A man was clearing out his shed, tossing out junk and old bits and bobs. He piled everything up in the yard and spotted a thin, grubby little bookprobably something the kids had left behind. He opened it and started reading. One line caught his eye: *»Was a man born just to dig in the dirt and die, without even getting the chance to dig his own grave?»*
It hit him like a ton of bricks. That was *him*. What had his life been? Work, work, work. At home, it was the samedigging the garden, fixing the fence, mending the gate. Every spring, hed turn the soil, plant, weed, tend. He and his wife had even taken on another allotment. Their whole youth had gone into it.
That little plot had made slaves of them. Now, in their later years, both of them had slight stoops from all the bending. Theyd seen nothing. *Nothing!* Never been anywhere. Just dulled by labour, their hands earth-stained, eyes always fixed on the ground.
And his wifewashing, cooking, stewing, making jams and pickles, bottling this and that. Always worrying about putting food on the table.
Gorky had it right in *Makár Chudrá*: man *is* a slave. A lifetime spent fretting over a crust of bread.
Theyd never read a thing, never touched culturecould barely string two thoughts together. His heart ached. It felt like his whole life had been wasted. Somewhere out there were theatres, palm trees, clever people talking about beautiful thingswhile he and his wife were stuck like peasants, same as theyd always been.
And their kids? Headed down the same path. The same fate waiting.
What *had* he ever seen? Never wore decent clothes. Never been further than Cornwall. Not even to London. Flown on a plane *once* in his life. Taken the train a handful of times.
His whole existence? Yard, garden, livestock, chickens. Work till holiday. On holidaywork at home. Wife always bustling about.
Then you kick the bucket, *»without even digging your own grave.»* Bloody brilliant, that.
He smoothed the grimy little book with his hand, carried it inside, and left it on the sideboard. Couldnt bring himself to chuck it. Everyone should read itmake em think about their own chains.
The day ended. He and his wife sat in the twilight, no lights on. He told her his thoughtsabout slavery, about digging dirt, how life had passed them by. How theyd be gone soon, and all theyd ever known were vegetable patches. What had it all been *for*? You only get one life, and theyd wasted theirs.
His wife said nothing. Got up, fetched water, watered the plants. Then she opened the drawers, pulled out fresh bedsheets, made the bed. Lay down. Turned to him and said, *»Come to bed. Stop talking nonsense.»*
Neither slept. He could tell she was awake toosighing. Then she turned to face him. *»Not everyones meant to be an adventurer like Livingstone or Cook. God kissed *them*gave em that purpose. The rest of us? He told us to find joy in work, in the land. To raise kids. To dig potatoes. No point staring at the great ones.»*
She paused, then added she wasnt a slave. Shed done what she *wanted*, what made her happy. No regrets.
He got up, threw an old jumper over his shoulders, and stepped outside. Stars glittered gold overhead. Lit a fag, sat on the step.
*»Blimey. My wifes sharp as a tack. Fifty years together, and I never knew.»*
She bustled about, fed the family, kept the house spotless. And she wasnt a slave. Because God had kissed her for thisfor home, kids, husband, family. Because everything starts and ends with family. *»Blimey. Whod have thought?»*
