Snow Crash
04-04-2010, 10:23 PM
I was thirty when I married Helen. We had known each other since University, meeting at a party at someone's house one weekend in January. I was studying History, and Helen was studying Botany. I often made it a habit of not getting too involved with scientific types; I never really found the minute details of their work that interesting. A physicist could explain to me the mechanics of the universe, and I'd have fallen asleep by their second sentence. But with Helen it was different. It certainly wasn't just her looks that captured my attention, it was her energy. She could somehow enfuse her words with adrenalin, making the most mundane sounding shrub sound like a thrilling adventure. I was hooked immediately, and after University, we moved in to a flat in London.
Our wedding was a simple affair, parents and siblings only. I had secured a comfortable job at the British Museum, while Helen continued at the University in one of their research programs, so between us, we were able to fly the whole load of us out to Hawaii for the wedding. It was the happiest day of my life.
A few years later, we had earned enough money to buy a proper house, and we moved out to Surrey, buying a large house with a spacious garden near Reigate. I remember jokingly telling Helen that the garden was for 'the kids'. She responded by filling the garden with every exotic plant that could survive outdoors that she could lay her hands on. I should have known she'd translate 'kids' to 'plants'.
The house was a Victorian effort, many rooms on both floors. I had earmarked the living room at the rear of the house for a study, whereas Helen wanted to knock out the window that looked over to the garden, and attach a conservatory for her plants. I had to put my foot down, saying we hadn't the money. Helen didn't like that, and we had our first major argument. In the end, I compromised by agreeing to a greenhouse, which was place discreetly at the foot of the garden. The inside of it turned into a jungle withing a month, and where it not for the glass reflecting light, you wouldn't know it was there against the backdrop of the other plants and trees around it,
That argument was the first of many. Even though I was a historian by trade, I could quite easily have been a mathematician, and my skill with numbers was applied to money, and it was that dilligence that kept us sitting pretty. Helen though was from a wealthy background, and, as my mother had pointed out to me many times before her death, perhaps a little too used to being indulged. Clearly, the conservatory ruckus had left a black mark by my name in Helen's book, and every single opportunity to remind me of my stinginess was seized upon. either aggresively with snide remarks, or subtely, with forlorn eyes making a poor attempt at sarcasm.
Rather than provoke my wife, I decided instead to focus on my work. I was slowly inching my way up the ladder at the Museum, and I found my work becoming quite demanding. When I was not at work, I would often find myself in my study. In retrospect, had I taken a step back, I might have seen that this only furthered the gulf that had started to form between us. My thoughts drifted away from having children, and I even bitterly imagined that my wife had never imagined the prospect of being a mother to anything but a plant. The more I considered that, the likelier it seemed. I often watched her cooiinng over random flowers that would spring from the lawn, frantically searching around for a pot to transfer them to.
FUnnily enough the second major argument we had was when I made the mistake of mowing the lawn while flowers were growing on it. I had to mow the lawn, as the grass was becoming intolerably long, and Helen was on her way back from Rotterdam, where she had been attending some conference or something. I had reasoned that, as she was due home in the afternoon, I should mow in the morning, and be out of her way for when she reasserted her dominion over the garden. I should have known though that she'd have memorised every sprout and leaf in the garden before leaving; she knew what had happened with a glance. The flowers were just daisies, but it was enough to leave Helen spitting feathers. She didn't speak to me for days. I left her to it: I had enough work on my plate with a new exhibit I had been charged with planning.
Several more incidents like this occured. To my mind, they were petty reasons for Helen to fly off the handle. But it seemed I could do no right in the garden. I began to detest the place. On a Saturday afternoon in August, I had grown so sick of the sight of it, I decided to rearrange my study, so my desk faced away from the window, allowing me to sit with my back to it. Helen had barged in halfway through my reoganization, and had demanded to know what I was doing. I coarsely told her I was sick of the sight of the garden, and wouldn't care if I never saw it again.
Of course, this was like tossing a lit match into a keg of gunpowder. But oddly enough, just as I was gearing up for a royal screaming match, I was shocked as Helen shrugged and merely left the room. I had to sit down to get over the shock. Of course, had I not been so shocked, I would have been suspicious. As I wasn't, I didn't see what was to come.
One day upon returning home from London, I strolled into my study and was confronted by the sight of a small tree sitting outside my window. A conifer, or leylandii as Helen had told me ages ago when I still cared for her lectures on the wonders of plants. The new addition didn't bother be in the slightest. It would hardly affect my study.
