Sowing the Seeds of Love

by Tara Heavey

  ‘Not to me she didn’t. Although I did wonder why Liam didn’t seem to have anything to do with his father.’

  She nodded.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Car accident.’

  ‘Jesus. That must have been terrible. For you and for Liam.’

  They watched Liam and Kathy race his extensive collection of tractors up and down the path, their commentary enthusiastic and bizarre.

  ‘I sent him out.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She breathed deeply. ‘We had a little girl too. Katie. She was one. She couldn’t get to sleep that night so I suggested he bring her out for a drive.’

  Aoife felt Seth’s hand enclosing hers, his skin rough.

  For a long time, neither of them said anything. Then: ‘What was she like? Katie.’

  Aoife smiled, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Oh, you know. She was a one-year-old girl. She was gorgeous. Always smiling. Massive blue eyes, reddish-gold hair – her daddy was a redhead. Chubby little arms and legs. You just wanted to eat her. She’d just learned to walk. She was delighted with herself, toddling around, pulling the house apart. She was just – brilliant.’

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Aoife.’

  She nodded in acknowledgement and they sat there for ages, watching the children, laughing intermittently at their antics, Aoife’s hand in Seth’s.

  ‘Almost the worst thing has been the guilt,’ said Aoife at last, staring straight ahead.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault – when I think of the amount of times I drove Kathy around when she was a baby, trying to get her to sleep.’

  ‘It’s not just that.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  Aoife didn’t know why she was telling him this. She was just struck by the urge to be absolutely honest. ‘I was having a – a kind of an affair when they died.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It was stupid. I thought it was serious but it wasn’t. Michael had to die to make me realize how little it meant.’ She looked at Seth to gauge his reaction, but he was consulting his shoes. She thought she sensed a withdrawal of sympathy, but perhaps that was her guilty conscience. ‘The one good thing was that he never found out about it.’

  ‘That you know of.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘As far as you know he never found out about it.’

  ‘I would have known.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  Seth was sitting forward now, looking away from her. At some point he had withdrawn his hand.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s like when Megan – my ex – started to see Siobhan, her girlfriend. I suspected for months before I actually found out about it.’

  ‘Thanks, Seth.’

  ‘I’m just being honest.’

  ‘Don’t you think I feel bad enough as it is? I know what I did was wrong. Unforgivable, even. But, believe me, I’ve paid a price for it. Jesus Christ.’ She stood up, angry now.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Liam! Packing-up time.’

  She looked back at Seth to find he was staring at her, his expression hard. She knew why: she’d disappointed him. She’d failed to live up to the image he’d had of her in his head. Well, fuck him. She’d never told him to put her on a pedestal.

  She gathered up Liam’s belongings and turned to him again. He was stony-faced. ‘Do you know what it took for me to confide in you?’ she said, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘I never thought you’d throw it back in my face. You might have thought better of me, but I thought better of you too, Seth.’

  She turned and walked away from him, muttering, ‘Arsehole,’ under her breath, just loudly enough for him to hear.

  The garden was by now producing far too much fruit and vegetables for the gardeners alone to consume. An emergency meeting was called. This consisted of Aoife, Uri, Seth and Mrs Prendergast standing in a rough circle, leaning on forks and spades.

  ‘We have to decide what to do with the leftover veggies. We can’t let them go to waste.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not,’ said Uri.

  ‘We could have a harvest festival,’ said Seth.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mrs Prendergast. ‘It’s far too early in the year for that.’

  ‘But we have the produce now.’

  ‘A harvest festival isn’t held until the autumn.’

  ‘We’ll call it something different, then.’

  ‘A harvest festival is a good idea. Maybe we can plan one for a couple of months down the line. But, in the meantime, I have another proposal.’

  They all looked at Aoife expectantly.

  ‘How about seeing if the Good Food Store would sell it for us? I’m sure Emily’s aunt would agree. She’s very accommodating and they have a little fruit-and-veg section already. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ said Mrs Prendergast.

