The following story was inspired by Bernard Cribbins’ 1962 song ‘The Hole In The Ground’.
There I was, a-digging this hole
Hole in the ground, so big and sort of round it was
And There was I, digging it deep
It was flat at the bottom and the sides were steep
When along comes this bloke in a bowler which he lifted and scratched his head
Well, he looked down the hole, poor demented soul and he said
Do you mind if I make a suggestion?
Don't dig there, dig it elsewhere
Your digging it round and it ought to be square
The shape of it's wrong, it's much too long
And you can't put hole where a hole don't belong
Emerson P the Hole Digger, son of Emerson O the Stone Painter, checked the measurements for the day’s work. Radius, 1.5 metres, round. Unusual, rare even, but not unknown. He remembered, as an apprentice, once digging a round hole. Depth 1.5 metres, volume .... he scratched his head and took out his notebook .... volume, 10.5975 cubic metres. That shouldn’t take too long, although he was mindful that the ministry took the dimmest view of sloppy, rushed work: sloping sides, inaccurate angles, intrusive roots, cables, pipes or burrows. A cave-in and you’d be back to painting stones. If, of course, they bothered to dig you out. Peterson D hadn’t been dug out. Quinnell E the Hole Filler hadn’t realised he was still at the bottom when he started shovelling. When Davidson A the Box Ticker turned up to inspect the work, and the pair realised what had transpired, he ticked the box, ‘Hole digger not present’. No further inquiries ensued. Levison J the Pursekeeper ruled a neat red line through Peterson D’s entry in his ledger with no more to be said.
Emerson P unpacked and checked his charts, compass and maps, spreading them on the tailgate of his wagon. Digging in the wrong place would lead him straight to a pot of white paint and a 100mm brush. He ticked off the landmarks: pylon 4983/23A/7b, church tower with a spire, disused bunker, cross-roads with sign-post to Nowhere Inparticular, Somewhere Else, Anotherplace Altogether and Notwhereyoureally Wanttogo, Post Office, Inn. His eyes confirmed the existence of each and his Disto confirmed the distances from the hole’s location to each. He was certain that he was in the correct place.
He looked about him, scanning the location, and saw net curtains twitching at every window. They knew who and what he was and what he was about to start. They wouldn’t like it. Nobody did but nobody ever said so. What was the point? They couldn’t stop it. If they complained, the Men From The Ministry, with their tooth-brush moustaches, brown leather briefcases, faded and thread-bare pin-striped suits and bowler hats, would arrive and explain why it was necessary that complaints were not made and what a great shame it was that rations to this particular neighbourhood had coincidently been reduced by 25% for the next six months.
Certain that the location was correct, he began to unpack his tools and equipment. Marking pegs, spray paint, string, level, spades (three sizes) and shovels (narrow and broad), stopcock keys (should service pipes need cutting), plugs, sealant, etc, etc.
A small flock of sheep passed by; the old shepherd lingered. ‘A new hole?’ he said.
Emerson P nodded. “Aye. Round, it’ll be.”
“Round?” said the shepherd. “Unusual.”
“Somewhat. Usually square, but this’ll be round,” replied the taciturn Emerson P. “Got to get on – both of us.”
“Aye. Got to get on.” He chivvied his flock on down the road.
Emerson P located the hole’s centre, knocked in a wooden peg, and then hammered a nail into the top of it. He tied a loop in the string and measured out 1.8 metres and tied a second, larger loop to accommodate the can of orange spray paint. Checking that it was 1.5 metres from the nail to the nozzle, he marked out the circle. It encompassed a sizable portion of a cottage garden, including part of the brick path from the front gate to the front door. Also in the circle was the centre of a beautiful herbaceous border, full of summer blooms and bedding. He heard sobbing and looked up. A beautiful young woman – a mother, clutching a toddler to her shoulder – stood at the open door, eyes streaming.
“Say nothing, missus. Nothing.” No-one knew where all the bugs were, just that they were listening.
It was time for his lunch break. He logged in and climbed up into the wagon. While waiting for his pie to heat up, he looked out at the cottage and at its beautiful garden. She was standing in the centre of the circle, still weeping, but silently; the child, clinging to her skirts, looking up uncomprehendingly. The pie tasted just like yesterday’s, like all the other pies he’d ever had, whatever was on the label. Complaints, he reminded himself, equalled 100mm brushes and pots of white paint or sorting and counting gravel. It had to be better than this. He had to be better.
