Chapter Text
The rain hadn’t quite stopped, but that didn’t prevent him from running down the field, away from the hated building, as fast as he could. He had no coat, just a hooded sweater. His jeans and trainers quickly became saturated as he made his way through the soaked grass.
As he reached the chain-link fence, he cast an eye behind him to make sure he was not being followed, before he hauled himself up. He was short and skinny for his age so it took two goes. He paused briefly at the top before letting go, staggering into the ground below. Then he was running again.
He told himself that this time he wouldn’t stop. This time he would find the strength to keep going. He won’t ever go back.
He had been at St Margaret’s for four years and this was his ninth escape attempt. He was usually picked up after a few days by the police after being reported by a well-meaning member of the public. The longest time he had spent free had been two weeks during which time he had slept under canal bridges and begged for change to buy chips. It had been summer then. It was Autumn now. He didn’t care, though. He just ran.
There didn’t appear to be anyone in the allotments that day and he darted easily between the plots. The rain got heavier which was when he spotted a welcome shed, a shed with only a bolt and no padlock. Quickly, he changed course, struggling briefly with the rusty bolt before hurling himself inside.
Breathing harshly, he crouched down under the work bench amongst the discarded flower pots and bean poles, allowing the treacherous tears to overcome him.
Sheds made him feel safe. If he closed his eyes and thought really hard he could remember his Dad’s shed. He remembered his hands, the way they worked the vice on the workbench. He remembered being permitted to watch those hands working steadily while he sat quietly on the floor. He remembered that unique smell, the way the light glinted off the rows of tins on the shelves. He could remember his father’s tool kit. For a moment, he could forget that he was in someone else’s shed.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
His eyes snapped open. The shed door was ajar, filled with a great bear of a man. He shrank back, trying to crawl further under the workbench, but the man reached forward easily, grasping him by the sweater and pulling him forward.
“There’s nothing to steal in here!” the man shouted into his face. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow, but the man seemed to pause. He carefully opened one eye to see why he hadn’t been struck yet. The man was staring at him in a way he didn’t understand. Then he was released. His unsteady legs gave way beneath him and he ended up back on the shed floor.
“Please, Mister, I wasn’t stealing,” he implored. The man seemed to shrink away from him.
“What were you doing then?” The man’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. From the light through the shed door, he could make out the grey hair, the wrinkles round the eyes, the old pair of slippers on the man’s feet.
“Just sittin’.”
“Go sit in your own shed,” came the gruff reply.
“Ha’nt got one,” he muttered. “Ain’t got nothin’ but me own name.”
The man bent down to look at him, frowning.
“And what might that be?” The voice was still quite rough but with gentler edges. He eyed the man with distrust, the way he did all adults.
“Feuilly,” he offered, eventually.
“Feuilly,” the man repeated. “Doesn’t your dad have a shed for you to sit in? Or are you playing some sort of game?” Feuilly pouted, feeling an ache inside.
“Dad’s in the ground with Mum,” he muttered, his eyes roving round the shed, not wanting to look at the man now. He waited, offering no further explanation.
“So you’re from the House over the back?” Feuilly shrugged. He was caught now. This man would take him back. He knew it was futile. He always ended up back there.
Feuilly could not appreciate how he looked to the man right now. He was soaking wet, his pale freckly skin contrasting sharply with the rusty red of his hair. His faded grey sweater and jeans clung to him, making him look even thinner than usual. The bruise on his cheek stood out more than anything else.
“How old are you?” The man asked at last.
“Nearly ten.” Feuilly was confused by the question. How did his age matter? The man straightened up, sucking his teeth.
“Right,” he said at last. “As you’re here, you may as well make yourself useful.”
Feuilly spent the afternoon helping the man in his allotment. He was shown how to pull weeds with a hoe, how to turn over soil with a fork so it could breathe. It was his job to transfer the weeds into a wheelbarrow before taking them to the compost.
At the end of the day he was hot despite the autumnal weather and he was covered in mud and blisters. But he felt warm inside. He felt calm and at peace for the first time in a long time.
In the late afternoon, the man took him back to St Margaret’s and even put a good word in for him to the Matron.
