the works. I came home and found a rhinestone-studded thong draped over the tea kettle.”

Albert shuddered.

“And now she’s renting out Grace’s room to a stranger.”

“I had a tenant once,” Derek offered. “French bloke. Cooked fancy stuff. Miss him more than I missed our dog when she ran off.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “Maybe yours will be a chef. Ha ha ha.”

“Or a serial killer,” Fred muttered into his pint.

Back at home, the chaos was in full swing. Jack had constructed a fort out of cushions and was attempting to repel invisible invaders using a soup ladle and half a soggy cookie. Sheila, oblivious, was hosting Betty, Brenda and Mrs Elliott for a dry run of her undergarment extravaganza. Fred stepped in just as Brenda was attempting to model a supportive corset over her cardigan.

Fred turned around to head back to Mrs Morris’s, the lesser of two evils, but found the back door wouldn’t budge. After a few seconds of rattling the handle, he realized it was locked. He reached into his jacket. Empty. “Where the devil are my keys?”

“You probably left them on the worktop again,” Sheila informed him. “You’ll have to use the spare to get back in. It’s under the gnome!”

Fred paused at the gate. Gnome? There were dozens of the damned things. Gnomes fishing, gnomes playing banjos, gnomes reading books, gnomes looking like they were plotting a coup. Sheila was obsessed. Every trip away resulted in a new ceramic addition to their army of miniature lawn-dwellers.

Fred began lifting them one by one. After the twelfth gnome, the heavens opened and it started to rain. By the twenty-third gnome, his back was sore and cold rainwater was snaking under his collar and trickling down his back.

At the twenty-fifth gnome, the inevitable happened and Fred lost his grip.

The gnome smashed into shards.

Sheila appeared behind him within half a second, pink polka-dot umbrella in hand, face like thunder.

“You broke Reggy!”

Fred blinked. “How do you know? They all look the same.”

“He had a fishing rod! He was my favorite!”

“I’ll glue him.”

“You’ll regret him.”

Fred stood there dripping, holding half a gnome’s face, thinking this might be the day he finally ran away to join the circus.

Later, at Thistle’s, Sheila ordered with flair: “Prawn cocktail! Beef Wellington! Spotted dick and custard! A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc!”

Fred pasted on a smile for the photographer. “I’ll have the soup and then the lamb, please.”

Sheila was putting on a show for the young-looking Maniton Herald photographer, flirting with the camera, acting like royalty. The food was decent. The wine was too dry for Fred's taste, although most of it was disappearing down Sheila's gullet at warp speed anyway. He offered a glass to the photographer, uncertain whether he had even reached drinking age. “Help yourself. Sheila won’t finish it.”

When Sheila returned from the ladies’, her lipstick was redder and slightly smeared over a tooth.

The photographer, who was apparently also a reporter, asked, “So, what do you do, Fred?”

“Used to sell photocopiers. Now I do gardens. Bit of painting. Whatever needs doing.”

“He pays all his taxes,” Sheila interjected with narrowed eyes, suspicious he might be an undercover investigator.

“And you, Mrs. Williams?”

“I sell preserves. Quality garments. I host tasteful parties,” she said, with a sniff.

The photographer said his mother sold Tupperware. Sheila smiled like she’d tasted vinegar.

Dessert arrived. Sheila was now on her second bottle of wine and showing the photographer family photos. Fred counted twenty eight. At least. Each accompanied by a detailed description.

The food was lovely. The conversation was excruciating. Time passed like a slug walking through treacle.

The next day, Silky brought in her fourth mouse of the week. Alive. Fred stared in horror as it zipped under the sofa.

“She’s just playing,” Sheila said proudly, who had woken up with what she called “a migraine” although Fred knew better than to comment. “She’s got that cute little killer instinct, haven't you, my baby?”

“Great,” Fred muttered, who wasn't keen on mice dead or alive but knew it would be his job to dispose of it. “A feline Ted Bundy.”

Silky later curled up smugly on Fred’s sweater, leaving behind enough long white hairs to knit a scarf. Fred wore it anyway to avoid comment, looking like a sad yeti going through a rough divorce.

By the time the first potential tenant arrived, Grace’s room was half-cleared and still smelled faintly of nail polish and despair. Sheila had lit a scented candle (“Midnight Magnolia”) and set out shortbread fingers on bone china, like they were luring in royalty.

Downstairs, the underwear party was in full swing. Women cackled, clutched wine glasses, and tried on overly rhinestoned bras.

A short, skinny-looking man rang the doorbell.

“You told me to come and view the room this evening,” he said, eyes widening at Sheila in her layered undergarments.

She dragged him upstairs by the elbow, past the glaring cat.

“This is Grace’s room. Obviously, it’ll be tidied up a bit more.”

He nodded, wide-eyed, and then fled.

The second candidate was a man named Neil. He was polite, perhaps too polite. He complimented the throw cushions. He smiled a lot at the tipsy ladies. He asked whether Silky had any food preferences. Sheila was enchanted. Fred, less so.