He left the indifferent pie and returned to the garden. Picking up the spray can, he marked out a new route for the brick path, avoiding the circle. Next, he marked out the position for a new flower bed. The woman appeared at the front door, open-mouthed, about to speak.
“Say nothing, missus. Nothing.”
Then he smiled. He wasn’t given to smiling, for what had there been to smile about? Not his cruddy flat on the 39th floor of Building 23/4 in District G Beta, Area 5, with its shared WC, intermittent hot water and heating, where the lifts only worked every other day. Not his pointless job, digging holes for no apparent reason, which were filled in again almost as soon as they were dug. He hated the disruption and hurt it caused. Even more, he hated the powerlessness that he felt. Was it just him? Listened to, watched, followed, suppressed, oppressed, depressed. What was there to smile about?
Now, there was something. She smiled back and nodded. He couldn’t remember the last time that anyone had done that. As he was lifting the turfs for the new path, he heard something coming from the cottage. It was the woman singing. Stopping, he pushed the door open, the better to hear. Was there ever such beauty? His heart leapt. There was still beauty in the world as he’d suspected, and beauty was worth something. It was worth standing up for. It was worth fighting for and his fight would start here, this very day, in this very cottage garden. He would be better! He returned to the turf with renewed energy, stacking it out of the way for later reuse. When she appeared at the door offering a large beaker of cordial, he had already lifted and stacked half of the brick path.
“Elderflower,” she said. “Homemade.”
Homemade music and now a homemade drink: another novelty that confronted Emerson P that day. It tasted unlike anything he’d ever tasted: of goodness, of hope, of beauty. Worth fighting for. Better.
By the end of his first day, he’d re-laid the new brick path and transplanted the herbaceous border. He knew nothing about plants except that the roots were vital to their continued viability. He’d cut through enough of them to see the effect it had. Having dug over the new bed, with his broad shovel he’d carefully lifted the plants from old to the new bed. She was on hand to adjust and settle them in and water them, assuring him that their chances of survival were strong. Her son skitted around them, full of chatter and the excitement of the newness of Emerson P. More smiles all around. Smiles and laughter begat smiles and laughter, which begat beauty.
The site was ready for the hole except that he was a day behind. The drone would be present in the morning expecting progress on a hole that had yet to put in an appearance.
A large bowl of rabbit stew, dumplings and spring greens, a generous slice of apple pie from a curtain twitcher across the road, and all washed down with a jug of ale from the shepherd ensured the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. The viewscreens in the city always extolled the values and virtues of community. The city community, awash with indifference, alienation and fear as it was, bore no resemblance to this. There were no viewscreens to nag and hector and threaten here, but there was community: people who cared because he had cared.
The rooks from the elm trees lining the street woke him earlier than was usual. From the open front door of the cottage came the smell of freshly baked bread. And there was the hole: half a metre deep, perfectly round with straight sides and no intrusions to be seen. A perfect work in progress, soil neatly piled to one side. Better than he could have done it. As he stood in its centre, she appeared bearing a plate of fresh crusty rolls dripping with butter and honey.
“From my hives,” she smiled. “The hole? Don’t ask.”
“Emerson P!” came a voice from the drone. He recognised it as Nicholson G the Progress Chaser. “Slow progress. We all expect better, Emerson P. Finish today. Sense of urgency urgently required, Emerson P!”
The hole was just past one metre deep. The drone reappeared while he was sitting on the dry-stone stone wall in front of the cottage, stripped to the waist, enjoying a beaker of cordial. She sat alongside, with just the stoneware jug between them. She had been explaining how she’d learned to sing from her mother and grandmother, who had both grown up and lived in the cottage before her. From them, she learned everything; singing, reading, writing, bee-keeping, cooking and baking, and, especially, gardening. She’d taken him through the cottage to show him the vegetable gardens. Here, the villagers shared the work and the bounty. They traded their specialities – hers was honey – and their skills. She also taught the village children to read and write and to calculate their numbers.
“Laziness and idle behaviour, Emerson P,” barked Nicholson G. “Expect Theberton T.”