To Feuilly’s intense surprise he was allowed to return to the allotment every Sunday to help out with the clearing the weeds and setting up the bean poles. The man, Arthur, even allowed him a small area of his own to plant things. That first year he grew onions. He prepared the soil, planted the bulbs and waited, the anticipation increasing each week as the first small green shoots appeared, and got bigger and bigger, until the stalks swelled and bent.
Arthur taught him the patience of a gardener, as well as the joy of muttering to your charges, encouraging them out of the ground.
The second year he grew a mixture of chillis and peppers. He kept them as seedlings on the windowsill beside his bed, caring for them, coaxing them and then transferring them to the allotment once they were strong enough.
Arthur taught him about the seasons, about the importance of the rain as well as the sun. He taught him about how each job required a tool and each tool had a job.
Just after he turned twelve, Feuilly was moved to a foster family in a new town. He didn’t even get the chance to talk to Arthur, to tell him he was leaving, to thank him properly. But he never forgot. The seed had taken hold. Feuilly was growing into a gardener.
+
Bahorel heard his mother before he saw her. From his position against the wall outside the Head Teacher’s office, he heard a grumbling of clothes and a clacking of court shoes. Eventually she swung round the corner into view. She never looked angry, only ever disappointed, to see her son in his usual spot.
The Head Teacher appeared. He welcomed her in smiling in that sympathetic way that he had, before turning his serious face on the boy against the wall, jerking his head to indicate that Bahorel should join them.
Admittedly, it was the third time that week he had found himself outside the Head Teacher’s door but this time it wasn’t even his fault. If Mark hadn’t been mouthing off, saying Bahorel was too stupid to be even the donkey in the nativity, then Bahorel wouldn’t have needed to punch him in the face.
In his first year at this school Bahorel’s grades had been excellent. He had flourished in the school environment, finishing his reading books before everyone else and scoring really highly in his tests. All the teachers had complimented his parents for having a singularly intelligent child. While Bahorel hadn’t necessarily understood what that meant, he knew that it had made his mother happy. Unfortunately, it had brought some unwelcome attention from the less academically gifted members of the class and earned him the hated title of class brainiac. His mother may have been happy but Bahorel couldn’t have been any more miserable.
In his second year he made more of an effort to fit in. He kept his hand down in class and deliberately gave the wrong answer when directly called upon by his teacher. He went to all this effort because he didn’t want to stick out anymore. It was bad enough that, at the age of seven, he was already well over four feet tall. He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. He was relieved when, at the end of the year, his report was no longer glowing with compliments and the other boys started to leave him alone.
In his third year he began to act out in class in an attempt to make people laugh, to get people to like him. For a while it seemed to work. The boys started to let him hang around with them, inviting him to join in their games of football at playtime. They were fickle friendships though, hanging from a thread with none of the usual camaraderie that went with earnest childhood friendships. The other boys kept him at arm’s length, the memories from the first year never fully fading, while he never let anyone get close to him as he was far too terrified that they would see the intelligence within.
Now he was a few weeks away from his tenth birthday and approaching a terrifying five feet in height, towering above everyone else in his year. His defence mechanism of pretending to be stupid was no longer working as the same boys who had made fun of him for being bright were now plaguing him for being thick. He didn’t understand them. What did he have to do to fit in?
Bahorel began to take his frustration out on anyone who was careless enough to poke at him. Today he had finally snapped, a cloud of red mist descending at the mention of him being stupid. He had flown at the boy, almost breaking the other kid’s nose. It had taken two teachers to pull him off. Now in the Head Teacher’s office, he had no regrets.
The Head Teacher sighed, shaking his head.
“The most disappointing thing about this situation is that your son is actually very bright, if only he applied himself.” To emphasise the point, he waved his hands up and down in the air at each word. Bahorel shot a look at his mother who was listening with rapturous attention.
“If Bahorel could channel his… enthusiasm in a more constructive manner, he could potentially do very well for himself.” Here, the Head Teacher fixed a piercing gaze upon Bahorel’s mother, aware that he held a captive audience. “He could be a solicitor or a politician.”
Bahorel had never forgiven that man for putting the idea into his mother’s head.
+
Garden centres weren’t really Bahorel’s place of choice but a job was a job and if it kept his mother off his back then it would do for now. Clutching the unattractive green apron in one hand, he allowed the manager to steer him through the store.
“I’ll pair you up with Feuilly today. He’ll show you the ropes.”
