Everything Grandad needed to work the soil was stored in the garden shed. Tools, old and borrowed, some envelopes to store seed, wooden crates to overwinter vegetables, and a big book in which Grandad would write what had been planted every year and where. If you planted things in the same place year after year, then diseases and pests would build up in the soil and ruin whatever you planted, so Grandad was always moving things around like a massive, elaborate board game. Sometimes, if the fish tonic didn’t work, he’d sprinkle the soil with ashes from the fire, and if that didn’t work, he’d make a brew made from stinging nettles. These he would leave (along with a few secret ingredients) in a bucket of water to rot for weeks and weeks and weeks in order to make a stinky, slimy green-black liquid that was perfect for growing big juicy vegetables.

So now, in late spring, the allotment looked empty, the seedbeds and soil totally bare, but there was still a lot of preparatory work and planning to do. Grandad would always say that this was the time to put the work in to get the rewards later on, even if on the surface of things, nothing much would seem to be happening.

Today, he had been busy clearing a space for Marty’s seed and was bouncing up and down, seemingly impervious to the vile stink that clung to everything.

“It’s getting the best bed in the house,” Grandad said proudly.

All day Grandad had weeded, hoed, and raked, and to be fair the seedbed looked good enough to sleep in. Then he brought out his enamel mug. In it was the seed. Soaking in water.

“You drowning it?” asked Marty.

Grandad grinned.

“I’m waking it up.”

Grandad then scooped out the slimy seed and slipped it into Marty’s hands.

“You do it,” he said, grinning as if he were about to witness a magical spectacle. Grandad’s eyes widened like a small child in the front row of a circus.

“Me?”

“Yes! It’s yours. Pointy end down.”

“How deep down?” asked Marty.

“Two inches,” Grandad said.

Marty approached the seedbed.

“In the middle! Give it plenty of room to grow!”

Marty held the seed a moment. Its belly fat in his fingers. Then, he knelt down, picked a spot, and slowly pushed it, pointy end down, into the crumbly soil. As his nose got closer to the earth, he detected wafts of fish and nettle and goodness knows what. Grandad was watching him, spellbound. The seed disappeared into the dark soil, but as Marty’s fingers pushed it down, something extraordinary happened. He was sure, for a split second, that he saw it glow a brilliant white. His fingers felt a sudden flash of heat that plucked through his hand and then his arm like an electric shock. He snatched his hand back sharply.

“What’s wrong?” Grandad asked.