The Seed Collectors (27 page)

‘Who bets that I can’t do a hundred sit-ups?’

‘Holly, for goodness sake. Can’t you sit
down
for five minutes?’

‘All right. I bet you can’t do a hundred sit-ups,’ says James.

Bryony glares at him. Holly gets down on to the floor and tucks her toes in under the sofa that Charlie is sitting on. She starts doing sit-ups.

‘I bet I can do a hundred sit-ups too,’ says Ash, his timing off as usual.

Holly sighs. ‘All right. We’ll start again. Uncle Charlie, you can count and see who can do the most.’

‘This girl does not need more exercise,’ Bryony says to James.

‘Ten, eleven, twelve – come on, Ash, don’t give up!’

‘Everyone needs more exercise, Mummy.’

‘Apple pie? OK . . . I mean, I suppose it’s quite retro and . . .’

‘According to the Chicago Smell and Taste foundation, just the smell of apple pie increases women’s genital sensitivity by twenty-four per cent.’

‘Where on earth would you find out something as ridiculous as that?’

‘
Men’s Health
magazine.’

‘And are you planning some kind of orgy?’

‘Well, now you mention it . . .’

‘Right. So we’ll just get everyone to throw their car keys in the middle of the table?’

Silence.

‘I mean, why do we need our guests to have increased genital sensitivity?’

‘Not our guests.’

‘What?’

Sighing. ‘I just want you to want me.’

James keeps going on about Holly’s birthday present, but will not confirm that he has bought her the Wilson Steam tennis racquet she so desperately wants. Even Bryony is no longer sure that he has done
what was required and gone to Canterbury and bought the racquet. But he must have done. It was basically the only thing he had to do for Holly’s birthday, since Fleur offered to make food for the surprise party and bring it over in secret while Holly plays tennis with Charlie – with her new racquet – in the morning. Bryony is glad: at least she knows Holly will eat some of Fleur’s delicate and beautiful cakes, biscuits and chocolates. At one point James rather ridiculously suggested a hog roast, which is perhaps the least likely thing that Holly would ever eat. How can he not see that? But he now seems to be planning to make up for it with this secret present that
must
be on top of the tennis racquet, could not possibly be
instead
of the tennis racquet. It’s all very worrying. Bryony had been considering buying a back-up racquet herself and hiding it in the boot of her car, but that’s silly and she trusts James, but now Holly’s birthday is tomorrow and it’s too late even to order something on Amazon.

‘You’ll never, ever guess,’ he says now to Holly.

Dinner is over and everyone is in the sitting room. Bryony is supposed to be reading
Tristram Shandy
on her iPad but is actually reading
Grazia
.
MasterChef
has just finished and she is eking out the last of a rather nice Syrah. She can’t really get away with opening another bottle now, just for one small glass. Maybe she’ll have some white instead. Just a drop to help her sleep. Although it’s not bedtime for a little while, and . . .

‘OK,’ says Holly, rolling her eyes. ‘Is it a tennis racquet?

‘Come on,’ says James. ‘Show some imagination.’

‘Is it a tree?’ says Ash, in that random way that he does sometimes.

James makes a face at him.

‘What?’ he says. And everyone realises it
is
a tree.

‘Did he know?’ Bryony asks James later, in bed.

‘No. I mean, he can’t possibly have done . . .’

‘Oh well. It’ll still be a surprise. What kind of tree did you get?’

‘Guess.’

‘Hmm. A holly tree?’

‘God. I
am
transparent.’

‘I think it’s a lovely present. Where will we plant it?’

‘At the bottom of the garden. It’ll be her special tree.’

‘It’ll look beautiful.’

‘And . . . No. Actually, I’ll leave the next bit as a surprise.’

‘What next bit?’

‘Oh. I found a lovely Emily Brontë poem to read before we plant it.’

‘“Love is like a wild rose briar . . .”’

‘You already know it.’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’ Breathe. ‘Look, James. This is all lovely and everything, but I do have to ask you . . .’

‘What?’

‘You did buy the tennis racquet, didn’t you?’

‘This is so much more . . .’

‘You DID buy the racquet, didn’t you?’

‘Well, actually . . .’

Bryony sighs. ‘Fuck.’

‘What?’

Bryony gets out her iPad. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow as well. The shop in Canterbury is closed. Bluewater won’t open until ten in the morning. Oh Christ, what am I going to do?’ She looks at her watch. It’s gone eleven. How on earth . . . ? She can ring Charlie and get him to stop at Bluewater on his way tomorrow, although that will mean pushing everything a bit later and . . .

‘What? She has a tennis racquet already.’

‘Do you know
anything
about tennis?’

