Seed- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  Dad was in the kitchen finishing off his espresso while catching the early BBC news broadcast on the television set in the corner; he looked up as I entered.

  ‘Hey sweetheart, headache better?’ he greeted me, eyes flicking back to the weather forecast, ‘Will you look at that? We might be in for some snow this Christmas.’

  Stanley had told me as much yesterday.

  ‘I can’t think when you kids last saw snow,’ he continued, ‘In fact, I don’t think Jasmine and Alex have ever seen snow before.’

  ‘In Sweden,’ I said, filling the kettle with tap water.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Dad that I winced with mortification whenever I recalled those ski trips. Fi was the sporty one in the family – she’d taken to skiing like a duck takes to water, graduating to snowboarding in no time, and even trying her hand at mogul munching and aerials. It was as if she had wings.

  I, on the other hand, was completely left-footed, ending up more on my butt than being able to master much more than the blue, intermediate slopes – not a particularly grand feat when five-year-olds, following their instructor, flew past. Even a simple task such as remembering not to place my full weight on the button lift as I sat astride it would result in me falling off and landing on my bum, causing no end of amusement for my sister. I really didn’t understand why people liked skiing so much – it was wet, it was cold, it was humiliating.

  ‘That’s right. I remember what fun we had on those ski trips. Maybe we should go skiing again – take your brother and sister this time round?’ he suggested enthusiastically.

  ‘Maybe,’ I murmured non-committedly, ‘But don’t forget that you and Mum promised me a trip to Paris.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully before he answered, ‘We haven’t forgotten. To be honest, I was going to change my mind when you pulled that crazy stunt at the museum the other week – but you’ve been much more like your old self recently and you did take being grounded pretty well, all things considered. So your mum and I have decided to keep our promise – you’re permitted to go to Paris, and in June Safie can travel to Argentina. Any idea when you’d like to go?’

  During his speech my heart had lurched wildly fearing the worst, but now it raced on in an excited staccato, ‘No, not yet. But I guess I’d like to go before Christmas – I could do some shopping over there for presents.’

  He shook his head ruefully, standing up to gather his papers together, ‘Right, you girls and shopping. Well, let me know what you decide.’

  Picking up his leather satchel, he gave me a peck on the cheek before crossing to the alcove to retrieve his overcoat from where it was hanging. ‘Maybe I can get St. John to accompany you when he returns home in a fortnight to visit his family.’

  I was so glad I wasn’t holding anything at that moment because I’m sure I would have dropped it. ‘What? What do you mean “home”? He’s French?’

  He shrugged, putting on his jacket, ‘I believe so.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have a French accent!’

  ‘English boarding schools will do that to you.’ Dad laughed. ‘I believe he went to Eton or Winchester – somewhere like that – before he studied Middle Eastern archaeology and history at Oxford.’

  ‘Eton?’ I murmured, shocked.

  ‘Perhaps, or Winchester, like I said,’ Dad confirmed, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a family tradition; father went there, grandfather went there, and so on. Anyway,’ he looked down at his watch, ‘I wouldn’t want to be late again. I can’t seem to get the hang of the traffic peak hours into London – the streets are congested all the time.’

  ‘That’s why there’s a congestion tax,’ I said absently, my mind already skipping ahead.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem to be working. Looks like I’ll be learning to take public transport soon,’ he complained as he opened the back door and slipped outside; the cold air rushing in momentarily, taking his place.

  But I continued to stand there at the kitchen counter dazed. I’d finally found out some information about St. John, just when I’d vowed I’d never have anything to do with him again.

  It just wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to think about him but the fates were conspiring against me.

  Sitting down to breakfast in the spot Dad had recently abandoned – a pot of hot tea and buttered banana bread ready to be consumed – I assimilated this new information about St. John. His family were French and lived in Paris. He went to boarding school in England and then on to Oxford.