Bahorel regarded the lanky, ginger teenager in front of him with an edge of doubt. He wasn’t entirely sure how many ropes there were to be shown. It was only a Saturday job. Surely all he needed to do was to turn up on time and sell grow bags and flower pots to people. How hard could it be?
The manager, Geoff, introduced them both to each other. Bahorel didn’t like the way the other boy looked him over, as though sizing him up. At six foot six inches, he was used to towering over most people. This kid barely made it past five foot seven, by his estimate, yet there was something very still about him, an underlying strength and aggression. Bahorel sniffed the air as though sensing a conflict. The manager, apparently not sensing any such thing, moved off to another part of the garden centre, leaving the two boys alone.
He was surprised when Feuilly offered him a hand but he took it nonetheless, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot.
Feuilly looked up at the guy in front of him. He wasn’t good with tall people. It made him think of all those times as a kid he’d had his arms held behind his back while someone punched him in the gut. However, there was something different in the way this one stood, almost uncomfortable in his own skin. He decided to give him a chance, test the lie of the land before passing judgement.
“So, did Geoff tell you about what you’ll be doing?” he asked. Bahorel shrugged.
“Watering plants, cashier duty, stock check,” he reeled off. Feuilly nodded, stroking his chin in consideration. He jerked his head to indicate that Bahorel should follow him through the double doors to the outdoor nursery area. He gestured to the rows and rows of plants spread out before them.
“We water them regularly. Keep an eye out for any moved or damaged stock. Also need to make a note of any displays that need restocking.”
Bahorel felt like he should be taking notes as Feuilly led him round the centre, explaining the peculiar runnings of the place. He warned Bahorel that if anyone asked about the water features then he should refer them to Brian because Brian got funny about anyone else advising about water features. Similarly, they weren’t to approach the aquatics building because that was run by Steph and Jed.
They moved over to the nursery area. Feuilly was usually responsible for the nursery at weekends when he and anyone who had been put on the rota were in charge of preparing the ground for planting stock, tending to any shrubs and pruning the trees.
Feuilly took him into the larger glass house, showing him where the senior staff pricked-out the young plants to transfer them to larger pots, took cuttings and grafted plants onto those with good root stock. Bahorel would start with general weeding and clearing as well as the basic upkeep of the greenhouses. He indicated the pile of brooms off to the side and Bahorel nodded, following him out of the glass house and back into the general centre.
“That’s about it,” Feuilly finished the tour. There was a moment of silence.
“So, when you’re not watering plants, what do you do?” Bahorel tried to start what he hoped was a fairly neutral conversation. Feuilly pulled a face, scratching the side of his head.
“This is pretty much it. I’ve been volunteering here since I was fourteen. They gave me a job when I got my National Insurance Number.”
“But surely you must do something else?” Bahorel pressed, slightly incredulous that anyone could spend that amount of time around plants. “Don’t you go to college or something?” Feuilly shrugged.
“The Centre is supporting me through my General Certificate in Horticulture. Does that count?”
“Is that what you want to be, then? A horticulturalist?” He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
Feuilly folded his arms, trying to work out whether the new guy was being funny or not. He knew that this Bahorel didn’t know anything about him, that he didn’t know how difficult it was for people like him to successfully negotiate their way out of the system with any qualifications at all, never mind a career or sense of direction. He didn’t know what it was like to move, not just houses but families, every year or so.
Since he was twelve he had lived with five different families. The longest he had spent in one place had been the year with the foster parents who had introduced him to the owners of the Garden Centre. Just before he turned seventeen he had been moved to a Residential Placement building, a house with six other teenagers with a variety of issues and mental health problems.
It was supposed to “prepare” him for leaving care but it just made his life a living nightmare. His room had been broken into three times so now he kept anything important in his locker at work. He wanted to get his qualification so he could apply for an apprenticeship and get the hell out of this life he had almost been condemned to. He looked at the other kids in his building and knew that their sad stories could so easily have been his own.
When Feuilly didn’t answer, Bahorel decided to share some information of his own, hoping it might break the ice a little. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked his new colleague. There was something straight forward about him that he responded to.
“I’m doing A Levels at the moment,” he said, trying to sound casual. Feuilly made a non-committal noise, a small invitation to continue.