  ‘It’s an excellent idea,’ said Uri.

  ‘What would we do with the profit?’ asked Seth. ‘There’s hardly any point in ploughing it back into the garden.’

  He found himself at the receiving end of three dirty looks.

  ‘What?’ He held up his hands. ‘Well, there isn’t, is there?’

  Aoife, who still wasn’t really talking to him, addressed him coolly: ‘We can decide what to do with any profit we make at a later date. Let’s just see if she’ll agree to it first. Uri, will you come with me? Mrs Prendergast, I think I’m right in saying you don’t get on with her particularly well, and Seth would just annoy her.’

  ‘How would I annoy her?’

  ‘You’re just annoying.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come with you,’ said Uri.

  They spent the rest of the morning putting together a selection of their finest produce. When it was assembled, Aoife and Uri carried the box to the shop. As luck would have it, Emily’s aunt, her father’s sister-in-law, happened to be behind the counter when they called. ‘Ah, Aoife, what can I do for you today?’

  Among the Hartes, Aoife was widely credited with getting Emily back on the straight and narrow. This was a card she was prepared to play if she had to.

  She plonked the box on the counter in front of her. ‘It’s more a question of what we can do for you.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, it is. You do know Uri – Mr Rosenberg?’

  ‘Of course. Morning, Mr Rosenberg.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Harte.’

  ‘What I have in this box is an example of the food we’ve been producing in the community garden – you know, Mrs Prendergast’s old walled garden.’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘We were wondering if you’d be interested in selling it for us.’

  The woman looked as if she needed convincing.

  ‘A percentage of the profit to go to the shop, of course,’ said Uri.

  ‘Of course,’ echoed Aoife. ‘And you can’t get fresher fruit and veg than this. Hand-picked in the last hour. Local produce grown by local people. It fits in with the ethos of the shop: food for the community grown by the community, no air miles, no pesticides…’ She trailed off, looking to see if her words were having any impact.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mrs Harte. ‘I’ll give this lot a try, and if it sells, I’ll take some more off your hands.

  It was all sold by that evening. They were in business.

  Aoife arrived in the garden first thing and carried out her usual tour of inspection. She’d had a heavy week in college and hadn’t visited for days. She was heading towards the runner beans when she spotted it: one perfect, plump, shiny, voluptuous tomato. Bright red. Tomato red, even. She caressed it gently, loath to disturb such perfection. It looked so delicious. Nobody would know…

  ‘Hi there.’

  She jumped. It was Seth. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you.’

  ‘You gave me a fright.’

 
‘Why? What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She had quickly withdrawn her hand from the tomato, but she hadn’t been quick enough in averting her gaze. Seth leaned over to the plant. ‘Is it – A tomato. Brilliant.’ He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Aoife Madigan, you weren’t thinking of eating it, were you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He was mocking her now.

  Aoife felt herself redden. Tomato red?

  ‘Something, something, something… money can’t buy except true love – oh, you know the song, home-grown tomatoes.’

  He delivered this in the most appalling southern American accent, pronouncing ‘tomatoes’ the American way.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a song. Guy Clark, I think. Country and western.’

  Aoife laughed in spite of herself. ‘I like it. Only please don’t say it in that terrible accent.’

  Seth laughed too, evidently relieved that she was talking to him. ‘Do you think it’s true?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t you give it a try?’ He took a step closer to her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Try it.’ He touched the plant.

  ‘Oh, the tomato.’

  ‘What did you think I meant?’

  ‘Nothing. I can’t eat it.’

  ‘Why not? That’s what it’s for.’

  ‘But it’s not mine to eat. It belongs to everybody.’

  ‘There’ll be other tomatoes. You started this thing. It seems only fair that you should get the first taste.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Aoife gripped the tomato, prepared to give it a good tug, but it fell into her hand as if it had been waiting for her. She looked at Seth again. He nodded and smiled. Then she bit deep into the tender flesh, the unimaginable sweetness bursting on to her tongue. ‘Mm.’ She closed her eyes.

