The day Mark Theodore's nail-clippers started to talk to him, he knew he was screwed.
That wasn't his first thought, of course; his first thought was that this was just his mind playing tricks on him, an understandable, if somewhat bizarre, reaction to all the stress he'd been suffering lately. He'd even asked himself if it really was so bizarre - his “obsessive nail clipping” as his ex-girlfriend, Julie, liked to call it, was his stress-relieving technique of choice after all, never failing to cool his temper, soothe his nerves and calm him down. Some people smoke, some people play squash, some people punch cushions. Mark Theodore clipped his nails, so when the stress had reached the level of intensity that it had on that particular day, causing Mark Theodore, of all people, to actually...well, kind of, pray (if looking to the sky and yelling “oh come on, God, give me a break! Help me out here for Christ's sake,” can be considered a prayer), was it not natural that it should be his anxiety-relieving tools themselves who would try to communicate with him?
“Yes, that's right, Mark. Just doing our job. Chill out, man. Things are really not so bad, you know.”
Mark had pondered this in uneasy silence for a moment, and it was at that point the awful truth had dawned. If he was giving serious consideration to the fact that there could be anything remotely natural about talking nail-clippers, then yes, he was screwed. And as far as he could see it, there was only one sensible course of action to follow and that, obviously, was to ignore them. After all, it wasn't like he didn't have enough on his mind right now, was it? The last thing he needed, on top of all the other stuff he'd got going on, was the worry that he might be totally and utterly off his rocker.
“Talking nail clippers,” he laughed unconvincingly, shoved them deep into his jeans pocket and made his way to the kitchen to mull over the events of the day with a large glass of Scotch.
She was an uppity little so-and-so that personnel officer, Vicky or whatever she was called, sitting there all superior, telling him, daring to tell him, Mark Theodore, that he had an attitude problem. Attitude problem? The nerve! He didn't have an attitude problem, as he'd been quick to point out – he just found it frustrating to be surrounded by incompetent men and hormonal women. They were stupid. Every last one of them. Exactly the same as every other place he'd ever worked – idiots! He'd spent his entire working life surrounded by idiots, was it any wonder he got agitated sometimes, and shouted? And swore. And slammed doors. And name-called. And threw his telephone across the office (although that was just the once, and it was the day after Julie had left him, so surely he ought to be cut a bit of slack.)
Mark shuddered, unsure whether it was caused by his first gulp of whisky or the memory of Vicky's patronisingly calm face and tone of voice as she told him he was fired.
“You've been warned before, Mark. In less than 8 months of working here, you've managed to insult pretty much every member of staff. We're going to have to let you go. You should really take some time to re-evaluate your attitude.”
“Re-evaluate your attitude,” Mark mimicked nastily, then knocked back the rest of his whisky, dug into his jeans pocket for his trusty nail-clippers and made his way to the pedal bin to start clipping. It was automatic. No thought required.
“She's got a point, you know.”
“What? Who has?”
“The girl from Personnel. She's called Becky, by the way.”
“Becky. Vicky. Whatever.”
“People generally like it when you get their names right. Makes them feel, you know, like you give a damn. And she does have a point.”
“ A point? Don't make me laugh. She wasn't making any point. No, that jumped up little madam has just been waiting for a chance to get one up on me, and she knew she'd got it the minute that snivelling, simpering secretary went running to her. 'Oh, that nasty Mark, he's just told me my perfume's like something his grandmother would wear and my typing's shit,' well, boo-bloody-hoo. It's all true, and yet I'm the one getting fired thanks to that blubbering moron. I mean, what the hell? I'm not the one waddling around the office, stinking it out with my cheapo cologne and not doing my job properly. She, that stupid secretary, she's the one ought to be fired. But then, what do you expect? The place is run by imbeciles. I'm best off out of it.”
“That's just it, Mark. It's your attitude, see?”
Mark suddenly stopped clipping his nails, his face flushed and breathing shallow as his anger churned and grew, but that wasn't the only reason. He was doing it again, conversing with a pair of nail-clippers. Out loud. Jesus, he really was losing his mind.