Of course, I couldn't have been more wrong. If I had paid attention to Helen when she had told me about them, I may have realised what I was in for. It didn't take too long before I noticed just how fast the tree was growing. This didn't particularly bother me, as I reasoned that Helen knew what she was doing. I was right, as it happened: she did indeed know what she was doing.
Before long, I started to notice a eerie green tint to the light in my study, as the young tree asserted its influence on the light filtering into the room through its leaves and branches. This was an irritation, but it wasn't cause to start a row with Helen. Soon, however, I lost sight of the garden altogether. This is when I confronted Helen about the vigorous plant outside my window. With a sly smile, I was informed that my wish had been granted, and that I had no cause to complain. I was less than amused, to say the least, but I held my tongue, even when the tree began to affect the room above's view.
If there was one thing my wife knew, it was plants. If there was one thing she didn't, it was buildings. I finally lost my temper with the leylandii when cracks began to appear in the house's brickwork, as its roots damaged the foundations. A blazing row later, and I found myself swinging a hatchet repeatedly at the tree's trunk, while Helen screamed hate into my ear. That night, I slept on the sofa, while she cried herself to sleep upstairs.
The following morning, I found my wife silent and cold. I ate my breakfast hurriedly, and left for work, not eager to make things any worse than they already were. I returned late that evening, to find Helen cooking dinner. I greeted her with cautious cheerfulness, hoping that her cooking was a sign she was perhaps getting over the destruction of the tree. My hope was fuelled further by her making a favoured dish of mine, chicken tikka masala with pilau rice. She had even dug out the popadoms and some mango chutney, which she knew I loved. My greeting was met with a faint smile, and before long, we where both eating quietly at the table. Helen allowed me to hoard the chutney, as she knew I would make short work of it. She wasn't really a huge fan of it.
It was about halfway through the dinner when my wife struck up a conversation the likes of which we had not had since our early days together. Helen wanted to educate me on the banana plant. Keen to indulge her, hoping this was her way of forgiving me for my action against the leylandii, I sat and listened, eating quiely, and nodding at the appropriate moments. The food was good, and combined with a long day and the richness of the food, I began to feel relaxed.
Her lecture on the banana plant came to its final leg, with Helen telling me with relish that the juice of the plant's stem had been used as a poison by African tribesmen for years, as it was a muscle relaxant. I nodded with a smile, before realising that she had stopped talking. Looking up, I could see her staring at me intently. That feeling of relaxation was getting very deep all of a sudden.
Now that I lay here in the bottom of this hole in our back garden, looking up at my wife holding high a young leylandii that she assures me will sit above me when she has finished shovelling the dirt onto me, I really wish I'd have just used the hatchet on her instead of that damn leylandii.
Our wedding was a simple affair, parents and siblings only. I had secured a comfortable job at the British Museum, while Helen continued at the University in one of their research programs, so between us, we were able to fly the whole load of us out to Hawaii for the wedding. It was the happiest day of my life.
A few years later, we had earned enough money to buy a proper house, and we moved out to Surrey, buying a large house with a spacious garden near Reigate. I remember jokingly telling Helen that the garden was for 'the kids'. She responded by filling the garden with every exotic plant that could survive outdoors that she could lay her hands on. I should have known she'd translate 'kids' to 'plants'.
The house was a Victorian effort, many rooms on both floors. I had earmarked the living room at the rear of the house for a study, whereas Helen wanted to knock out the window that looked over to the garden, and attach a conservatory for her plants. I had to put my foot down, saying we hadn't the money. Helen didn't like that, and we had our first major argument. In the end, I compromised by agreeing to a greenhouse, which was place discreetly at the foot of the garden. The inside of it turned into a jungle withing a month, and where it not for the glass reflecting light, you wouldn't know it was there against the backdrop of the other plants and trees around it,
That argument was the first of many. Even though I was a historian by trade, I could quite easily have been a mathematician, and my skill with numbers was applied to money, and it was that dilligence that kept us sitting pretty. Helen though was from a wealthy background, and, as my mother had pointed out to me many times before her death, perhaps a little too used to being indulged. Clearly, the conservatory ruckus had left a black mark by my name in Helen's book, and every single opportunity to remind me of my stinginess was seized upon. either aggresively with snide remarks, or subtely, with forlorn eyes making a poor attempt at sarcasm.
Rather than provoke my wife, I decided instead to focus on my work. I was slowly inching my way up the ladder at the Museum, and I found my work becoming quite demanding. When I was not at work, I would often find myself in my study. In retrospect, had I taken a step back, I might have seen that this only furthered the gulf that had started to form between us. My thoughts drifted away from having children, and I even bitterly imagined that my wife had never imagined the prospect of being a mother to anything but a plant. The more I considered that, the likelier it seemed. I often watched her cooiinng over random flowers that would spring from the lawn, frantically searching around for a pot to transfer them to.