Under normal circumstances, this would be ominous. Theberton T was the paintbrush and white paint man. He was Progress Chaser Alpha and notoriously fastidious – in his personal appearance, in his expectations of others and in his obsession with procedure. He was a stickler for precision and exactitude. He brooked no deviation. He specialised in being difficult, if not impossible, to please. Circumstances were no longer normal and would never be again.
The woman, her son and the rest of the village were conferring at the Meeting Ground beyond the village when Theberton T arrived. He stood by the gate surveying the hole. “It is round.”
“Aye. It is,” agreed Emerson P. “As stated on my requisition.”
The other consulted his papers. “It ought to be square.” Theberton T was being difficult.
“Well, it’s round and that’s how it is.”
Theberton T took out his Disto to check measurements and readings. “It is in the wrong place and it is too deep.”
“It’s where it is and what it is and it’ll not be moving.”
Kneeling at the edge, Theberton T peered into it. “Why is there a smaller hole in the middle?”
He didn’t see Emerson P approach him from behind, holding his spade aloft. He barely felt a thing before tumbling, lifeless, into the hole. Emerson P dragged the body to the grave and pushed it in.
By the time Davidson A the Box Ticker turned up the next morning, the hole had disappeared beneath a seamlessly turfed lawn in a beautiful cottage garden with a snaking brick path. Sitting on a large rag rug spread across the lawn, a young mother was enjoying the summer sunshine and a midmorning picnic with her young son, his small friend and her mother. The women glanced at Davidson A. Davidson A peered briefly at the party over the wall, not completely understanding the picnic, the friendship and the pleasure he was seeing, before placing ticks beside ‘Hole not present’, ‘Hole Digger not present’ and ‘Progress Chaser not present’. No further inquiries ensued. Levison the Pursekeeper ruled neat red lines through Emerson P’s and Theberton T’s entries in his ledger and that was that.
Overnight, as agreed at the village meeting, Emerson P’s wagon had been dismantled and the parts stored away. The useful tools and equipment were distributed around the village.
By the time Davidson A arrived, the shepherd was guiding Emerson P through the foothills to the caves in the mountains, to hope and beauty, to the unknown.
There I was, a-digging this hole
Hole in the ground, so big and sort of round it was
And There was I, digging it deep
It was flat at the bottom and the sides were steep
When along comes this bloke in a bowler which he lifted and scratched his head
Well, he looked down the hole, poor demented soul and he said
Do you mind if I make a suggestion?
Don't dig there, dig it elsewhere
Your digging it round and it ought to be square
The shape of it's wrong, it's much too long
And you can't put hole where a hole don't belong
Emerson P the Hole Digger, son of Emerson O the Stone Painter, checked the measurements for the day’s work. Radius, 1.5 metres, round. Unusual, rare even, but not unknown. He remembered, as an apprentice, once digging a round hole. Depth 1.5 metres, volume .... he scratched his head and took out his notebook .... volume, 10.5975 cubic metres. That shouldn’t take too long, although he was mindful that the ministry took the dimmest view of sloppy, rushed work: sloping sides, inaccurate angles, intrusive roots, cables, pipes or burrows. A cave-in and you’d be back to painting stones. If, of course, they bothered to dig you out. Peterson D hadn’t been dug out. Quinnell E the Hole Filler hadn’t realised he was still at the bottom when he started shovelling. When Davidson A the Box Ticker turned up to inspect the work, and the pair realised what had transpired, he ticked the box, ‘Hole digger not present’. No further inquiries ensued. Levison J the Pursekeeper ruled a neat red line through Peterson D’s entry in his ledger with no more to be said.
Emerson P unpacked and checked his charts, compass and maps, spreading them on the tailgate of his wagon. Digging in the wrong place would lead him straight to a pot of white paint and a 100mm brush. He ticked off the landmarks: pylon 4983/23A/7b, church tower with a spire, disused bunker, cross-roads with sign-post to Nowhere Inparticular, Somewhere Else, Anotherplace Altogether and Notwhereyoureally Wanttogo, Post Office, Inn. His eyes confirmed the existence of each and his Disto confirmed the distances from the hole’s location to each. He was certain that he was in the correct place.