“No you're not, Mark. We're just trying to tell you that things might start getting better for you if you would give us a chance and lis...”
He shoved them back in his pocket and quickly poured another drink. Things might start getting better, eh? Well, no shit. The whole world and its dog seemed to be against him, so they couldn't get much worse could they? Mark sat down heavily on a kitchen stool and sighed. How on earth had it got to this? Julie had been gone nearly four months now – he glanced at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and had to admit he missed her. Sure, she could be a narky sod at times, accusing him of being impossible to live with ('arrogant, male-chauvinistic arsehole' was what she'd actually spat at him, if he remembered rightly) but he'd really thought they had something going. It had been the longest relationship he'd ever had at any rate. And what was it his mother had said when he'd told her Julie had left? “She did right, too. You never did know how to treat a woman right. Come to think of it, you never knew how to treat anybody right. I don't know where I went wrong with you.” Obviously, he'd not spoken to the cantankerous old bag since. Who did she think she was? Besides, his phone had been cut off last week, so that solved that problem.
Mark knocked back his whisky and resisted the temptation to pour another. There was nothing in the house resembling food, so it looked like a drive to the Indian Takeaway, and no doubt another confrontation with that useless girl who always got his order wrong, was on the cards. What was it with people? If he ordered Pilau rice, he got plain; if he ordered plain, he got Pilau. How difficult could it be to get a simple order right? She did it on purpose, he was sure, she just didn't like him and if there was anywhere else in this god-forsaken town to buy a half-decent Jalfrezi, then he'd take his custom there. Not that he'd have to worry about that after tonight, of course. There would be no more spare money for luxuries such as curries for a while, not unless he could find another job pretty damn quick. He was already two months behind on the mortgage payments, all four of his credit cards were up to their limits and, quite frankly, he was surprised that the leasing company hadn't re-possessed his car yet. Surely that was only a matter of time. And now he had no job. Mark grabbed his car keys and slammed out of the house.
*******************
There was no-one else in the take-away when he strode in, and the useless girl gave him a nervous, wary look as he approached the counter and looked beyond her to study the giant menu displayed on the wall. Neither of them said hello, neither of them smiled. Mark knew exactly what he wanted, but he was enjoying the girl's discomfort and self-consciousness as she hovered waiting for him to make his choice, so he took his time. Eventually, he snapped his order at her and thrust a £20 note over the counter. She fumbled in the till, and when she meekly asked him if he had the 40 pence as she was short of change, he gave her a long stare, then dug into his pockets and slammed the contents onto the counter for her to root out what she needed.
“Thank you,” she muttered before scurrying off around the back to the sanctuary of the kitchen.
“Don't mention it. I mean, what would be the point of making life easy for your customers by actually having change in your till?” Mark mumbled under his breath, then sighed and glanced up at the television, high on brackets in the far corner behind the counter. That was another thing that drove him mad about about take-aways. Always a television, but never any sound. What was the point of that? Were take-aways part of some secret organisation, committed to teaching people to lip-read while they waited for their curries? It was stupid.
“Yes, but it smells good doesn't it?”
Mark breathed in deeply. The flowery, tangy aroma of countless herbs and spices whose names he'd never know and the sharp, mouth-watering scent of frying onions which always took him right back to childhood visits to the fairground, filled his senses, and he smiled. Hell yes, it did smell good.
“Erm, now that we've got your attention, could we talk to you for a minute?”
The nail-clippers which he'd emptied out of his pocket along with his coinage were still sitting on the counter. Mark glanced instinctively towards the kitchen, then gave a stiff nod of his head.
“You think your life sucks, right?”
Mark nodded again.
“You think that nothing ever works out for you, that everybody is trying to get one over on you, and that nobody cares, right?”
Another nod.
“Well, we have the solution to your problems, Mark. We know what you should do to turn your life around.”
