Green Fingers

Karan Nayar observed the mock Georgian house, its portico framing a bottle green door. He and Preeti bought the house over twenty-five years ago. He recalled a song that amused them, ‘And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.’ He smiled at the memory.

That he was there at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon was exceptional. For many years his routine was to leave early, taking the train to a City bank. Preeti looked after their house, providing for him and their children, sharing conversation and television before an early bedtime.

A ‘progressive approach’ implemented by the new owners of his firm meant that he was no longer needed. Helped on his way by a golden handshake, self-assured young people were now inheriting his legacy.

He grieved for his lost life. He knew grief, the desolation felt after losing both parents, worn out by life, his distress when Preeti was diagnosed with breast cancer, too late for treatment. When she died seven years ago, he coped by taking on a housekeeper called Elena.

A shout, ‘Dad!’ brought him back to reality. ‘What are you staring at?’

Kris was untidily dressed in plain colours, skinny khakis, a white t-shirt and loose jacket, like any other nineteen-year-old student.

‘So, this is your new future!’ Kris exclaimed. His father’s presence at home on a weekday was a sign of existential change.

‘Let’s see if Elena has left something to eat,’ said Karan. In the kitchen they made cheese and pickle sandwiches. Karan filled the kettle for tea but both men settled for a can of diet cola.

‘You could say that today is the first day of the rest of my life’ said Karan, trying to be philosophical. ‘But I really do not have a clue what to do. All I ever knew was my job.’

‘Has no-one offered you a new one? You must have a good reputation in the City.’

‘An unwritten rule says that I cannot accept a job from anyone who might be a competitor. I have to be loyal and maintain confidentiality even to the people who betrayed me,’ said Karan bitterly.

‘That’s crap, Dad. Does that mean there’s nothing for you?’

‘I imagine so, I cannot see anyone taking me on at my age. But what can I do here? Help Stan the Gardener? Or learn DIY?’ Karan shook his head.

‘You would be useless! Look at your soft hands. You don’t know which way to turn a screwdriver. And warn me if you use anything like an electric drill!’ Kris smiled at the mental image. He finished his sandwich, stood up, put the plate and glass in the dishwasher. ‘I have a gig tonight, at College, dee-jaying for the Rugby Club. I’ll be back late.’

‘See you later,’ replied Karan, not fully understanding every word. He stared at the wall in the empty kitchen.

- o -

Karan’s parents had settled in unremarkable Slough where they worked seven days a week to build a business. Karan rarely saw his father. He was sent to a private school to be given an ‘English’ education, which included being bullied for his family’s origin and mocked for his accent. Karan withdrew, applied himself to mathematics and sciences, made only one friend, and excelled at examinations.

Karan adopted the same paternal role, applying himself to his career but dutifully providing for his family. Preeti managed efficiently despite the chaos precipitated by two young children. It was an old-fashioned distinction but the result was deemed to be sensible and desirable.  

Karan’s only other interest was cricket. He envied Preeti who read books and joined a reading group. He listened as she talked about a new book or a favourite author, marvelling at her knowledge and enthusiasm. But he was unequal to her in both respects and could only respond with platitudes.

He had made few friends among his fellow pupils, at college or the bank. He joined no clubs, never went to the pub and avoided socialising except during Preeti’s family gatherings. Shilpa, his daughter, was married and moved to Reading. He was waiting for a grand-child. Kris would probably leave when he graduated. On this awful day, Karan’s raison d’être, his modus operandi, his reason for getting up in the morning had been abruptly terminated. A void stretched before him. 

He had coped with being alone with exam successes and promotion at the bank which brought him recognition and approbation. His compact family gave him genuine comfort. It was an end in itself, he had no other ambition. He had no desire to become famous, he preferred to be unnoticed. He did not seek power, what use could it be? As for money, he had sufficient for his unostentatious needs.