“He won’t last the week,” he muttered to Derek the following afternoon. “Too soft. He blinked when Jack lobbed a tomato at him.”

“What happened to Reggy?” asked Harry.

“Shattered. He’s now part of the driveway.”

“Was that the fishing one?” Albert looked horrified.

Fred nodded. “Sheila’s still in mourning. Keeps whispering his name into her tea.”

Despite Fred’s objections, Neil moved in. He came with a suitcase, a milk frother and a bamboo bathmat. Within three days, Silky had peed on the mat and Jack had peed on Neil’s suitcase—accidentally, allegedly.

Fred started spending more time at The Blue Bottle.

“I envy you,” he confessed to Harry one night.

“You what?”

“You live alone. No gnomes. No tantrums. No men named Neil who alphabetize the fridge.”

“I also don’t have clean socks,” Harry replied.

Fred considered this. “You’re still ahead.”

The next Saturday was the infamous car boot sale, or junk in the trunk sale as Fred liked to think of it. Row upon row of parked cars where people would sell their unwanted junk and buy other people’s unwanted junk instead, so everyone could go home with the same amount of junk they started off with. It was a British institution. Sheila had roped him in with the words “team effort,” which he knew translated to: “you do the heavy lifting, and everything else.” Fred loaded all the boxes from the garage into the car. Again. Some were now labelled “Misc (Precious)” and “Do Not Crush (Bras).”

By 11AM, Fred had sold a broken lamp, a bag of slightly chewed crayons and a porcelain duck with no beak.

At noon, an old woman in a feathered hat picked up a one-eyed gnome and asked, “Is this for sale?”

Fred nodded, “Everything’s for sale.”

“Sheila won’t like that,” came a voice behind him.

Fred turned to find Neil holding a tray of homemade granola bars.

“Why are you here?” Fred asked.

“Sheila asked me to help.”

Fred stared at the man. “You... willingly came to a car boot sale? With granola bars?”

Neil nodded.

Fred took one, bit into it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He wondered if Mrs Morris had given Neil the recipe.

By late afternoon, Sheila was pleased. She’d sold half her stock, made £43 profit, and received numerous compliments on her bunting. Fred, meanwhile, had sunburn, an irksome oat crumb in his sock he couldn't find, and a simmering resentment toward all lawn ornaments.

Back home, he went to the shed under the pretense of “reorganizing the socket set.” In reality, he just needed ten minutes of silence and the comforting faint aroma of engine oil.

Then Neil appeared.

“I’ve washed all the dishes,” Neil said.

Fred stared at him. “Congratulations?”

“And I cleaned the microwave.” Neil looked very pleased with himself.

Fred sighed and looked bemused. Neil nodded slowly and backed away, like a man realizing he’d walked into the wrong support group.

Later that day, Fred was back at The Blue Bottle with the lads.

“She’s forgiven me for smashing Reggy,” he said, sipping his pint. “Only took several hours of groveling and a new limited-edition ‘gnome on a tricycle’.”

“I saw that monstrosity when I walked past earlier,” said Derek. “Looks like it belongs in a haunted amusement park.”

“She named it Trevor,” Fred added.

Albert winced. “What is it with giving them names?”

“They’re part of the family, apparently,” Fred said grimly.

There was a pause. Then Harry asked, “So what’s next, then? More gnomes? More lodgers? Another corset party?”

Fred leaned back with a look of quiet rebellion.

“I’ve decided I’m taking back control of my garden,” he said. “One gnome at a time.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Harry.

Fred grinned. “Nothing drastic. Just… subtle repositioning.”

“Repositioning?” Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Every day, I’m going to move one gnome a few inches. Just enough to unsettle her. One day it’ll be facing the house. The next, slightly to the left. Eventually, she’ll think they’re moving on their own. You know, like in Roald Dahl’s ‘The Twits’.”

There was a stunned silence. Then Albert started laughing so hard he snorted beer up his nose and nearly fell off his barstool.

“You’re evil,” he wheezed, eyes running with mirth.

Fred sipped his pint. “Thank you.”

That night, after Sheila had gone to bed, Fred slipped outside with a flashlight and a sense of purpose. He picked up Fergus—the one with a watering can—and rotated him twenty degrees anticlockwise.

“Let the games begin,” he whispered.

From the windowsill, Silky watched, tail twitching with suspicion.

Fred gave the gnome a final pat on the head.

“Sleep tight, Fergus.”

And with that, Maniton’s slowest and most passive-aggressive gnome rebellion was officially underway.

“You know, she’s a classic, your Sheila,” Harry told Fred, the next time they were at The Blue Bottle.

“You can have her.”

Harry leaned in, conspiratorially. “I know a bloke…”

Fred froze.

“Just joking!” Harry roared, "ha ha ha ha ha!"

Fred wasn’t sure if he was more disturbed by the joke—or how tempting it sounded.