Mark blinked, the exotic fragrances and memories of carefree days rapidly fading from his consciousness, leaving only the stark reality that here he was, in a take-away with no change in its till, watching a pointlessly silent television, waiting for his order which was more than likely going to be wrong. And his nail-clippers were talking to him again.
“You see, we've been with you for a very long time and we believe in you, Mark. We know you're ready for things to change. Listen to us now and listen carefully. If you really want your life to change for the better, all you have to do is spend one whole day, tomorrow, showing only kindness, consideration and respect to everybody you come into contact with. You must think only good thoughts. You must see only the positive in every single thing. In other words, be nice, Mark. Just for one day. We realise that this is a bit of a tall order, but we believe you're ready for a challenge.”
“A challenge? Don't you think I've had enough challenges to last me a lifetime?”
It came out louder than he expected and spotting the useless girl and the chef throwing a sudden, bemused glance in his direction, Mark faked a coughing fit behind his hand.
“If it helps, Mark, you could always just talk to us in your head. We can hear your thoughts.”
“Oh. Well, that's creepy,” Mark thought.
“We prefer to think of it as useful. And it will certainly help us keep a close watch on things and help you remain in a state of total positivity and grace tomorrow.”
“A state of total what? What are you talking about? Are you having a laugh?”
“Chicken Jalfrezi and Pilau Rice,” the useless girl attempted a smile as she appeared from the kitchen and put the brown paper bag on the counter in front of him. Mark took a steadying breath.
“I ordered plain..”
“You could always start now. Go on! Be nice. Make the changes start even faster.”
Mark forced a smile at the girl.
“Thank you very much. Good evening.”
He grabbed the bag and hurried from the take-away with absolutely no idea why he was going along with this. But then, what harm could it do? How could things get any worse?
*****************
The following morning, as he furiously brushed his teeth in an attempt to get rid of the nasty curry after-taste, Mark found himself planning in his head exactly what he was going to say to that useless girl at the take-away when he went back to complain that night.
“How come it is that every time I eat one of your curries, I end up with a dodgy stomach? Every time. What is it? Do you not cook your food properly, or is it just poor quality ingredients? Hmm?”
Yes, that should do it. Maybe he should threaten the local newspaper too.
“Oh, come on Mark. You enjoyed every mouthful of that Jalfrezi, you know you did. Curries often give people a mild case of the trots, but they´re worth it. It´s no big deal.”
Mark glared at the clippers on the shelf in front of him and spat frothy, minty toothpaste into the sink.
“Easy for you to say. You're not the ones whose guts were playing up all through the night, having to dash to the loo every few minutes.”
“No, but we were stuck here in the bathroom, remember. And it was not a pleasant experience, let us tell you. Now come on, Mark, focus. You're supposed to be being positive today and this is hardly a good start.”
Mark rinsed out his mouth and wiped his face with the towel.
“I suppose.”
“Good. So what's the plan?”
“The plan? The plan is to find myself a job, of course. I'm off to the newsagents to buy a paper.”
“Great idea. Let's go!”
Mark clicked his tongue. “Calm down. It's not so exciting.”
“Of course it is. You never know what's going to happen, or what you might find.”
“Yes I do. Just a bunch of the usual crappy office jobs. Sales, accounts, call centres. All rubbish, and to think I have a degree in business studies, you know.”
“Positive, Mark!”
“Oh, damn it! Yes OK. Here I go, on my way to find my perfect job which will be fulfilling and varied every day of my working life until I retire. There, is that better?”
“Much better. You see, you're getting the hang of it already.”
Mark stifled a groan, shoved the clippers in his pocket and headed out of the house. This was getting ridiculous. He'd seriously expected this bizarre phenomenon to have ended by this morning, that he would get up, find his nail clippers naturally and comfortingly silent again, and be able to put the whole experience down to mega-stress.
“Hey Mark, surely you're not thinking of taking the car to the newsagents, are you?”
Mark slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door.
“Of course I'm taking the car. How else am I going to get there?”
“How about walking?”
Mark snorted and turned the ignition.
