Ravenscliffe by Jane Sanderson Page A

winter cabbages to plant out, but he might as well scatter them on Victoria Street as in this bed. They’d fare no worse.
    ‘Bananas,’ said Seth, patiently. ‘There’s no seeds that I can find.’
    ‘Tropical fruit, them. They need warmth.’
    ‘Oh aye, an’ it’s freezin’ ’ere,’ said Seth.
    Amos looked at him, at his young face attempting a mature, sardonic smile.
    ‘Yes, smart Alec, it’s ’ot now, we all know that. But come December, tha’ll ’ave forgotten what sunshine feels like. Bananas need to be warm all year round, see?’
    In fact, Amos had no idea what bananas needed; he just knew he didn’t want to try and grow them. Seth’s mind was like a fertile vegetable plot itself, with new ideas shooting up on an almost daily basis. As it was, the produce in the allotment was so abundant there was barely room to squeeze in another beanpole. Bananas indeed. Why not try for sugar cane, and perhaps a tea plantation at the back of the potting shed?
    ‘I’m not sayin’ we should grow ’em,’ Seth said, still in a voice of exaggerated patience.
    ‘Good,’ Amos said, still digging.
    ‘I’m just sayin’ it’s odd. No seeds, like.’
    ‘Ask your Uncle Silas. ’e grows ’em, doesn’t ’e?’
    Seth nodded, but fell silent. There was nothing he’d like to do more than quiz his fascinating, newly acquired uncle about the banana plantation, but he hadn’t yet recovered the lost ground from their first encounter. Eliza, on the other hand, had galloped on as she’d begun and was already and predictably firm friends with Silas. Last night she’d sat on his knee while he told a story about a sea voyage in an apple barrel. It sounded far-fetched to Seth, but Eliza had hung on to his every word, Ellen too, though she couldn’t really have understood much. Even Seth’s mother and Anna had listened, leaning either side of the fireplace with their arms folded, giving Silas their precious time. Seth had been there as well, but on the fringes, lurking between the front room and the kitchen, pretending to be busy with his penknife and a stick, wishing he could just sit down with the others instead. He hated this about himself: these helpless, headlong plunges into bad moods and ill manners from which he could never find a dignified exit. He knew what they all thought – that he was difficult and troublesome – just as he knew everyone loved Eliza for her willing smile and sunny nature. Sometimes he even thought they’d all made him the way he was, just by expecting nothing different from him. He wasn’t including Amos in this, not at all. Amos was the only person in the world who seemed to understand that he, Seth, was actually a very nice lad.
    ‘You’ve not spoken to ’im yet, ’ave you?’ Amos said now. He ceased the digging and stood to look the boy in the eye. ‘You want to put that right, for a start, else there’ll soon be more folk walking this earth that you’re not talking to than them you are. Get off ’ome and strike up a conversation. You’ll be sorry when they’re all sat round t’kitchen table talkin’ and laughin’ and you’re stuck there with a face like a wet weekend an’ everybody ignorin’ you.’
    The picture was so vivid and familiar that Seth laughed. Amos resumed his digging.
    ‘We mun turn some compost through this before we plant owt,’ he said.
    ‘There’s still some in t’barrow. I’ll fetch it,’ said Seth, but he hung about for a while, watching Amos work. In the neighbouring plot, old Percy Medlicott arrived and raised an arm in greeting, and Seth saluted him in return.
    ‘Warm enough for you, lad?’ said Percy, who came to the allotment as much for the company as for the gardening. Amos thought him an old windbag and tried never to catch his eye, but Seth liked him.
    ‘Too warm, Mr Medlicott. A spot o’ rain wouldn’t go amiss.’
    ‘Not much chance today.’
    ‘Right enough.’
    ‘It’ll come soon mind, mark my words.’
    ‘We’ll