He looked about him, scanning the location, and saw net curtains twitching at every window. They knew who and what he was and what he was about to start. They wouldn’t like it. Nobody did but nobody ever said so. What was the point? They couldn’t stop it. If they complained, the Men From The Ministry, with their tooth-brush moustaches, brown leather briefcases, faded and thread-bare pin-striped suits and bowler hats, would arrive and explain why it was necessary that complaints were not made and what a great shame it was that rations to this particular neighbourhood had coincidently been reduced by 25% for the next six months.
Certain that the location was correct, he began to unpack his tools and equipment. Marking pegs, spray paint, string, level, spades (three sizes) and shovels (narrow and broad), stopcock keys (should service pipes need cutting), plugs, sealant, etc, etc.
A small flock of sheep passed by; the old shepherd lingered. ‘A new hole?’ he said.
Emerson P nodded. “Aye. Round, it’ll be.”
“Round?” said the shepherd. “Unusual.”
“Somewhat. Usually square, but this’ll be round,” replied the taciturn Emerson P. “Got to get on – both of us.”
“Aye. Got to get on.” He chivvied his flock on down the road.
Emerson P located the hole’s centre, knocked in a wooden peg, and then hammered a nail into the top of it. He tied a loop in the string and measured out 1.8 metres and tied a second, larger loop to accommodate the can of orange spray paint. Checking that it was 1.5 metres from the nail to the nozzle, he marked out the circle. It encompassed a sizable portion of a cottage garden, including part of the brick path from the front gate to the front door. Also in the circle was the centre of a beautiful herbaceous border, full of summer blooms and bedding. He heard sobbing and looked up. A beautiful young woman – a mother, clutching a toddler to her shoulder – stood at the open door, eyes streaming.
“Say nothing, missus. Nothing.” No-one knew where all the bugs were, just that they were listening.
It was time for his lunch break. He logged in and climbed up into the wagon. While waiting for his pie to heat up, he looked out at the cottage and at its beautiful garden. She was standing in the centre of the circle, still weeping, but silently; the child, clinging to her skirts, looking up uncomprehendingly. The pie tasted just like yesterday’s, like all the other pies he’d ever had, whatever was on the label. Complaints, he reminded himself, equalled 100mm brushes and pots of white paint or sorting and counting gravel. It had to be better than this. He had to be better.
He left the indifferent pie and returned to the garden. Picking up the spray can, he marked out a new route for the brick path, avoiding the circle. Next, he marked out the position for a new flower bed. The woman appeared at the front door, open-mouthed, about to speak.
“Say nothing, missus. Nothing.”
Then he smiled. He wasn’t given to smiling, for what had there been to smile about? Not his cruddy flat on the 39th floor of Building 23/4 in District G Beta, Area 5, with its shared WC, intermittent hot water and heating, where the lifts only worked every other day. Not his pointless job, digging holes for no apparent reason, which were filled in again almost as soon as they were dug. He hated the disruption and hurt it caused. Even more, he hated the powerlessness that he felt. Was it just him? Listened to, watched, followed, suppressed, oppressed, depressed. What was there to smile about?
Now, there was something. She smiled back and nodded. He couldn’t remember the last time that anyone had done that. As he was lifting the turfs for the new path, he heard something coming from the cottage. It was the woman singing. Stopping, he pushed the door open, the better to hear. Was there ever such beauty? His heart leapt. There was still beauty in the world as he’d suspected, and beauty was worth something. It was worth standing up for. It was worth fighting for and his fight would start here, this very day, in this very cottage garden. He would be better! He returned to the turf with renewed energy, stacking it out of the way for later reuse. When she appeared at the door offering a large beaker of cordial, he had already lifted and stacked half of the brick path.
“Elderflower,” she said. “Homemade.”
Homemade music and now a homemade drink: another novelty that confronted Emerson P that day. It tasted unlike anything he’d ever tasted: of goodness, of hope, of beauty. Worth fighting for. Better.
By the end of his first day, he’d re-laid the new brick path and transplanted the herbaceous border. He knew nothing about plants except that the roots were vital to their continued viability. He’d cut through enough of them to see the effect it had. Having dug over the new bed, with his broad shovel he’d carefully lifted the plants from old to the new bed. She was on hand to adjust and settle them in and water them, assuring him that their chances of survival were strong. Her son skitted around them, full of chatter and the excitement of the newness of Emerson P. More smiles all around. Smiles and laughter begat smiles and laughter, which begat beauty.
