A reader writes, asking how I can let my tortoise roam free in my back garden. She’d like to do the same with her adopted tortoise, but is worried it will escape.
I explain that my garden is bounded by high brick walls, safely sealing the tortoise in, but that I too am consumed by fear that he will escape. He’s very good at hiding, and this always strikes me as a strategy: wait until they think you’ve already gone, and their guard will drop.
Also, he has form: my wife was eight years old when she got the tortoise. After her parents separated he went to live in the country with her father, and promptly escaped. He stayed missing for two years, until a farmer found him while combining in a field a mile south of his last known whereabouts. For 20 years the tortoise lived in a pen with the farmer’s sheepdogs, with a white stripe painted on his back to make him easier to spot whenever he got out.
At some point in the 1990s the farm was sold, and the tortoise was returned to my father-in-law, who very quickly returned him to my wife. That was nearly 30 years ago, which can make the end result feel like destiny, although probably not from the tortoise’s point of view. To him it’s just one foiled escape attempt after another.
This spring, our oldest son also returned to us: his lease is up, and he has yet to find a new place. When I arrive to pick him up from the flat he’s shared with friends for the last two years, his belongings are in bin liners, his furniture piled on stairwell landings.
“It’s not usually this messy,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “This is the only time I’ll ever see it.”
The car is so full that the last things have to be crammed in and the doors quickly shut before they fall back out. The oldest one rides with a suitcase on his lap, and a potted plant on the floor between his knees. His mother is not thrilled to see all this stuff – another household, essentially – piled up in our hall and living room.
“Lucky for you we’re going away,” she says. “You can figure out how to get it all upstairs before we come back.”
“I will,” he says. “What’s for supper?”
We’re setting off early in the morning for a long weekend, leaving little time to inculcate a fresh sense of residential responsibility in our new roommate.
“You’ll need to get cat food,” my wife says. “Lock the back door if you go out.”
“OK,” he says.
“I’m expecting a package tomorrow,” I say.
“Do your laundry,” my wife says, “and keep the kitchen clean.”
The next morning the oldest one’s stuff is still piled in the hallway – it’s easier to pack the car by carrying the bags out through the side door, where I pause to show my wife the repaired fibreoptic cable that restored our internet.
“They even repositioned it so it won’t happen again,” I say.
“Are we ready?” she says. “I want to go before the school traffic starts.”
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We load the dogs in the car and head off. Somewhere along the M3 we begin to weigh the pros and cons of our new living situation.
“On the one hand, he’s a terrible slob,” I say. “On the other hand, we now have two potato mashers.”
“I’m going to set some ground rules when we get back,” my wife says.
“But it’s also good we can go away and feel secure about things,” I say.
“Are you kidding?” she says. “How secure do you feel right now?”
When we arrive at our destination I check the weather in London – it’s due to get very hot. I then send a panicky, pleading text to the family WhatsApp group about the seedlings in my office, and their immediate watering needs. Half an hour later I receive a reply from the oldest one. It says: “where is the key”.
I explain about the key – again. Eventually he texts back to say he’s now out all day. Then the middle one texts to say he will drop by to water that afternoon.
My wife joins in, issuing a brief rebuke to the oldest one and a reminder of his renewed residential responsibilities.
“He’s gone very quiet since then,” I say.
“Well, he’ll be embarrassed, I hope,” my wife says.
We don’t receive any kind of reply until late afternoon, when the oldest one finally replies:
“I think you left the side door open,” he writes. “The tortoise has just been returned to me from across the street.”