Seed

Hillary’s grandma used to say that all the time, an expression handed down the generations that today seemed more pertinent than ever. Although maybe it could be rearticulated.

Want not, waste not. Would that make more sense?

Hillary reflected on her grandmother’s wisdom as she sat in the City Council’s public meeting chamber. Dubbed The Grand Hall, there was nothing particularly grand about it, with its no-nonsense 1970s architecture, modest little windows and careworn carpet. But with budgets under ever-increasing scrutiny, if Council was ever seen to splash out on fripperies, the ratepayers would go wild.

There was nothing grand about today’s symposium either. A collection of everyday citizens making submissions to the Council’s Waste Management and Minimisation Planning Committee, putting forward ideas that might help combat the city’s growing refuse crisis. Not to diminish their efforts, or downplay the enormity of the problem, but such events were rarely riveting and Hillary felt restless.

“We need new technologies,” said a woman sporting short hair and Harry Potter specs. “The entire contents of one recycling truck can be contaminated by a single unrecyclable item, but if sorting centres used improved AI and machine learning, we could minimise what goes into landfill. I know AI can be scary, but if everything’s sorted better we all win, and the cost-to-savings ratio is very favourable.”

Hillary couldn’t agree more, but having put on one too many layers that morning she’d started to overheat and was struggling to focus. There’d been a chill in the air earlier, as summer turned to autumn, and now she regretted wearing tights beneath her two-piece woollen suit, a straight skirt to the knee in a blush and grey tweed, paired with a classic three-button jacket. It was an ensemble she’d inherited from her best friend Maggie; the two of them often gave each other garments that weren’t getting any wear. Although in the case of this suit, Hillary didn’t know that Maggie had passed it on because she thought it looked frumpy.

In spite of feeling over-heated in the arguably frumpy wool suit, Hillary hoped someone would bring something revolutionary to the symposium’s table, so she turned her attention again to the floor.

The next person, clad in worn corduroy trousers with twine for a belt – textbook virtue signalling – agreed that waste was a significant problem. But instead of offering solutions he parroted all the clever things he knew about rubbish while rattling off statistics that may well have come from his arse. He also wanted it to be known that he’d crunched the numbers, an expression he trotted out several times.

Hillary surreptitiously checked her phone instead, arranging her expression to make it look as if she was listening while searching for relevant data. Possibly even crunching some numbers of her own.

She’d been like this for the past three days, as preoccupied with her mobile as a teenager. Her index finger tapping and swiping. Cycling between texts, WhatsApp, Teams, Messenger, emails, news and a strangely compelling game called Stilts. Glued to her device, waiting for one very specific notification.

As she fixated on her phone, her wavy red hair fell around her face creating a curtain that lent her a modicum of privacy. As a child Hillary had hated it when people compared her hair to spun copper: at school, ginger had been the most teased hair colour bar none, and throughout her teens and into her twenties she’d remained self-conscious about her auburn curls. She’d even bleached her hair once, with disastrous results. But thanks to the likes of Amy Adams, Ed Sheeran and Harry – the royal formerly known as Prince – red hair was no longer a shade to be ashamed of and Hillary wore hers with pride.

Hillary was confident her phone was working, because the local cinema had texted about Cheap Tuesdays, an airline messaged about discounted flights to exotic destinations she’d surely never go to, never mind the carbon, and there was another edition of a newsletter from a local real estate agent that she’d tried to unsubscribe from on numerous occasions.

As she deleted a chain of messages from her daughter Edith’s father – just day-to-day stuff, like who’d paid for school camp, the time of their parent teacher interview, a message about a recurrence of nits in the class-room – the phone vibrated and her heart raced.

Damn. It was just George, her partner, wanting to know if she fancied grilled salmon for dinner. They’d been eating a lot of fish lately, on account of it being good for sperm motility. Hillary and George had never heard the word motility before, until a fertility specialist used it in conversation with them a little under a year ago. They’d both thought the doctor meant to say mobility but he repeated the word repeated several times.

Sitting in George’s car a thousand dollars later, George had asked Siri what ‘motility’ was and she replied:

Motility is the ability of an organism to move independently, using metabolic energy. This is in contrast to mobility, which describes the ability of an object to be moved. Motility is genetically determined, but may be affected by environmental factors. Sperm motility refers to the movement and swimming prowess of sperm.

It was Siri who’d suggested they eat more fish.

The scene was etched in Hillary’s memory, the two of them sitting side by side in George’s practical plug-in hybrid, a stack of exams that still needed to be marked on the back seat as his virtual assistant dispensed reproductive advice. George’s Siri was set to ‘Irish female’, which usually made Hillary jealous. But Irish Siri didn’t bother her at that moment, because optimism was in the air and George had said something cute about ‘learning something new every day’.

That was back when they were just embarking on their baby-making mission. Back when it was still exciting, and they’d giggled at the prospect of all the sex they’d need to have.

They’d been at it almost a year now.

Hillary wrestled her attention back to The Grand Hall to find a new speaker had taken the floor. Her phone buzzed again. Again Hillary’s pulse raced, but it was from Maggie. She’d just done her Wordle in three. Jolly good. Then another message from Maggie. Did Hillary, George and Edith want to come over for a barbecue that weekend? On Sunday afternoon.

Significantly preferable to a scam about an undelivered package, but still not the message she’d been hoping for, Hillary texted a thumbs-up to the barbeque and the Wordle, then added that she might have to fit the barbecue in around her intercourse commitments. TBC. Smiley face. Winky face. Aubergine. No such thing as TMI with Maggie, who was like a sister to Hillary. Their friendship had strengthened since they’d become single mothers around the same time, over nine years ago now.

When their kids were really little, weekends could be relentless so they’d created their own ad hoc family. From sleepovers to short holidays, or just evenings together, the two mums shared movies and meals, drank too much wine and set the world to rights, while the kids, Edith and Joe, entertained each other. Even though Hillary now had George, and Maggie enjoyed more than her fair share of flings, they kept their friendship well kindled.

Dear George. Hillary counted her lucky stars they’d hooked up – at a pub quiz night of all places – because she did not hunger for independence the way Maggie did. Happily, George was also ready to settle down and, after dating for barely a year, they’d decided to try for a child of their own. Two early miscarriages in quick succession followed and the pressure mounted, and because George was five years younger than Hillary, currently thirty-five to her forty, Hillary was fearful her waning fertility might thwart George’s dream of becoming a father.

In contrast to Hillary’s proclivity for monogamy and her yearning for a second child, Maggie preferred short-lived love affairs and one-night stands, which she called ‘shag-and-release’. She was perfectly content with her one perfect child whom she co-

parented effortlessly with the boy’s father. Maggie relished her liberty way more than she craved company.

Chalk and cheese in so many ways, the friends’ respective lifestyles suited them down to the ground, although Hillary did love when Maggie shared details of her online dating exploits. She marvelled that Maggie could so easily make a date with a stranger, then end up in bed an hour later. Or in a car, or up against a tree. Hillary found it totally titillating and a little bit slutty.

The phone buzzed in Hillary’s palm.

Finally.

The one she’d been waiting for, a short message from MotherWorld, the fertility clinic that doubled as a hole to throw money into.

Please have intercourse today and thereafter every twenty-four (24) hours for the next five (5) days. Please text back “yes” to confirm you have received this message.