The Heirloom Garden – Part 1: Last Seeds

"I do not sell the tomato," said Bronwyn.

"I'm not asking you to sell it," said Lena. "I'm asking to taste it."

They stood in a walled garden on a hillside near Hobart, in the thin sun of a Tasmanian spring, among rows of weathered stakes and wooden labels. The garden smelled of rain and soil and tomato leaf. Bronwyn, thirty-six, a seed saver, tall and angular, in an old oilskin and a pair of muddy boots, regarded the visitor with deep suspicion.

Lena was thirty-two, a chef from Melbourne, short, brown and quick, in a white jacket under her coat, with a notebook full of tomatoes. "I've heard there's a variety. Black, ribbed, tastes of smoke. Nobody grows it."

"Nobody has the seed."

"You have."

"I have forty-one seeds in a jar." Bronwyn folded her arms. "They're not for restaurants."

"What are they for?"

"For tomatoes."

A long pause. A magpie warbled from the fence. Lena looked at the garden, then at the seed saver, and took off her coat.

"Can I work for them?" she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let me dig. Plant. Weed. I've got a free week. You decide."

Bronwyn stared. For the first time, the corner of her mouth moved. "The compost needs turning," she said.

By noon, Lena was filthy. By two, she was weeding the beans. By four, she and Bronwyn were sitting on upturned buckets in the shed, drinking hot tea and eating bread with butter. Bronwyn showed her the seeds, in a small amber jar, with a handwritten label: Smoky Black, 1951. Each seed was tiny, flat and pale. They looked like nothing.

"They're your whole garden," said Lena, quietly.

"They're my grandmother's."

"I'd be honoured."

"I haven't decided."

"I know."

Lena grinned. Bronwyn, to her own astonishment, grinned back.

"Can I ask you something?" said Lena.

"Yes."

"Why save them?"

"Because someone should remember," said Bronwyn.

"Green?" said Lena, a seedling, a leaf.

"Green," said Bronwyn, a faint blush rising. "Very green. The compost, please."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Fruit.