I WAKE up, but my eyes remain closed. The silence is heavy against my ears; apart from the trees outside rustling softly in the wind and what sounds like the distant buzz of a fly caught in the drawn curtains, there is not a sound. Not even my parents rattling about in the kitchen can be heard. I force my eyes open and check my phone – 8.03am; they’re on the road somewhere, still on their Sunday jog.
As I stumble into the cool, dark kitchen, I’m greeted by the familiar hum of the fridge, amplified in the cavernous house.
I start my routine by heading to the fridge in search of milk. But just as I groggily reach out for the fridge door, I freeze. A thunderous crash sounds above my head. For one bizarre and terrifying moment I think the roof of our ancient farmhouse has finally had enough. But I look up and the ceiling is still there. There is a scurry outside. A scurry that doesn’t belong to either of the dogs. My heart beating a tattoo in my chest, I tiptoe to the front door.
When I reach the door, I catch the last second of something leaping high into the depths of a tree. My feet relax from tiptoe mode.
Monkeys. The whole troop must have trampolined onto the roof and into the garden, explaining the loud crash and scurrying. If only my Korean students knew.
I spot about 11 of them: some trapezing through the trees, some strutting about the lawn, some lounging around in the shade and some breakfasting on my father’s cherry tomatoes.
My father’s tomatoes. They were nestled in a makeshift bamboo cage, which he carefully constructed to conceal the tomatoes from the monkeys, though I’m not sure how the tomatoes would be concealed when there was no netting and the bars were about six centimetres apart from one another.
I watch as one monkey jerks its head in all directions, its beady eyes darting to every corner of the garden. Once assured it’s safe to proceed, it reaches through the bars of the pointless cage. It casually plucks a still-green tomato. Turning the young tomato in its hand, it contemplates where the first bite should be taken from. And then, as if it senses it is being watched, it glances up. And stares directly at me. I stare directly back. Keeping its eyes locked on mine, it takes a cautious nibble.
The monkey hears it before me: a familiar low rumbling from the driveway. It drops the once-bitten tomato to the ground, lets out a high screech to its cronies and bolts ahead of the others into the dark bushes of the surrounding farm.
The low rumbling belongs to my parents’ car; they’re back from their jog. They meet me at the door. The look on my father’s face tells me he’s noticed a few missing tomatoes. He merely shakes his head while uttering a strange guttural sound.
“They’re probably all gone!” he shouts (referring to the tomatoes).
“What can we do, eh?” is the only response I can offer.
He walks back out the house towards the tomatoes, probably to check whether they really are all gone. After scrounging in the patch and grappling with the bars of the cages, he comes back to the house looking triumphant.
“Managed to save a few!” He holds out his cupped hands to reveal the remaining cherry tomatoes, which though are still far too small and far too green to eat, under the circumstances now seem like precious green gems rolling around in his hands.
He lays them down gently in the vegetable rack with the amount of care equal to that of a doctor handling a premature baby.
Content, he continues with the day, starting off by busying himself at the stove.
Suddenly, and for the second time that day, there is a frantic shuffle. But this time it comes from the living room. We both freeze, the same thought entering our heads. The monkeys are in the house.
“Dad…what…was that?” I ask hesitantly.
He peeps into the next room and sees no monkeys, just my mother fidgeting in a cupboard.
My father giggles and waves his hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry, it’s just the big monkey.”
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