Stew and Onions

He stood in the airy garage watching particles of dusk float in the sunlight. The roll door was up and he could see outside, through the light, down the driveway to the street. He loved this time of year, late Summer and this time of day, late afternoon. The light, the warmth of the day lingering, the big garage and the smell of onions hanging from nails around the walls. It reminded him of his childhood in this same house. Little had changed over the years. A door to the right in the back wall of the garage let to a large garden at the back of the house, most of which was taken up with a vegetable patch. His parents had tended to it ever since he could remember and when they had gone he had taken up the job. They had taught him which crops to plant, where and what time of year. How far apart should the seeds be sown and how deep should they go, leaving enough room for them to flourish. How to tell when they were ripe and when they should be harvested. Next to the vegetables were some herbs, rosemary, mint, thyme, basil. Behind the vegetables was a small field of corn that grew so quickly, higher than he stood now, so much taller than he was as a boy hiding from his parents, trying to call him in at the end of the day. On warm days when the earth started to crack he would fill a watering can from the water butt at the end of the garden and swing it back and forth, mimicking the rainfall as the rose on the end of the spout caused the water to spray. Do it in the evening, as the sun set so that the day’s heat didn’t cause the water to evaporate. Make sure that the soil was saturated and the water would permeate down to the roots. Wilting leaves would spring back to life and the plants would thank him for it with a full harvest. He loved working in the garden or just being in the garden, in the open air, in nature, having given life to it all, watching his garden grow. The garage walls were lined with shelving some containing auto parts, some with jars of herbs. A fridge and large chest freezer lined one wall leaving more space in the kitchen which could be accessed by a door in the right-hand wall. The kitchen had a large window over the sink that looked out over the garden. The sprawls of canes with beans and peas forming a green blanket next to the tops of carrots, onions, radishes and the herbs. In the right corner was the shed with the chickens and rabbit hutches. His father had taught him not to treat them as pets, to be detached but that was difficult. They were food, just as the vegetables and herbs were food, here to feed and sustain him. Part of the cycle of life. He preferred to be in the garden rather than the shed with it’s acrid smell and darkness. Cleaning the shed floor and hutches was a job he had got used to. The animal offerings fed the soil and ensured that his plants would thrive. The rabbits would be thankful for the greens and carrots and the chickens of the corn.

The left wall of the kitchen housed the large oven, hob with a worktop either side. Most of the rest of the kitchen space was taken up with a large wooden table where evening meals were always had. As a boy, his parents had taken in lodgers who would stay in the spare room, over the garage. One stood out as his favourite. Mr Tuperman, had been in the merchant navy and had travelled the world. He would sit at the kitchen table with the sleeves of his checked shirt always rolled up to the elbows, revealing a tattoo of an anchor on one big forearm and a sailboat on the other. Mr. T always had a half smile on his lips even when he spoke. ‘You had to have an anchor on your arm if you were a proper sailor’, he would chuckle. He would tell stories of sailing the high seas around the Capes Horn and Hope, the Pacific and Atlantic. Mountainous seas he thought he would never survive. Adventures in far-flung places with exotic people and customs. How here, in the kitchen, was his favourite place to sit with the smells of the herbs and onions drifting through the doorway from the garage. A large pot on the hob, bubbling away. Mum popping in to cut the herbs and vegetables, adding them to the stew, checking the heat. It reminded Mr T of the markets in the Middle East, India, faraway places, so far removed from here. How the same smells reminded him of those days and took him back to the bustling streets and colourful market stalls with the strange vegetables piled high, pans full of herbs and spices. Stalls with clothes, carpets, fabrics, hardware, pots, knives, sides of meat, live chickens in cages. These weren’t for tourists but this is where the locals came to buy their essentials for everyday living. It wasn’t so different from here and Mr. T liked that. He saw the distant look in Mr. T’s eyes as he was transported back remembering when he was young, strong and healthy and had no fears. He lived it too, imagining himself walking those same streets, seeing the same sights and breathing in the same smells.

He stood there now in the same light, same fresh air, faint smell of motor oil and the onions. The years fell away, remembering that day coming home from school, waiting for Mr. T and another instalment of his adventures abroad and his father telling him he’d moved on. Don’t worry, there’ll be other lodgers with different stories to tell. He recalled his sadness at the thought of no more stories of those exotic, faraway places. No goodbye. How could he have left without one last story and without saying goodbye.

He drifted back to that time, standing there in the garage, in the same light with the same ebbing heat of the day and the smell of onions in the air. He was that boy again, lifting the freezer lid, cold smoky air escaping. Plucked chickens, legs of rabbit and a frosty piece of meat with a sailboat tattoo.

He had another lodger now, Mr. Tyler, another Mr. T. He would be home soon, just in time for dinner. Stew and onions I think tonight.