  Seth laughed.

  ‘Here.’ She held it up to his mouth.

  Seth, his eyes not leaving hers, held Aoife’s hand as he bit into the tomato. He continued to hold her hand long after he’d finished chewing. ‘I’m sorry, Aoife. You were right. I am an arsehole and I apologize.’

  ‘I’m sorry too.’

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ It was Mrs Prendergast. Seth withdrew his hand and the two stepped away from one another.

  They were digging a new flowerbed, Seth and Aoife. Except Aoife felt as if she was just making up the numbers, Seth being able to dig three times faster and deeper than she was, no matter how hard she worked. Liam and Kathy were helping too, Kathy with her pink Barbie spade. Since she’d met Kathy, Aoife had discovered that they made a Barbie just-about-everything. The child had Barbie wellies and a pink Barbie bicycle. Liam was using his favourite yellow digger, scooping up minute particles of earth and moving them a few centimetres. If it wasn’t for Seth, they’d have been digging until Christmas.

  It was pleasant, satisfying work, despite or perhaps because of the hard physical labour involved. The children nattered aimlessly and asked all sorts of irrelevant questions. Such as:

  ‘Aoife?’

  ‘Yes, Kathy.’

  ‘Are you going to be my new mammy?’

  The rhythm of Seth’s digging was disturbed for a barely discernible nano-second. Aoife didn’t dare look at him. ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘Because I already have two mammies and if I had you as well I’d have three.’

  ‘Well, I think two mammies are plenty for any girl. And I’m already Liam’s mammy. I’m pretty busy doing that.’

  ‘You’re not Liam’s mammy. You’re his mummy.’

  ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not going to be my mammy, why were you holding my daddy’s hand the other day?’

  Silence. Aoife could feel her face growing hot.

  ‘Kathy, leave Aoife alone now. She’s trying to work.’

  ‘But I want to know why she was holding your hand.’ Kathy’s voice became whiny.

  ‘Your daddy was holding my hand to make me feel better because I was sad.’

  ‘Why were you sad?’

  ‘I can’t remember. But I’m better now.’

  ‘Were you sad that Liam’s daddy has gone away?’

  Seth and Aoife glanced at each other. Aoife thought he looked as alarmed as she felt. ‘Did you tell her?’ she asked him.

  ‘No! It must have been Liam.’

  ‘My daddy’s up in heaven with Holy God and all the angels,’ announced Liam. ‘And Katie’s with him and she has wings too.’

  ‘Where’s heaven, Daddy?’

  ‘It’s a very long way away from here.’

  ‘Like Bray?’

  ‘A bit like Bray, yes.’

  ‘Can we go there tomorrow after playschool?’

  ‘No, Kathy. It’s a really, really long way away.’

  ‘We can get the bus.’

  ‘No, Kathy.’

  ‘Oh, why not? It’s not fair.’ She started to bash the earth with her Barbie spade.

  ‘I know. Who’d like some chocolate?’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Me!’

  Aoife delved into the pocket of her fleece for the few squares of Dairy Milk she hoped she hadn’t eaten already. No, they were still there. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Yippee!’

  ‘Yippee!’

  She glanced at Seth. He wasn’t looking at her but was instead focusing hard on pulling up a stubborn root. She recommenced digging, concentrating on the far end of the bed, hitherto unworked. The spade hit something hard. Must be a rock, and a big one at that, judging by the feel of it. She attempted to go around it, digging elsewhere, but kept reconnecting with it.

  ‘You got something there?’ Seth was behind her.

  ‘Yes. I can’t shift it.’

  ‘Here. Let me have a go.’

  Seth sliced into the earth she’d been digging and came up against the same hard object. ‘I don’t think that’s a rock.’

  Aoife grabbed at his sleeve, her eyes wide. ‘You don’t think it’s – a bone, do you?’ She looked around for Mrs Prendergast.