FUnnily enough the second major argument we had was when I made the mistake of mowing the lawn while flowers were growing on it. I had to mow the lawn, as the grass was becoming intolerably long, and Helen was on her way back from Rotterdam, where she had been attending some conference or something. I had reasoned that, as she was due home in the afternoon, I should mow in the morning, and be out of her way for when she reasserted her dominion over the garden. I should have known though that she'd have memorised every sprout and leaf in the garden before leaving; she knew what had happened with a glance. The flowers were just daisies, but it was enough to leave Helen spitting feathers. She didn't speak to me for days. I left her to it: I had enough work on my plate with a new exhibit I had been charged with planning.
Several more incidents like this occured. To my mind, they were petty reasons for Helen to fly off the handle. But it seemed I could do no right in the garden. I began to detest the place. On a Saturday afternoon in August, I had grown so sick of the sight of it, I decided to rearrange my study, so my desk faced away from the window, allowing me to sit with my back to it. Helen had barged in halfway through my reoganization, and had demanded to know what I was doing. I coarsely told her I was sick of the sight of the garden, and wouldn't care if I never saw it again.
Of course, this was like tossing a lit match into a keg of gunpowder. But oddly enough, just as I was gearing up for a royal screaming match, I was shocked as Helen shrugged and merely left the room. I had to sit down to get over the shock. Of course, had I not been so shocked, I would have been suspicious. As I wasn't, I didn't see what was to come.
One day upon returning home from London, I strolled into my study and was confronted by the sight of a small tree sitting outside my window. A conifer, or leylandii as Helen had told me ages ago when I still cared for her lectures on the wonders of plants. The new addition didn't bother be in the slightest. It would hardly affect my study.
Of course, I couldn't have been more wrong. If I had paid attention to Helen when she had told me about them, I may have realised what I was in for. It didn't take too long before I noticed just how fast the tree was growing. This didn't particularly bother me, as I reasoned that Helen knew what she was doing. I was right, as it happened: she did indeed know what she was doing.
Before long, I started to notice a eerie green tint to the light in my study, as the young tree asserted its influence on the light filtering into the room through its leaves and branches. This was an irritation, but it wasn't cause to start a row with Helen. Soon, however, I lost sight of the garden altogether. This is when I confronted Helen about the vigorous plant outside my window. With a sly smile, I was informed that my wish had been granted, and that I had no cause to complain. I was less than amused, to say the least, but I held my tongue, even when the tree began to affect the room above's view.
If there was one thing my wife knew, it was plants. If there was one thing she didn't, it was buildings. I finally lost my temper with the leylandii when cracks began to appear in the house's brickwork, as its roots damaged the foundations. A blazing row later, and I found myself swinging a hatchet repeatedly at the tree's trunk, while Helen screamed hate into my ear. That night, I slept on the sofa, while she cried herself to sleep upstairs.
The following morning, I found my wife silent and cold. I ate my breakfast hurriedly, and left for work, not eager to make things any worse than they already were. I returned late that evening, to find Helen cooking dinner. I greeted her with cautious cheerfulness, hoping that her cooking was a sign she was perhaps getting over the destruction of the tree. My hope was fuelled further by her making a favoured dish of mine, chicken tikka masala with pilau rice. She had even dug out the popadoms and some mango chutney, which she knew I loved. My greeting was met with a faint smile, and before long, we where both eating quietly at the table. Helen allowed me to hoard the chutney, as she knew I would make short work of it. She wasn't really a huge fan of it.
It was about halfway through the dinner when my wife struck up a conversation the likes of which we had not had since our early days together. Helen wanted to educate me on the banana plant. Keen to indulge her, hoping this was her way of forgiving me for my action against the leylandii, I sat and listened, eating quiely, and nodding at the appropriate moments. The food was good, and combined with a long day and the richness of the food, I began to feel relaxed.
Her lecture on the banana plant came to its final leg, with Helen telling me with relish that the juice of the plant's stem had been used as a poison by African tribesmen for years, as it was a muscle relaxant. I nodded with a smile, before realising that she had stopped talking. Looking up, I could see her staring at me intently. That feeling of relaxation was getting very deep all of a sudden.
Now that I lay here in the bottom of this hole in our back garden, looking up at my wife holding high a young leylandii that she assures me will sit above me when she has finished shovelling the dirt onto me, I really wish I'd have just used the hatchet on her instead of that damn leylandii.