The site was ready for the hole except that he was a day behind. The drone would be present in the morning expecting progress on a hole that had yet to put in an appearance.
A large bowl of rabbit stew, dumplings and spring greens, a generous slice of apple pie from a curtain twitcher across the road, and all washed down with a jug of ale from the shepherd ensured the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. The viewscreens in the city always extolled the values and virtues of community. The city community, awash with indifference, alienation and fear as it was, bore no resemblance to this. There were no viewscreens to nag and hector and threaten here, but there was community: people who cared because he had cared.
The rooks from the elm trees lining the street woke him earlier than was usual. From the open front door of the cottage came the smell of freshly baked bread. And there was the hole: half a metre deep, perfectly round with straight sides and no intrusions to be seen. A perfect work in progress, soil neatly piled to one side. Better than he could have done it. As he stood in its centre, she appeared bearing a plate of fresh crusty rolls dripping with butter and honey.
“From my hives,” she smiled. “The hole? Don’t ask.”
“Emerson P!” came a voice from the drone. He recognised it as Nicholson G the Progress Chaser. “Slow progress. We all expect better, Emerson P. Finish today. Sense of urgency urgently required, Emerson P!”
The hole was just past one metre deep. The drone reappeared while he was sitting on the dry-stone stone wall in front of the cottage, stripped to the waist, enjoying a beaker of cordial. She sat alongside, with just the stoneware jug between them. She had been explaining how she’d learned to sing from her mother and grandmother, who had both grown up and lived in the cottage before her. From them, she learned everything; singing, reading, writing, bee-keeping, cooking and baking, and, especially, gardening. She’d taken him through the cottage to show him the vegetable gardens. Here, the villagers shared the work and the bounty. They traded their specialities – hers was honey – and their skills. She also taught the village children to read and write and to calculate their numbers.
“Laziness and idle behaviour, Emerson P,” barked Nicholson G. “Expect Theberton T.”
Under normal circumstances, this would be ominous. Theberton T was the paintbrush and white paint man. He was Progress Chaser Alpha and notoriously fastidious – in his personal appearance, in his expectations of others and in his obsession with procedure. He was a stickler for precision and exactitude. He brooked no deviation. He specialised in being difficult, if not impossible, to please. Circumstances were no longer normal and would never be again.
The woman, her son and the rest of the village were conferring at the Meeting Ground beyond the village when Theberton T arrived. He stood by the gate surveying the hole. “It is round.”
“Aye. It is,” agreed Emerson P. “As stated on my requisition.”
The other consulted his papers. “It ought to be square.” Theberton T was being difficult.
“Well, it’s round and that’s how it is.”
Theberton T took out his Disto to check measurements and readings. “It is in the wrong place and it is too deep.”
“It’s where it is and what it is and it’ll not be moving.”
Kneeling at the edge, Theberton T peered into it. “Why is there a smaller hole in the middle?”
He didn’t see Emerson P approach him from behind, holding his spade aloft. He barely felt a thing before tumbling, lifeless, into the hole. Emerson P dragged the body to the grave and pushed it in.
By the time Davidson A the Box Ticker turned up the next morning, the hole had disappeared beneath a seamlessly turfed lawn in a beautiful cottage garden with a snaking brick path. Sitting on a large rag rug spread across the lawn, a young mother was enjoying the summer sunshine and a midmorning picnic with her young son, his small friend and her mother. The women glanced at Davidson A. Davidson A peered briefly at the party over the wall, not completely understanding the picnic, the friendship and the pleasure he was seeing, before placing ticks beside ‘Hole not present’, ‘Hole Digger not present’ and ‘Progress Chaser not present’. No further inquiries ensued. Levison the Pursekeeper ruled neat red lines through Emerson P’s and Theberton T’s entries in his ledger and that was that.
Overnight, as agreed at the village meeting, Emerson P’s wagon had been dismantled and the parts stored away. The useful tools and equipment were distributed around the village.
By the time Davidson A arrived, the shepherd was guiding Emerson P through the foothills to the caves in the mountains, to hope and beauty, to the unknown.