As the winter chill receded and the air began to thaw, the rattle of garage doors opening merged with the slamming back of bolts on garden sheds. From said garages and sheds, the men of Kingfisher Avenue emerged, shielded by their lawnmowers.
Steve, with his bog-standard electric mower, the cord masked in electrical tape to repair the damage from all the times he’d mowed straight over it.
Gareth, with his fancy cordless affair that Steve is jealous of, not that he’s ever vocalised that fact.
Paul, with his mid-life crisis ride-on mower, resplendent in the same metallic red as his mid-life crisis Porsche.
(‘His lawn’s not even that big,’ whispered Steve’s wife, Mary, to Gareth’s wife, Annie, over their fence. “Mind you, Stacey tells me it’s not the only thing of Paul’s that’s not that big” Both women giggled. They made plans to meet for lunch later.)
And Trev, with his simple, unelectrified, and really, really old push mower.
The men nodded to each other as they began to tend their lawns.
“All right?”
“All right?”
“All right?”
“All right?”
No more talking. Lawns were a serious business. No time to chit-chat. Men don’t chit-chat anyway. Everyone knows that. Still, though, Steve glanced up every now and then. The other men’s brows were furrowed in concentration. Steve quietly thought of the four of them as the Lawnmower Club, though, of course, he didn’t talk about it.
Eventually, they finished their work and stowed their mowers safely away.
“See you.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
Each man retreated behind his closed door.
The weeks passed. Spring bloomed in full. The wives gathered on the street, chatting and laughing. The men, however, emerged only occasionally, every three weeks or so, clutching their lawnmowers.
“All right?”
“All right?”
“All right?”
“All right?”
Job done satisfactorily, they packed up once more.
“See you.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
Steve hesitated a moment, then also said, “See you.”
The wives marvelled at their socially backward menfolk.
Spring begat summer, which begat autumn. Mowing season was almost at an end. The men breathed in the cool autumnal air.
“All right?”
“All right?”
“All right?”
“All right?”
Which is when Steve said, “Probably the last mow of the year.”
This was unheard of. A conversational gambit? It was a shocking contravention of the group’s social norms. Silence blanketed the four men.
Gareth nodded, then stared at the ground.
Paul did the same.
“Most likely,” ventured Trev, breaking the quiet half-heartedly, before also staring at the ground. A worm stared back, before burrowing away to safety.
The four focused on their lawns even more fixedly than usual, exhausted and confused by this unexpected social interaction. Task completed, they each packed their mowers away for the final time of the year.
“See you.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
Before they all left, Steve opened his mouth once more. “Does anyone…” he began, but then he caught Paul’s eye, thought better of speaking, looked away, blushed and retreated indoors. He stared out of the kitchen window to the back yard. Mary was on the decking, pouring a cup of tea for Trev’s wife, Sue.
“I just can’t get him to buy a new one,” Sue said. ‘God knows how an old thing like that still goes at all.’
“Are you talking about Trev or the lawnmower?” said Mary. Both erupted in peals of laughter.
Steve made a cup of tea and went to sit in the front room, alone.
Winter came. Mary pulled on her hat, scarf and gloves.
“Where are you off to?” Steve asked her.
“Just meeting the girls from the street for a drink in town,” she said. He nodded. She gave him a kiss goodbye. The door slammed shut.
Steve sat in his armchair by the window. The television was on, but he wasn’t watching it. Instead, he stared at Gareth’s house opposite. It stared back, blankly. Steve fancied for a moment that he saw movement behind the net curtains, but wasn’t sure. Next door to Gareth’s, Trev appeared and clambered behind the wheel of his battered old car. Steve waved. Trev looked away. ‘Probably didn’t see me,’ Steve lied to himself. He looked at his shed. He could just see the handles of his mower through the frosted glass window. He slumped back into his chair.
Outside, the sky darkened and snow began to fall. It would be a long winter.
David Cook’s stories have been published in Ellipsis Zine, Janus Literary, Truffle Magazine, the National Flash Fiction Anthology and many more. He’s a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. He lives in Bridgend, Wales, with his wife and daughter. He hates mowing the lawn. Find him on Twitter @davidcook100.