  ‘I wouldn’t say so.’ He laughed. ‘You don’t seriously believe that story, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. No. Of course not.’

  ‘She may be a mad old trout but she’s not a murderer.’

  ‘She might have been driven to it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He might have been an annoying bastard.’

  Seth laughed. ‘Here. I’ll prove it to you. It’s not bone, it’s metal.’

  He was digging again, frenziedly now, then tugging at something with his hands. He lifted the object out of the soil. It was an old, square, rusty metal box. Liam and Kathy had finished their chocolate.

  ‘What is it, Daddy?’

  ‘It’s a box.’

  ‘What kind of box?’

  ‘I don’t know, Kathy.’

  ‘Open it!’ The children jumped up and down, excited.

  ‘It’s not mine to open,’ said Seth. ‘It might belong to Mrs Prendergast. We’ll have to ask her first.’

  Gathering Uri as they went, they trooped en masse to the back door of Mrs Prendergast’s house and knocked. They heard her advancing steps.

  ‘His teeth might be in there,’ whispered Seth, as the door was opening, leaving Aoife to bite down on her giggles.

  ‘Mrs P.’ He held out the box with outstretched hands. ‘Look what we found. Does it mean anything to you?’

  Mrs Prendergast wore an unfamiliar expression on her face. She took the box out of Seth’s hands and walked back into her house. The adults looked at one another. Uri nodded and they followed her into her hallowed living quarters.

  The back door led them into a kind of coats-and-mucky-boots area, which opened into the kitchen. Seated at the surprisingly rustic table was Lance, Mrs Prendergast’s son, a half-drunk mug of coffee in front of him. He was slumped i
n his shirtsleeves, tie loosened. He straightened as they entered, his expression shifting from tired to surprised to wary.

  ‘Lance, look at this. Do you remember?’

  She proffered the box and Lance took it out of her hands to examine it. Aoife could see now that it was an old biscuit tin, badly rusted, Jacobs USA. Recognition brought her whizzing back to her childhood in her grandmother’s Dublin home at Christmas time. Oliver Twist on the telly and a brown-grey furry toy rabbit called Strawberry on her lap – her favourite present of that year.

  ‘Have a biscuit, Aoife love.’

  She’d selected a fluorescent pink wafer sandwich, her grandmother smiling at her indulgently. Aoife was suddenly nostalgic for the Irish food of her childhood: Galtee and Calvita cheese, Tayto crisps, Lemon’s sweets, Kimberley, Mikado and coconut-cream biscuits. All of them you could probably still get, although she hadn’t tasted most for years. She resolved to remedy that as soon as possible. Could you still get USA biscuits?

  Lance and his mother were searching each other’s faces.

  ‘The time capsule,’ said Lance. Then he laughed and attempted to prise it open.

  ‘What’s a time capsule?’ said Liam.

  Aoife scooped him up and held him to her. ‘It’s when you put some things in a box and bury them for somebody else to find years later. You put things in the box to show the person who finds it what life was like when you buried it. Sometimes it might not be found for hundreds of years. But this one wouldn’t be that old.’

  ‘How old is it?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Lance, who had opened the box and was unfolding a newspaper. It was slightly damp and some of the pages were stuck together. Aoife took a step closer to peer at the date on the front of the Irish Times. As she leaned in, she breathed in the mustiness of the last forty-odd years and the scent transported her instantly to her childhood again.

  When she was a little kid, her family used to take weekend breaks at Eastbourne, in a caravan belonging to friends of her parents. Each time they opened the caravan anew, months of mustiness would invade their collective nostrils. It was a scent peculiar and exotic to Aoife, and exactly the same as that which was now emanating from the newspaper. She had only experienced it one other time and that was when she purchased a secondhand book from a little shop in Notting Hill. She’d opened it and, whoosh, she was back in the caravan, six years old again. She looked into her son’s four-year-old face. Would this moment become a memory for him?