Page 26 of Postscript

‘But,’ he says mid-kiss.

I groan.

‘I still can’t help but feel we need to prove it.’

‘I need to prove shit to you. I want a baby.’

He laughs. ‘First,’ he holds his finger dramatically and I roll my eyes and try to move away from where he’s pinned me against the counter. ‘For Gepetto and for the future of our super child, you will do one thing. You must prove you can grow and keep a plant alive. Then and only then can we make a baby.’

‘Gerry,’ I laugh, ‘I think that’s what they tell people who are leaving rehab who want to start new relationships.’

‘Yes, unstable people like you. It’s good advice. In the name of Gepetto.’

‘Why are you always so dramatic?’

‘Why are you … not?’ His lips twitch.

‘OK,’ I say, getting into the game. ‘I want a baby, so I’ll see your ridiculous dare and I’ll raise you. We both have to plant and grow our own seeds to prove we can both care for a baby. I will surprise you.’

‘Can’t wait,’ he grins. ‘Game. On.’

‘Mum,’ I whisper, down the phone.

‘Holly? Are you OK? Have you lost your voice? Do you want to me send over some chicken noodle soup?’

‘No, my throat is fine,’ I reply, then rethink it. ‘But I’d still love the soup. I’m calling because Gerry and I are doing this thing. Kind of like a competition.’

‘Honestly, you two,’ she says, chuckling.

‘What’s the fastest seed, flower thing, I could grow?’ I ask, making sure Gerry’s out of earshot.

Mum laughs loudly.

I clear out a jam jar. Gerry watches me while he drinks a coffee before leaving for work. I stuff the jar with cotton wool, then place two butter beans among the cotton wool. I pour water inside, just enough to make the cotton wool damp.

Gerry roars with laughter. ‘Seriously? If that’s how you think you grow flowers, I’m worried about how you think babies are made.’

‘You watch,’ I say, carrying the jam jar to the windowsill. ‘My little butter beans will blossom where Gepetto perished.’

He holds his heart as though he’s been shot. ‘I only hope the cow that you sold was worth these magic beans.’

‘I’m winning already. Where’s yours?’

‘I’m surprised that you’re so quick off the mark. Some of us have to buy soil and seeds. Even though I haven’t planted anything, I’m still winning because all you did was plant beans in cotton wool,’ he says, and doubles over laughing.

‘You wait. I want to be a mother, I will grow these beans with sheer determination alone,’ I say, grinning, loving the sound of the words aloud. I want to be a mother! Gerry is right, such certain words from me are rare, and it’s exciting to be a person who knows what she wants for once. But I am also stubborn and often choose to stick to my side of the argument whether I believe it or not. But not in this case.

Two days later when I go downstairs in the morning, I notice that one of the beans has started to sprout a small root, which is visible against the glass. I grab the jar and race upstairs. I jump on the bed, waking him, annoying him, and bounce up and down with my prospering bean.

He rubs his eyes and stares grumpily at the jar. ‘That’s impossible, how the hell is it growing in cotton wool. Did you mess with it?’

‘No! I’m not a cheat. I watered it.’

Gerry doesn’t like to lose. That evening he returns from work with a packet of sunflower seeds, but he has forgotten to buy a pot and soil.

On the fourth day, when he has only planted the sunflower seeds, my bean root has little tendrils.

Gerry takes to talking to his sunflower seeds, he reads the seeds a book. He tells the seeds jokes. He carries out full-on conversations with the seeds while I laugh. Two more days on, while Gerry’s sunflower seeds are still beneath the soil, my beans sprout shoots. Gerry carries the sunflower seed pot to the bean bags where he plays computer games with his pot, even going so far as to place a controller in front of the pot.