“Yeah, Politics, History, English and Sociology,” he reeled off.
“And what are you planning on doing with all those shiny qualifications?” Feuilly inquired, a challenging undertone to his voice that Bahorel didn’t understand.
“My mother wants me to be a solicitor,” he replied, pouting slightly. “She’s got it into her head that it’s something I’ll be good at. Personally I couldn’t give a fuck –“ he stopped, realising that he probably shouldn’t swear in the work place. Feuilly rolled his eyes.
“That sounds awful,” his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Must be so hard to have a supportive parent who wants you to do well in life.”
“Hey!” Bahorel snapped, eyes darkening and taking a step towards the shorter man.
“Look, education is a gift not a burden, so don’t bitch to me about how hard it is for you because I’m not interested,” Feuilly pulled himself to his full height and Bahorel found himself recoiling slightly at his fierceness.
“Don’t you judge me, you don’t know anything about me,” he retaliated, wondering where this hostility was coming from. Feuilly’s nostrils flared as he fought to control his temper.
“Just come in, do you damn job, and we’ll be just fine.” With that, Feuilly walked off, leaving Bahorel wondering what the hell was his problem.
+
Over the next three weeks, Bahorel learnt a lot about Feuilly without the guy saying a single word to him. He learnt that Feuilly threw himself into his work with abandon and that he was bloody good at it. He learnt that there were quite a few customers who sought the guy out specifically to ask his advice and that the look on Feuilly’s face when he was waxing lyrical about a particular species of plant was almost magic to behold.
He could see that Feuilly was better at dealing with plants than people and that he outright resented having to work the tills when he could be out on the shop floor.
Bahorel wasn’t sure that he liked Geoff. The manager was inherently lazy, disappearing for long periods of time and never responding to calls for his presence at the cash desk. This wasn’t too much of an issue as Feuilly knew all the override codes for returns and refunds.
On the few occasions that he did see the man, he had clapped Bahorel on the back, asking him jovially how his studies were going. It made Bahorel’s skin crawl. He didn’t like insincerity and Geoff reeked of it. He saw how he ignored Feuilly most of the time and deliberately put him on the tills, saying it was character building.
On the fourth week, Bahorel found himself scheduled to work alone in the nursery, a decision he felt verged on madness. He was ridiculously out of his depth. Feuilly was red faced and furious behind the tills.
As soon as Geoff’s back was turned, Bahorel headed over to the cash desk.
“Want to swap?” he asked. Feuilly frowned at him.
“Look, it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that you’re better off out there on the shop floor. Personally I don’t understand the first thing about plants but if that’s your thing then that’s cool. Let’s swap.” After a moment, Feuilly nodded.
They almost got away with it, except that Geoff came down thirty minutes before closing and found Bahorel cashing up instead of the redhead he was looking for. The pair of them got hauled into the office.
“Just because you’ve been here for how many ever years, doesn’t mean you get to pick and choose where you work,” Geoff was shouting so loudly Bahorel was certain the whole store could hear them.
“I set the rotas. I decide who gets to work in the nursery and who works the tills. Don’t think just because he’s new you can manipulate him to get your own way.” Bahorel decided that was more than enough.
“Hey, it was my fault,” he interrupted, unconsciously stepping in front of Feuilly as though to deflect the words.
“I’m not confident enough to work the shop floor by myself yet. I asked Feuilly to swap because I didn’t want to disturb you as you’re obviously very busy.” Geoff was silent as he tried to work out if Bahorel was taking the piss or not. Bahorel maintained steady eye contact, leaving the atmosphere deliberately ambiguous.
They got written up, but it did have one unexpected outcome. At the end of the shift he and Feuilly walked to the bus stop together, the silence no longer hostile.
“You’ve probably worked this out by now but Geoff doesn’t like me,” Feuilly advised him. Bahorel shrugged.
“Geoff can fuck himself.” Feuilly snorted with laughter.
“Seriously, what kind of dickhead puts me in charge of a nursery? I can’t even keep a cactus alive.”
“Did you put that on your application form?” Feuilly grinned at him. Bahorel hadn’t seen him smile before. He was a good look on him.
He turned to Feuilly, holding out his hand in a reconciliatory gesture. Feuilly considered it for a moment before taking it. An alliance was formed.