“Seriously. It's a beautiful morning, and the newsagent's only round the corner. Why pollute the air when you don't need to?”
“Oh shut up.”
“OK. Obviously you're not as fit as you like to make out. Can't even manage a tidgy little walk.”
Mark closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then killed the ignition and clambered out of the car.
“All right. If I go along with all this, following your suggestions, you know, being nice all day, then does that mean that, after today, you'll leave me alone?
“If you like.”
“Right, well that sounds like a deal to me.”
“Good, let's go.”
Mark began his trek to the village, still wondering why on earth he was taking any of this stuff seriously. States of positivity and grace, being nice, love and kindness, seeing the good – it all sounded like a bunch of tree-hugging hippy crap to him. And yet, there was no denying, it was a beautiful day and as he slowed his pace, Mark couldn't help but think that if that smarmy, pain-in-the-butt, Vicky...
“Becky.”
...Becky hadn't sacked him yesterday, then by now, he'd be sitting in that horrible little office, surrounded by people he had nothing in common with, feeling angry, depressed and...smothered, somehow. There was no denying that this was a far pleasanter way to spend his morning (recently sacked or not), a nice, gentle stroll to the village, the same route he'd been used to driving every morning and yet, surely, there weren't usually so many trees. And just listen to all those birds singing. Mark smiled and breathed in deeply. Perhaps those pesky nail-clippers had a point after all.
His attention was distracted by the sight of the old lady who lived in the bungalow two doors down from him approaching in the opposite direction, the bulging shopping bags in each hand seeming to round her shoulders even more than normal as she struggled along the street. Mark felt his stomach flip and a frown start to form on his face. He'd done quite well recently at avoiding the old bag since that altercation about her cats shitting in his garden and, yes, he knew it wasn't exactly her fault, she had no control over where her cats chose to empty their bowels, but she deserved a hard time after the fuss she'd made about the cars parked outside her house when he and Julie had had their moving-in party. What difference did it make to her? She didn't even have a car and it wasn't like there was a constant stream of visitors to her house. No, she was just plain awkward, and Mark had wasted no time in showing her that two could play at that game.
“Well, now's your chance to clear the air. Make a fresh start with her.”
'No way,' Mark spat the thought at the clippers. 'Not her. I'll be nice to anybody except her. She's horrible.'
'Perhaps she's just lonely.'
'Well, duh! That's because nobody likes her.'
No reply. Mark shook his head and comforted himself with the thought that she wouldn't want to speak to him any more than he wanted to speak to her – look, she was deliberately looking down to the ground, ignoring him – so by avoiding passing the time of day with her, he was in actual fact, doing something good. This way they would both be happy.
But as she drew level with him, she raised her eyes and caught him looking straight at her, and for a moment, Mark was taken aback by the look in her eyes. Gone was that contentious, mean expression he had been subjected to before and which he somehow always expected to be plastered on her face; instead he saw a tired and sad old lady and without quite understanding why or how, Mark felt something stir deep inside him. Without quite understanding why or how, without thinking about it even, Mark felt an unexpected smile form on his face.
“Morning Mrs Clayton. Here, let me help you with those bags.”
The startled look on the old lady's face soon blossomed into a smile which somehow felt to warm Mark from the inside out as he took the bags off her and walked slowly back to her house with her.
“That's very kind of you,” Mrs Clayton said after she'd managed to get her breath back.
“It's no problem,” Mark replied, pushing her dilapidated gate open with his hip and catching an unmistakable look of embarrassment flash across the old lady's face.
“Oh, you must excuse the state of my garden,” she started with an awkward laugh, “I just can't keep up with it these days, what with my arthritis and everything. Mr Clayton would turn in his grave if he could see how neglected it is now. Used to take such pride in it, you know, a bit like you. Your garden's always so neat and pretty.”
Mark followed her gaze down the road to his own garden and nodded.
“Well, I must admit, I do like gardening. Julie always reckoned it was the only thing I was any good at and I suppose she was right. You should see the state of the inside of the house.”
