The Seed Collectors. Scarlett Thomas

and ferries and migrating birds. On the left, more fields, full of scarecrows. In the distance Bryony sees the reassuring old Richborough Power Station cooling towers huddled together like three fat women on an eternal tea break. Then, in one of the fields on the left, she suddenly sees something hovering, perfectly balanced above the scarecrows.

      ‘Mummy, why are we stopping? Arrrgh . . .’

      ‘Oh. My. God. Mummy, you are even worse than Daddy.’

      Both children wave their arms and legs about, pretending they are having a car crash, as Bryony pulls into a farm’s small driveway.

      ‘Look at that,’ she says softly.

      ‘At what exactly, Mummy?’

      A huge bird of prey. Swooping. It’s beautiful, and it’s just . . . there. Bryony struggles to remember the names of local raptors that James has told her. Could it be a hen harrier? A marsh something-or-other? A kestrel? Or do you only see kestrels in Scotland? It doesn’t matter; she can look it up in the bird book when she gets home. Maybe they can all look together.

      ‘Oh, I must tell Daddy . . .’

      She begins noting its features. And then she sees the wire holding it up.

      ‘What are we supposed to be looking at?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Bryony restarts the engine. How stupid. How could she not have seen the wire from the road? The raptor is a fake, like the scarecrows. Even the starlings aren’t fooled; hundreds of them are flying around everywhere.

      ‘Mummy, did you think that was a real bird?’

      Ash and Holly start to giggle.

      ‘Mummy, you’re a right wally.’

      Which is exactly what James will say.

      ‘So how was your swim today?’

      ‘Fucking awful.’

      Clem is rooting around in the drawer for something. They have finished listening to the repeat of her radio programme and the kitchen is suddenly very quiet. Ollie is not going to try asking about Oleander again. Or if he does he will make sure he does not mention the inheritance, which made him sound like a total cunt before.

      ‘What have you lost?’

      ‘My vegetable peeler.’

      Despite being married, they have separate vegetable peelers, just as they have separate gym memberships at separate gyms with different swimming pools.

      Ollie shrugs. ‘I haven’t had it.’

      Clem sighs. ‘What went wrong at the swimming pool this time?’

      ‘This time.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Well, you say it as if I’m some kind of twat who can’t even go to the swimming pool without some major drama, and . . . What?’

      ‘Nothing.’ She has now found her vegetable peeler, that minimalist piece of stainless steel that looks as if it would slash your wrists in an instant. Ollie’s peeler has a sensible rubber grip. With Clem’s you can peel every which way, as if you were fencing, or literally doing battle with your vegetable, really fucking killing it. Ollie’s just peels sensibly. Clem starts killing something. It’s a butternut squash.

      ‘Anyway . . . ?’

      ‘Well, OK, so basically I’d just finished in the gym when the bus turned up. And – don’t look at me like that – I know this is going to sound cruel but I totally wasn’t in the mood for twenty – yes, twenty – and no, I’m not going to say the word “spaz”, or “flid”, OK? – people with “learning difficulties”. Obviously I’m sure they are all lovely and wonderful and I’d fucking hate their lives but they don’t have enough helpers. And they don’t wash them before they put them in the swimming pool. And that pool is disgusting enough to begin with, as you know. Like, for example, the clump of hair is still there. After a YEAR. Stop looking at me like that. And try not to slash your wrists with that thing. You think I’m exaggerating? OK. Right. One of them was literally a woman with a hunchback – WHICH I AM NOT JUDGING, OK – but she was also covered in hair. I mean she looked like a yeti. A hunchback woman yeti in my swimming pool. The guys are also all perfectly lovely, I’m sure, although my personal preference would be to have them wash before getting into a pool with me, but one of them not only does not wash, he wears these huge corduroy shorts that probably still have things – like used tissues, if he actually used tissues – in the pockets, and he goes to the deep end and just bobs up and down picking his nose while I’m trying to swim. And then there’s this other one who is huge and black – YES, I KNOW IT DOESN’T MATTER BUT I AM TRYING TO PAINT A PICTURE FOR YOU – who does this superfast front crawl which is quite impressive really, but he keeps his eyes shut and his head entirely underwater so he spends his whole time mowing down babies and the elderly while the yeti shakes with fear and sort of moos in the shallow end. I mean, can’t they just shave her?’

      ‘Can you pass me the Le Creuset roasting tin?’

      Ollie goes to the wrong cupboard and gets the wrong tin.

      ‘I mean, is it unethical to shave a yeti-woman if you have one in your care?’

      ‘I am not responding to this.’ Does she almost smile then? Maybe not. ‘I mean, you don’t shave before you get in the pool.’

      ‘Ha! You have responded. The woman hath . . .’

      ‘You’ve got a hairy back. That’s the wrong tin.’

      ‘My back isn’t that hairy. And I’m a man. Which one do you want?’

      ‘The Le Creuset one.’

      ‘I don’t know what that means.’

      ‘Yes, you do.’

      ‘No. Unlike you I don’t carry an inventory of our bourgeois cooking equipment around with me in my head at all times. What does Le Creuset even mean?’

      ‘Don’t be a dick. It’s the one with the handles.’

      ‘If you mean the third-degree-burn pan, why don’t you say so?’

      Clem sighs. Ollie gets the right roasting tin. And a beer.

      ‘They could wax her. How traumatic would that be? She could go to Femme Naturelle.’ Femme Naturelle is the beauty parlour that has just opened up around the corner from their house in Canterbury. If she’s in a good mood Clem sometimes jokes about going there for a Brazilian, or even a Hollywood. Her pubes are perfect as they are, of course: a little black triangle of something like AstroTurf or . . . The image is going wrong so Ollie abandons it. ‘Yeti Naturelle.’

      ‘That was almost funny before you spoiled it.’

      When they get in, Ash snuggles up in the conservatory with his nature book. Holly gets the spare laptop and loads a DVD onto it: something with a 15 certificate about bitchy schoolgirls that her uncle Charlie got her last Christmas. Bryony suggested this on the way home, mainly as a way to stop Holly pointing out every other fake bird that they drove past. The house smells of baking bread, as usual, and also chocolate. James must have made a cake too. So much cake in one day.

      ‘Why is she doing that?’ asks James, when he comes in from the garden.

      ‘Mummy,’ wails Holly from the conservatory. ‘Tell him you said I could.’

      ‘I said she could.’ Bryony kisses him. ‘How are you?’

      ‘I’m fine,’ says James. ‘Been baking.’

      ‘I can smell. Something lovely that I shouldn’t eat.’

      ‘Chocolate