He had never created much except spreadsheets and tax efficient investment products. He was only vaguely aware of history, culture, or media. At school he had daubed bright colours across sheets of paper and pummelled clay into dinosaur shapes but never he took them home. They would never be praised and stuck on the fridge door with magnets.

- o -

‘Bugger this,’ he said uncharacteristically, out loud and to no-one. He had to learn new skills. Kris’s words came to mind. Surely, using a drill was a basic skill that even he could acquire. There must be one in the garage.

Kris had taken over the garage when he was given a drum kit for his 14th birthday. He practised his percussion solos, lining the walls with egg trays to reduce the decibels. It had become his private ‘studio’. He installed computers, screens, games consoles and a recording and mixing deck.

Karan opened the garage door, pressing the green button on the remote control. The wide entrance door swung upwards, exposing the chaotic interior. On workbenches along one wall, black and beige computer equipment was laid out, festooned with interconnecting wires. Thick power cables descended to the floor, looping up towards the wall to be plugged into multiple power sockets. Dark screens were arrayed along the bench.

Along the opposite wall was a bench with tools including a drill, plugged into a charger. Shelves carried jars, canisters and plastic trays with a jumble of metal and plastic. He noted a small microwave oven and a kettle. On the back wall was an old sofa which evidently had been used at some time for sleeping.

There was an unusual smell, musky, like the odour produced by a living thing. In the far corner, an array of lamps shone down on a small forest of bright green leaves. A poster was pinned to the wall with a picture of a seven-pointed green leaf and the words ‘LEGALISE IT’.

Karan picked up the drill, touched nothing else and left the garage, closing the door firmly as he walked back to the house. He sat in the kitchen for hours trying to piece together what this all meant. He was not concerned about the illegality of it, or if the Police might take an interest. He wondered how this could have happened under his own roof without him knowing. He realised how little he knew about his own son. Did that make him a bad father?

He waited for Kris. What should he say to him? Should he be angry or supportive? Do the Police need to know? Does Kris need punishment or rehabilitation? After all, this was his son. He could not betray him. He was also impressed by his son’s abilities. Why should his green-fingers make him a criminal?

Just before midnight, Kris returned, entering the kitchen from the back door. He was surprised to see his father sitting at the table. In front of him lay the drill. Kris knew where he had found it and realised that his father now knew everything.

‘Dad, what can I say? I, I…,’ Kris faltered.

‘Just tell me, are you taking drugs?’ Karan asked.

‘I did smoke a couple of joints at school but it was hard to get supplies, and there was always the danger of getting caught. I did not want that so I stopped. Smoking made me cough anyway. My last purchase was a packet of seeds from a boy who knew someone whose older brother went to Brixton occasionally. I managed to germinate them and grow a couple of small plants. There is plenty of information on the internet. I gave them to my friends.’

‘There is a small green forest out there now. You seem to be quite good at growing the stuff. What do you do with it? Karan had many questions.

‘This is my first real crop. It’s been growing for about three months and will start budding soon. Its smell is getting a bit obvious. I will need an extractor fan soon.’ Kris was wondering why Karan was not angry.

Karan answered that unspoken question. ‘I do not think that this should be reported to the Police. Why would I do that to my own son?’ He continued, ‘I am very impressed by your skill and imagination, the things that I lack.’

Kris was perplexed, waiting for what would come next.

‘What is your crop worth?’

‘I don’t really know…,’ Kris stammered, surprise at the bluntness. ‘Perhaps five hundred for each plant.’

‘There are about twenty of them, that’s ten thousand.’ It was not a difficult calculation. ‘How would you sell it?’ asked Karan.

‘I would have to sell it to the London dealers. They always want a good supply.’

Karan said ‘Let us not talk of this again for a couple of weeks. I need to think. You might let me know when you can produce another crop, how much, and what you need to set it up. And the cost of an extractor fan’.

Karan had found a way to fill the void. He hoped that this would also bring him closer to his son. It was a perfect solution.