He flinched as Mrs Clayton let out a surprisingly loud laugh.
“Oh, I bet it's not so bad! And how is your lovely girlfriend? I've not see her for a while.”
“Erm, well, things didn't work out between us and she left me.”
Actually, when he put it like that, Mark realised it didn't sound so bad. Just one of those things, that was all. And his usual compulsion to add the word “bitch” was strangely absent.
“Ah, well,” was all that Mrs Clayton said, but she gave his arm a quick squeeze before leading the way down her weed-covered path. The rockery, too, was over-run with dandelions, grass and unruly ferns, the rosebushes looked sad and depressed, and Mark could hardly bear to look at the lawn.
“Go on! You know what to do.”
“What? No, I haven't got time. I've got to find a job, you know.”
“Un-prompted acts of kindness are the key, remember.”
“Yes, yes, whatever. It'll have to be later, though.”
“Sorry dear, did you say something?”
Mark shook his head.
“Well, would you like a cup of tea?”
“Go on! You know it's the right thing to do. Offer. NOW!”
Mark groaned inwardly.
“That would be lovely, thank you. And I was wondering, Mrs Clayton, if you like, that is, I could, well, what I mean is – would you like me to do some gardening for you? I'm not working today, so if you like...”
“Oh, bless you! Would you? Really? That would be such a help to me. Thank you. I'll go and put the kettle on.”
*******************
It didn't take him long and at just turned half-past one, Mark cast a satisfied look around the now well-tended garden as he made his way back up the path on his way home. He hadn't thought about his job situation, his financial worries, or Julie in all the time he'd been working on Mrs Clayton's garden, and he had to admit that felt good. He felt good. He'd even enjoyed chatting with the old lady as he ate the cheese sandwiches she'd insisted on making for lunch. Yes, it was surprisingly true – doing something good felt...well...good.
“Well, we must say, we're impressed, Mark. This morning's efforts have been nothing short of sensational. Just remember, what you give out, you get back multiplied, so keep it up.”
But Mark's attention had been distracted by the sight of a tow-truck outside his drive and for a second, he froze in horror unable to move as he watched his beloved 5 Series being towed away.
Then he snapped.
“OI!” He hollered, legs finally moving into a sprint, “get back here. That's my car. Get back here now!”
“Try paying your monthly instalments once in a while, mate,” the driver yelled out of the window and laughed as he drove off.
“What? Who the hell do you think you are? You've no right...bring me my car back. NOW!”
But the only response was a raised middle finger out of the window before the truck turned left at the end of the road and disappeared, along with Mark's BMW.
“SHIT!!” He screeched to the sky, then yanked his nail clippers out of his pocket and glared at them.
“What you give out you get back, eh?” He hissed. “I spend all morning doing an old lady's garden, for free, thinking nice happy-happy, joy-joy thoughts, and this is what I get back? Well stuff that, and stuff you. I don't know why I ever listened to you in the first place.”
Mark didn't think they answered, but he wouldn't have heard them anyway due to the blood pumping in his ears as he tried his hardest not to start crying in the middle of the street. Shouting and cursing had been bad enough. He had to try to maintain some semblance of dignity, besides he could see Mrs Clayton out of the corner of his eye watching from her doorway. He made it back home, chucked the clippers into the cutlery drawer out of sight, flopped down on the sofa in the lounge and stared into space.
He had no idea how long he had been sitting there when he heard the quiet knock on the kitchen door, but he ignored it. He ignored it the next 3 times, too but when the caller was clearly not going to take the hint, he marched into the kitchen, ready to fly at whoever was disturbing him.
He could see Mrs Clayton standing there through the glass panels, looking serious, and in his paranoid state of mind, by the time he unlocked the door, he had convinced himself she had come to complain about his loud and vulgar outburst in the street. Well, just dare her to say one thing...
“Ah Mark. I was beginning to wonder if you'd gone out.”
Mark shook his head stiffly.