  I decided there and then that I was going to resume my search on Elijah St. John Rivers – who was I to challenge fate? Surely there had to be some information on Eton or Winchester Old Boys on their college websites? I reasoned.

  Feeling in a better frame of mind than when I went to bed last night, I slowly sipped my tea, turning my attention to the breakfast show on the BBC.

  Half an hour later, Fi came down the stairs complaining that she couldn’t get back to sleep after I’d woken her up. She grabbed a slice of organic banana bread from my plate and sat down opposite me at the breakfast table.

  ‘Did Mum make this?’ Taking a careful bite at my nod and seeming to approve, she then asked, ‘What happened to you last night?’

  ‘Headache.’

  She raised an eyebrow sceptically but didn’t comment, continuing to munch away.

  ‘So what happened after I bailed?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.

  She shrugged. ‘Meh, not much. St. John told us all about his fiancée and invited us to his wedding in June. It sounds amazeballs.’

  ‘What?’ I shrieked, wrenching upright in my seat.

  I caught Fi smirking, struggling to compose her face.

  ‘Oh, ha ha, very funny!’ I said, sarcastically.

  ‘It was! You should have seen your face!’ she said, smugly, ‘Actually, nothing happened. He told us some amusing stories of when he worked at the Louvre, we had coffee and then he felt that it was getting late and he had a long drive back to London, so he said goodbye.’

  ‘Did you know he’s French?’

  Fi shook her head. Then, her face deadpan, commented, ‘I hear they make the best lovers.’

  ‘FI!’ I exclaimed, blushing beetroot. If I had something close at hand I might have thrown it at her.

  ‘Jokes! Just kidding!’ She held up her hands proclaiming her innocence, but her face said otherwise. ‘Though I’m certain he’s mastered the language of love.’

  This last bit she attempted in a poor French accent, laughing hilariously at her own silliness. I rolled my eyes, choosing to ignore her. I was used to her teasing by now. And her stupid jokes and innuendoes. It wouldn’t have been normal if Fi didn’t make some sexual comment at least once in a conversation.

  Finally getting her to focus on my original question, we discussed the interesting titbit of St. John’s heritage and speculated on his childhood upbringing before Fi asked, ‘How much money have you got to spare?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, sipping at my now tepid tea.

  ‘I figure that I can hire a darkroom to process the film you took yesterday but it won’t be cheap,’ she warned, as I got up to pour out the remainder of my teacup in the sink and start on a fresh pot.

  ‘How much will that cost?’ I asked, spooning loose leaf Earl Grey tea into the teapot and adding boiling water. ‘Because I’ve only got maybe £400 from the return of the bond,’ I explained, referring to the beach house in Byron Bay – the girls back in Sydney had found someone else to take our places for Schoolies and so we both had gotten our bond back. ‘There’s only a little bit extra which I’m saving for Paris.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, walking across the kitchen and turning on the faucet to rinse out the plate I’d used before stacking it in the dishwasher. ‘Catch you later then. I don’t envy you going out in this weather.’

  I looked at her puzzled, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Have y
ou forgotten what day it is? I’ll give you one hint – quarantine.’

  I smacked my hand across my brow, Of course! Quarantine! Damn it!

  Fi laughed. ‘Maybe he’ll be a perfect little pooch for you! Maybe he’ll have learnt some manners!’

  I groaned.

  Today was the day when I was to accompany Mum to pick up our German shorthaired pointer from quarantine. In fact, he wasn’t really in quarantine as he’d come from Australia and had all the necessary vaccinations, microchip and papers from the vet, but he had to be kennelled until we’d moved into the Manor House from the temporary lodgings we’d had in London when we’d first arrived. We’d also had to build an enclosure out the back to house him as he was still an energetic puppy and likely to follow any rabbit, hedgehog or kingfisher into the woods and get himself lost. It was somewhat ironic that he’d been named Indy – short for Indiana Jones – as the only thing he seemed to be good at for a gundog was digging up the backyard.