‘Do you? What happened to being given what you need, rather than what you want? What happened to birthdays being more than just a shopping list you give your parents?’

‘She only wanted ONE THING. I couldn’t even get her to make a list. All she wants is that sodding racquet.’

‘Which is a good reason for her not to have it.’

Bryony shakes her head. ‘I just don’t get you.’

James raises his eyebrows. ‘I could say the same.’

‘Yes, but anyone in their right mind in the entire world would agree with me.’

James sighs. ‘Well, you would think that.’

‘Even her tennis teacher said she was ready for a new racquet.’

‘OK. Well, I didn’t know that. No one told me that . . .’

‘And I even rang up and got them to hold the racquet in Canterbury! It was simply your job to go and pick it up. I mean, I could have done it, but you said you would. Your job was not to CHOOSE Holly’s birthday present, just to collect it.’

‘Which is always the way, isn’t it?’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Why can’t I choose something for Holly for a change?’

‘I just don’t understand why you are deliberately wrecking her birthday.’

‘I have no idea why everyone thinks nature is so benign and glorious and wonderful. All nature is trying to do is kill us as efficiently as possible.’

Distant giggling. The clinking of glasses. A plane flying over the Channel.

‘Isn’t that a bit of an out-of-date view, though? Nature being “red in tooth and claw” and all that. And didn’t people use that as an argument in the nineteenth century to basically control nature and exploit it for its value?’

‘OK. Number one: nature in this sense is not red at all but sort of golden. And no one has ever controlled nature. The people who think they are most in control of nature are the ones being most
controlled by it. We only really do what plants make us do. We are like huge bees in a way, moving around not just pollen but seeds, fruits, whole plants. And we think we are doing it because we want to, but we are actually doing it because the plants want us to.’

‘But hang on. Plants are not conscious.’

‘Aren’t they?’

Laughter. ‘No. Don’t be so . . .’

‘But consciousness takes different forms. Why is ours the best? Why is ours the only possible form? What we call consciousness is, after all, just a lot of cells that are not conscious doing things in harmony with one another. When people try to find the thing we call consciousness in there, they can’t do it.’

‘OK, but you’re not saying that a poppy sits there thinking and plotting?’

‘No. But if you put together every poppy in the world, then you have a plot.’

‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ Charlie says to Bryony.

It’s warm in the garden so everyone has stayed outside after watching James plant the holly tree. The occasional blue tit visits the bird table regardless of the guests. There’s one there now, nibbling something, and then a robin comes and shoves it out of the way and . . .

‘Yep.’ She sips her champagne.

‘I mean, if you can choose one poem that will freak out the maximum amount of people . . . I mean, it’s not just that it’s our poem, but now all the stuff about the wild rose briar sounds wrong. Fleur’s face.’

‘He didn’t know. And Fleur’s mother was Briar Rose. But still, it’s close enough.’

‘Yeah. Well, at least Holly got her racquet.’

‘Yes. Thank you. I totally owe you one.’

‘She’s bloody good, you know. You should come and watch her.’

‘I know. I must do. I’ll try next week.’

‘I mean, she thrashes me.’

‘But you let her, right?’

‘Nope. I’m very competitive. I wouldn’t be able to . . .’

Ollie drifts over with an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

‘Who’s competitive?’ he asks.

‘Me,’ says Charlie.

‘Want to do a triathlon, then?’

Charlie laughs. ‘What?’

‘Seriously. Well, maybe not. Well, anyway, there was a sign on the way here. The Walmer Triathlon. You swim Walmer to Deal, then run to Fowlmead, and then it’s a few laps on the bike.’

James comes over. ‘I heard the word “bike”,’ he says.

Which is lucky, thinks Bryony, because if he’d come over a few minutes earlier he would have heard the word ‘twat’. Although she hopes she said it so quietly that no one could possibly have heard. Maybe she just thought it.

‘Fancy a triathlon?’ says Ollie, lighting his cigarette.

‘Sorry?’ says James.

‘Twenty-fifth September. You fancy it?’

‘You’re not serious?’ says James.

‘Actually,’ says Charlie, ‘I run, Ollie swims and you ride a bike . . .’

‘Nice,’ says Ollie. ‘We
are
a triathlon.’

‘So . . .’

‘The Walmer Triathlon. It’s like a fun thing. The swim’s only a mile. The run’s 5k and the bike ride is only 20k.’

‘20k!’

‘What?’

‘I normally use my bike for going to the shops in Sandwich. Or to ride with Ash to school.’

‘You’ve ridden to Canterbury,’ Bryony reminds him.

‘Once. And I had to get the bus back.’

‘I think it would be fun to have something to train for,’ says Bryony.

‘I’m in,’ says Charlie. ‘Although I’d prefer it if the run was 10k.’