“Now, I hope you don't think me an old busy-body, but well, I saw what happened earlier with your car and how upset you were...”
“Mrs Clayton, the last thing I need right now is you giving me a hard time. I know it's not polite to stand, cursing in the street but I just snapped. I'm up to my ears in debt and I lost my job yesterday, all right?”
Mrs Clayton nodded.
“I thought as much. I noticed you were home early yesterday and you kept changing the subject at lunchtime whenever I asked about your work, so I just put two and two together. Oh dear, I am an old busy-body aren't I?”
She chuckled for a moment before continuing.
“Anyway, I got to thinking and I remembered that last Sunday after church, we were all talking about how difficult it is to find reasonable, reliable help – especially gardening – when you're old and on your own, like most of us in the congregation are. Mr Jenkins has just sacked his gardener, caught him stealing you know. Do you know Mr Jenkins?”
Mark shook his head and leaned against the door-jamb.
“Lives up at Hainworth Hall. Made a fortune in the sheet metal industry somehow...”
“ Oh, that Mr Jenkins.”
“Yes. Well, I took the liberty of phoning him to find out if he'd replaced his gardener yet and when he said he hadn't, I said I knew someone who might be interested.”
Mark felt his eyes widen.
“Anyway, he only needs someone for 3 days a week, but I know he'll pay you well, and I'm sure you'd have no problem finding a few more gardens to do – there's mine for a start. You could have a nice, little business up and running before long.”
She stopped suddenly and peered at his face.
“Oh, what a silly old woman I am. Of course you're not interested in gardening for a living, you're one of those professional types. Suits and ties and everything. It was just a silly idea, forgive me.”
But Mark was shaking his head. “No, no, I am interested! It's a wonderful idea, I just don't know why I didn't think of it before. I hate working in offices, I´ve always hated working in offices, but gardening for a living...now that would be perfect.”
Mrs Clayton smiled in obvious relief.
“So, should I contact Mr Jenkins for an interview, then?”
“Oh no, dear. He says he interviewed the last one and look what happened there. No, he's happy to trust my judgement and says if you´re interested you can start tomorrow. He's got all his own tools of course, top of the range I dare say, so you just need to take yourself. Might have to get the bus, mind.”
Mark started laughing, amazed that he could actually see something funny about his car-less situation, but suddenly it didn't seem so important. And as Mrs Clayton turned to give him a quick wave from the top of the drive, he was struck by the fleeting yet powerful understanding of how quickly things could change; how nothing was permanent and how you might as well just be happy going with the flow because you never knew what was around the corner. Which was kind of what his nail-clippers had been telling him, he supposed.
He dashed to the cutlery drawer to retrieve them and standing at the pedal-bin, started clipping again, this time in excitement and happiness, rather than the anger of the previous night.
“ So, it seems I under-estimated you, you clever little clippers, you! I wish you'd started talking to me years ago, might have made my life a lot easier, and you know, I'm actually quite getting into all this lovey-dovey stuff. Who would have believed it? Let me ask you something, though, did you know this was going to happen all along?”
But there was no answer, and Mark smiled sadly remembering their deal that if he kept to his side of the bargain, they would leave him alone. Now, just a few short hours later and here he was, wishing that they would talk to him again. Who would have believed it? Who would have believed that he was actually going to miss that little voice? What if he forgot all this nicey-nicey malarkey and slipped back into his old ways? What if he needed them to stop him turning back into the grumpy old people-hater he used to be? What if he couldn't do it without them?
He was studying his hands as these doubts flew around his head, and was suddenly struck with another thought. Gardening gloves. He'd need his gloves for his new job tomorrow. He went straight to the shed to root out the pair he'd bought last week and, so far, used only once. Strange that he'd had that sudden compulsion to buy a new pair.
“Almost as if I knew,” he muttered to himself as he flung them onto the worktop next to the door, so that he wouldn't forget them in the morning.
“Of course you knew. You know more than you think. There´s a quiet, little voice communicating with you all day long if you´ll only listen.”
...said the gardening gloves.