  It would have been far better if Fi or Jasmine accompanied Mum – especially Jasmine. I don’t know why I was volunteered for the job when Jasmine was the one who always brought home strays and animals with injuries. She seemed to have the greatest affinity for them, and could somehow intuitively tell when they were hurt or injured, when something wasn’t quite as it should be. Jasmine’s nurturing instincts meant that she and Mum, sometimes aided by Fi, had dealt with many a bird with a torn or damaged wing, Blue Tongue lizards that some neighbourhood cat had gotten at, or stray dog that always seemed to choose her to follow home – which was why I couldn’t believe my bad luck in having to be the one to go to the kennels with Mum.

  Aviation Pet Kennels and Cattery was located near Heathrow and was like a luxury hotel for pets. Indy had a spacious suite to himself and was fed, exercised and groomed daily by his handlers. The kennel had webcam facilities so the owners could check on their pets daily and even the kennel passageways were heated to ensure their comfort. It was the very best in canine accommodation – and we certainly paid for the privilege of boarding him there.

  Mum and I arrived at the kennels a little after eleven in the morning. The day had cleared up only ever so slightly but the storm clouds still hung oppressively in the sky, bearing down on us as we exited the car. The ground was saturated from the rain, turning the path before us into an Olympic swimming pool. I skipped over muddy puddles to enter the boarding house, my calf-high leather boots becoming stained and damp.

  A wave of hot air rushed to meet us as we entered; the glass doors frosting with condensation as cold and hot air merged. I shivered. I hated how they overheated these places.

  The veterinary nurse at the counter smiled in greeting, requesting the necessary documents for Indy’s release. As Mum began pulling out papers from her tote, I could hear the high-pitched whining of the animals from the rear of the building. Looking around the reception area, I took in the rack of usual brochures advertising everything from mobile dog grooming to puppy training camps, the far wall stacked with every conceivable product and knick-knack for cats and dogs, and the stiff-backed chairs near the front window – obviously human comfort was low on their priorities.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ a gravelly voice commanded a few minutes later, after our documents had been processed. Looking up from the counter, I saw a middle-aged man who I presumed was the veterinarian in charge that day. He guided us from the reception through a maze of corridors towards the back of the building while imparting a minefield of irrelevant information on the history of the kennels and the condition of the dogs and cats who were housed here.

  Drawing out a set of keys from where they hung on his belt, he opened the door to the area where the animals were held. The sound of whining and barking dogs was much louder now and, accompanying it, was a smell I could only liken to stale urine and wet fur. For the first time, I hoped that Indy had been treated well while he’d been away from us.

  Remaining behind our guide, we entered into a wider enclosure which was lined on both sides with caged rooms housing dogs of every shape and size. I supposed the cattery was on the other side of the building. The dogs reacted excitedly as the vet passed by their cages followed by Mum.

  Strangely, I began to feel light-headed as I moved down the corridor after them. It wasn’t until I’d almost walked into Mum that I realised that she and the vet were standing frozen at the end of the corridor. At first, I didn’t comprehend their tension. And then it dawned on me – the dogs had fallen silent in my wake. Compared to the cacophony before, the silence in the room was almost deafening.

  I glanced into one of the caged suites to find a Golden Retriever poised as if on guard duty. The feeling of light-headedness increased until I felt that I would slide into unconsciousness.

  And then another image superimposed itself upon the one in front of me – of a fiercely proud winged lion standing sentinel on Babylon’s Processional Way.

  I reached out, holding onto the wire-mesh door of the cage for support and, as I moved closer, the dog lay down in passive supplication.

  ‘They’re so well behaved,’ I murmured to the vet, shaking my head in disbelief. I wondered how long it had taken to train them.

  But the vet was staring at me in surprise, ‘What are you – some kind of dog whisperer?’

  I laughed, thinking he was joking. But neither the vet nor Mum joined in, and my laughter tapered off to leave an awkward silence.

