Planting the seed … or not?

I had resigned myself to spending the whole weekend hanging out at home. The only other real option was the Holden House of Chaos, but Chris and the Holdo boys had gone away on one of their father and sons camping love-ins. I had scored an invite—I always did, and I usually went. Due to a lack of siblings, I liked being a Holden ring-in, especially when it meant I had a legitimate right to beat up the twins, but this was the first one since … well … this year and I didn’t feel like it.

Will, are you ready?

Mum was at my door; faded purple overalls, bad paisley gardening hat, two pairs of gloves, mud-covered boots and one of the happiest faces I’d seen on her in a long time.

Come on, the soil is just about damp enough.

I tried hard to look enthusiastic. But being enthusiastic about having to put down your guitar and get off your bed to go and work in the garden with your mother on a Saturday afternoon is a very big call.

I grabbed the bad granddad type fishing hat Chris and I had bought as a joke in some ancient servo we’d rolled into on a previous Holden road trip, and followed Mum out the back door. The backyard was a decent size, decent enough for a pool, something I’d reminded Mum and Dad of every day of the summer holidays since I first made it into Tadpoles at the local pool. They were dead against it. Said it was a needless extravagance when it only took us thirty minutes to drive to the beach. That didn’t mean, however, that the backyard escaped being an Armstrong Family Project.

Ever since I could remember there had always been a big stretch of untouched grass right along the back fence. Mum and Dad always went on about how perfect it would be for a veggie patch. In seventeen years they’d never got around to it. That was until one day earlier this year when Mum came out dressed in exactly the same gear she had on today. That time she didn’t stop at my door to ask for help; she walked straight out to the back shed, grabbed a spade and a scary-looking pitchfork and got started. Mum’s not that big, and even though she’s a yoga-head and looks pretty young for forty-seven, she’s not exactly a teenager, but none of that counted because, man, she made a huge mess. Normally she would have been really careful about cutting up the turf and stuff, but that time she didn’t care. She just kept hacking. Whenever I offered to help she smiled, shook her head and took another swing. She kept going every afternoon for three weeks, until there was no green anywhere in sight. It was just brown dirt turned over and over, like it had been ripped apart by mini explosives.

I had thought that was going to be the first Patricia Armstrong Solo Project but I was wrong. One night Mum came and sat on my bed and talked about launching the first Armstrong Mother and Son Project. All that digging must have done something good because it was the first time in a long time her eyes had come alive. There was no way I could refuse.

After the hacking came the fertilizing. This is where I got to be involved. We put in a whole pile of manure that smelled worse than anything Jock and Tim combined could produce, which was saying something, and waited until it didn’t stink so much. Then last night Mum finally announced we’d made it to the planting stage and if I didn’t have anything on, tomorrow would be the perfect day to get started. So here we were, just me, Mum and a whole lot of cow shit.

How has your week been?

It was no surprise that as soon as we got down to work Mum started firing questions. That’s how she operates. It’s all about sharing quality time together, and quality time in Mum’s world means she asks the questions and I answer.

Um … Yeah, good.

My gut constricted. If I didn’t play this right my hands weren’t going to be the only part of me to be in shit this weekend. It could have been the perfect time to spill it all but I figured, why spoil the weekend when the next hundred were going to be hell? Then again, maybe it was better to tell her myself before Waddlehead had a go. Knowing Mum, she’d rate the fact I’d fessed up before someone else had to do it for me. But that would mean I’d have to spend the next thirty-something hours watching Mum look like crap again.

Bloody Danielli, he knew that giving me the you can tell her before we do option was going to mess with my head all weekend.

I watched Mum as she dug a small hole in the soil. She extended her hand, indicating for me to pass the tomato plant. She then gently shook off any excess dirt and carefully placed the seedling in the ground, making sure all the roots were where they should be. She’d swung into a gentle, soothing rhythm.

Mum …

Hmmm …

My gut constricted again. I couldn’t. I wanted to but I couldn’t.

Here. I shoved another plant in her direction.

She’d been edging along the ground like a crab. At this point she looked up, smiling, trying to blow away the hair that had fallen into her eyes without using a muddy glove.

So?

So! What did she mean, so? So I could be chucked out of St. Andrew’s forever, and here’s another tomato plant. So had Danielli changed the rules and secretly rung Mum and they were both waiting to see if I would confess?

I turned and pretended to look for another plant, feeling my face redden with every second.

So?

Her eyes were lasering holes into my back.

What was good about it?

The week, that’s what she was asking about! Idiot! I could feel my guilty blush, something that had given me grief since the time I learned how to lie, wash away with relief.

I don’t know. The same as usual, I suppose.

She looked at me for a long moment, spade in one hand and baby tomato plant in the other, then sighed.

Are you going out tonight? she asked after she’d planted the next seedling.

I’ll probably head over to Tim’s later…. The boys are planning a big night.

A Lakeside girl was meant to be having a party, some girl Tim was convinced was into him because she happened to say sorry when she stuck her artwork into his backside on the bus. I pointed out that her response was called everyday politeness. Tim, however, was certain that she wanted him, especially his backside.

Oh. Mum nodded. OK then. And she returned to the digging, shaking, planting, patting.

She stopped suddenly and looked at me again, her face a strange combination of a frown and a tight-lipped smile.

What?

How big a night?

I grinned back. Relax, Mum, you can trust me. She rolled her eyes and returned to her plants. We had both found our place again and for the moment everything was as it should be.