It was in primary school. Cloudy day and you could smell the stillness in the air; it was that bad. We were at Bunnings--Dad wanted a new rake; probably an excuse. Excuse for staying in the store, breathing in sawdust, feasting eyes on sanders and saws and sprinkler heads. What could I say? He liked looking at things he couldn't have.

Just to interest me he asked me what I wanted from the store, which was important to him for his own reasons. It was still spring and seeds were on special. He took a packet off its hook and read the front: french beans. A little gnome at the top of the packet, holding a yellow pot with a flower in it. On the back it told you how to plant it, when to fertilize it, when to mother it to death for its green gold pods. Father was grinning, nodding at me. Forgot why he was.

Came back home, plant, seeds, fertilizer and all, in the back seat. Also his new screwdriver set and a box of nails, when he's bored and wants to fix something up. He talked about the plant, future, food and everything. Mum was there, smiling as usual. I was doing something productive for a change, she said.

He filled in the pot with compost mix from a bag in the shed. He let me stick the seeds into the soil and water it down until the soil shrunk a third of the depth. We waited. Shoots came out, green and young. I forgot to separate the seeds so they all grew clumped together. Most of them shrivelled up and died, but that didn't matter. I only bothered about the few left.

I asked Father whether he'd seen the plants. No, haven't got time, fixing the bathroom sink. Tomorrow: starting new project on topiary. The day after he's busy at work. I watered the plants. I watched more die and shrivel up. One of them got really high up, but Mum broke its top off while walking past. It never grew back.