  ‘What?’ I gasped, looking at Mum in denial, ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  The veterinarian came to stand by me in front of the Golden Retriever’s cage. Immediately, the Golden Retriever’s head shot up and he barred his teeth aggressively, giving a low growl. The other dogs in their cages took it up till they were all snarling viciously.

  The vet swore and backed off from the Golden Retriever’s cage quickly, moving away from me in the process, and instantly the dogs were once again submissive.

  I could see and feel the shock on my face mirrored on Mum’s. The vet’s eyes were on me, looking at me suspiciously. My stomach twisted as I realised that they both thought I was somehow responsible for the dogs’ strange behaviour.

  ‘It wasn’t me, I swear!’ I protested, my voice rising an octave. But a tiny voice in the back of my mind worried that it was me, that I was the one doing this.

  ‘How did you do that?’ Mum asked in amazement.

  ‘I didn’t!’ I set my jaw. ‘Can we please just collect Indy and get out of here?’

  The vet didn’t have to be asked twice. By that stage, I was sure, he just wanted us gone. He moved forward to unlock the door leading into the next corridor and ushered us through. I wanted to hold back, reluctant to move into the adjoining room in case the dogs in here reacted in the same way, but the suites were all empty save one.

  Indy instantly leapt up to greet us, his tail whipping the air behind him frantically. He pushed his soft wet nose against the wire-mesh door searching for my palm and whined in protest at being unable to reach us. I found my head clearing and felt slightly more normal.

  The vet took out another key and opened the cage door, allowing Indy to bound forward, pressing his head against my hip in doggy adoration. I was never so glad to see the stupid mutt as I was then.

  The veterinarian suggested we exit through the rear of the building to get to the car park and I was happy to comply – I didn’t need a repeat performance of earlier. I placed Indy on his lead – which he strained against – and followed Mum out. It was raining again as we crossed the field where I figured they must exercise the dogs and found our car behind a large hedgerow, placing Indy in the backseat. Luckily we’d come prepared – anticipating mud, we’d laid out a vinyl-backed picnic blanket on the BMW’s leather upholstery and fitted a restraint so that Indy would be comfortable and safe in the back. I slid into the passenger seat as Mum revved up the engine and turned the heater up high. It had gotten very cold and the windscreen had frosted up in our absence.

  As Mum pulled out
of the parking lot, heading into traffic, she turned to look at me.

  ‘Now,’ she said significantly, ‘tell me what just happened back there.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I answered, as Mum accelerated much too quickly onto the freeway.

  She sighed.

  ‘Honey,’ her lips pressed together in frustration, ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before. The vet was right – it was as if you were communicating with them – just like a dog whisperer.’

  ‘As if!’ I grumbled, ‘I don’t know what got into those stupid mutts! Honest! I mean, think about it, Mum – I can’t even make Indy sit on my command!’

  She looked away, deliberating.

  ‘I have as much of an idea of what happened back there as you!’ I protested.

  I forced myself to take a deep breath and relax, staring blindly out the window at the passing landscape.

  ‘Well, it was just plain spooky, Sage.’ She looked at the road, frowning in concentration. ‘Are you sure you don’t know why they responded like that? You didn’t feel anything at all before it happened?’

  I had a moment to compose my face which would surely have betrayed my anxiety before turning back to her. ‘I felt slightly light-headed. But that’s all. I swear.’

  She looked at me concerned, ‘We should take you to a doctor. Your dad told me you had a headache last night – maybe we should get you checked out.’

  I groaned. ‘Mum, I’m fine! It was nothing!’

  I just knew she was thinking back to Fi’s illness and hospitalisation, and wondering if something was up with me too.

  Mum glanced at me quickly as a silver Benz passed us by. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I insisted, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Okay,’ she didn’t look too convinced, but she wasn’t going to press the issue, ‘but take it easy for the rest of the day.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I suppose,’ she admitted, ‘that might explain their reaction to you – maybe they picked up a vibe? I’ve heard that animals are more sensitive to illness.’