The Horse Shit Fertilizer

The man was pruning the yellow leaves from one of his apple trees when he called out to his girlfriend.

As always, she finished what she was doing — washing lettuce — dried her hands and said,

“Yeah, darling, I’m coming.”

She walked over, unhurried, graceful in her own way.

He nodded at the tree. “Looks better now, doesn’t it?”

– “Oh, absolutely, love. Perfect.”

– “Think we should add some fertilizer?”

– “Yeah, those piles of horse manure you got — can’t get better than that for the trees.”

– “Ha! You said it. Let’s put some music on too. You want a drink?”

– “No, sweetheart, you go ahead.”

She went behind the wooden shed he’d built himself at the far end of the garden to fetch the manure. She was happy — truly happy — the kind of happiness that leaves no room for dark thoughts. Not even for the absurd notionthat a week from that very day, her boyfriend would die right there, in that same shed. She couldn’t imagine standing over him in panic, watching him fade, eyes open as if trying to say something she would never, ever understand. What was it he was trying to say at the very end?

He came over to her, a glass in his hand, grinning, quick in his movements.

“Today’s the hottest day of the year,” he said. “Best thing we can do is stay out here.”

– “Oh, love, you’re getting carried away again.”

– “I should call Mark — maybe we’ll go to Brighton. It’s my last bit of time off. After August, I’m working every weekend. We should just go tonight.”

– “I can drive,” she said. “You can drink, enjoy yourself. It’s your holiday, your choice.”

– “Then let’s finish up with these apple trees first. Or maybe I’ll tell Mark we’re going to Glastonbury instead.”

– “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

– “Pass me that bag, would you?”

He spread the manure around the trees with his usual energy, wiping sweat from his face with his jeans. Standing, crouching, circling the saplings. He stopped by the old eucalyptus tree — the first his father had planted twenty-five years ago — and drew a long, satisfied breath. The shade of its broad leaves stretched over half the garden. He felt good, the way he always did when he was alive in his work.

– “We could call the others,” he said. “Have them come round for a barbecue.”

– “Jane’s probably working.”

– “I could ask Matt.”

– “I thought you didn’t feel like seeing Jane.”

– “I feel like everything today. Why?”

– “Last time she drove you mad with her questions.”

– “Oh… yeah. I forgot.”

– “Well, you didn’t exactly make it easy for her.”

– “I just wish I could’ve asked those questions myself before she did.”

– “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

– “Hmm. Maybe not. Anyway, what do you think?”

– “They look great, honey. I think that’s enough.”

– “I meant Jane’s questions.”

– “Oh… which ones?”

– “Do you want us to get married? Properly?”

– “Oh, love, you know I’ve never been after a bit of paper.”

– “Yeah, I think we’re after something else.”

– “Exactly. I’m happier with what we have than with any certificate.”

– “Then tell me if you ever want more.”

– “These moments are enough for me.”

She smiled — warm, genuine, content. And she had no idea that less than a week later she’d be crying on Jane’s shoulder, whispering the same desperate wish over and over:

“I hope his sister lets me stay in the house. I just want to keep his memory alive. I just want to grow old here with him.”

Then she’d bury her face in her hands, trembling, sobbing in disbelief.

Two weeks after his death, his sister threw her out — a different excuse each time.

One day she had no money.

Another day her university kids needed help.

Selling the house would fix everything.

Finally, she called it “a teardown” and sent electricians to tell the not-quite widow that the wiring was unsafe, and she couldn’t stay without power.

The woman knew it was time to pack everything — every sweet and bitter moment — into a suitcase and move to her sister’s cramped one-bedroom flat, with the annoying cat.

She called Jane, asked if she and Matt could help her move. Her boyfriend’s sister had taken her car, saying it wasn’t safe to drive a vehicle registered in the name of a dead man.

She walked through the house — kitchen, living room, the bed, the pillows that, like her boyfriend, had gone lifeless. She picked up her last bag — toothbrush, shampoo, deodorant — and from the upstairs window, the one that looked over the garden, she took a final, aching look. Every tree, every sapling still waiting to grow.

Her eyes fell on the bags of “horse shit fertilizer,” sitting by the shed where he had died. Most of it had already been used. Life in that house had stopped, but those bags still made her feel strangely alive — maybe because it was something they had never finished together.

But no — if unfinished things carried life, then the pen stuck in his medical journal, marking his last page, would’ve pulsed with more life than anything else. His muddy gardening boots did feel alive, though. They breathed, full of questions.

Why.

Why.

Why.

She stared at the manure, lost in it, remembering the day they’d gone to buy it.

He had woken her up early for it. They’d both been in good spirits, had a big breakfast, ready for a busy day. Neither knew much about fertilizer, though he pretended he did. They both had laughed the whole time. Even the shopkeeper had smiled as he took their money.

Back home, they carried the bags together — one at each end — too heavy for one person. The air was humid; sweat ran down their faces. When they finished, he poured two glasses of water, handed one to her where she stood at the end of the garden, trying to catch her breath.

He smiled and said,

“Hey! When you were leaving your country for London, did you ever think you’d end up hauling horse shit?”

She laughed, lowered her head, took a sip of warm water, and the smile stayed — bright and unguarded — on her face.