Four Courgettes

A fantasy for Christmas 1995

by
Juliet Eyeions & Paul Brazier

“Will you come and help me do the veg?”

“Won’t be a minute, Mum.”

Margaret didn’t really need her son’s help in the kitchen. Fresh vegetables, hydroponically grown, were clean and ready to eat from the packet nowadays. Of course, they were expensive. They could have had standard nutrition bricks for dinner, but they got those all week and she liked to make an effort at weekends. It was the only time she saw him, and he was all she had. She wanted to make coming home special for him; so she invested in vegetables from the supermarket, only wishing she could afford the fabulously expensive ones that some enterprising and wealthy farmers were still planting and growing in the ground.

She looked wistfully at her bean-sprouter. It was all the gardening she could afford nowadays – and there was talk that they were even going to copyright mung beans, so she would have to pay a license fee to sprout them.

“Come and look at this first!” She allowed her son to take her hand and lead her into her own living room.
“Taraah!” he shouted, and killed the lights. In the corner, by the french windows, a ghostly presence flickered and formed and – thickened would be her best description.

“A holo-Christmas tree?”

“Yeah, isn’t it great? Perfect in every detail. I modelled it from the genes for the Norway Spruce in the BioD ML and added the decorations from one of the MM libraries. No more pine needles everywhere, no more tedious getting Christmas decorations out, putting them on the tree, then taking them down and putting them away again,” he babbled. She turned towards him.

“But…” The enthusiasm, and his profile outlined against the window stopped her. Her heart skipped. He was the image of Harry. It was so difficult without him. She wondered if he would ever come back… and thrust the thought away. Of course he would! It may be ten years, but he wasn’t the sort of man to just abandon everything he loved. He loved her, and he loved his work. And, somehow, she knew he wasn’t dead.

“Are you all right, Mum?”

“Of course, Jack. Just thinking of your Dad. It’ll be ten years come Christmas…”

“I know. You never fail to remind me. He could have picked some other day than Christmas Day to disappear!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just that any minute I expect him to walk through the door.”

“Well it’s not healthy, Mum. You ought to have found yourself another man by now, instead of mooning about all over the place,” Jack said, with the off-hand cruelty so typical of youth. “You’re still young enough, and quite good-looking, in an old sort of way.”

Margaret was surprised by this rather back-handed compliment, and then a secret delight welled up as she realised that perhaps her son did care about something other than computers. It hadn’t been easy to bring him up all through his teenage years on her own, and she wondered sometimes if she hadn’t crippled him socially.

“Why thank you, kind sir,” she said flirtatiously. “And thank you for the wonderful tree.” Sometimes it was simply necessary to lie. “But where would the young master suggest I find another man?” She had to keep this up, over her grief for her missing husband, or risk driving her son away.

“Socially – down the pub – or at work…”

“I could never go to the pub on my own… and I never meet anyone at work.”

“Yes, your wonderful secret job. Well, don’t expect sensible advice from me if you won’t even tell me what you do for a living.”

“I told you before, it’s a condition of the job that I don’t tell. It’s for your protection too, you know!”

“No, I don’t know! Sometimes you can be really annoying, one minute mooning about Dad, and the next being all secretive about your job.”

Every weekend was like this. Sooner or later, they would start bickering. But the job was the one thing she had done for herself since Harry disappeared, and she wasn’t going to risk it for anything. She wished they didn’t have to argue like this. She wished they had decent veg. She wished the world hadn’t turned into such an awful place since Harry had gone. But most of all, she wished that Harry would come home.

**********

Jack lay back in his netsurf couch thinking about his Mum. What he wished more than anything in the world was that she would find some way to be happy. She was all he’d got, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her all alone in their house by the seaside while he lived in this tiny cardboard box in a converted London office block during the week. The phone rang.

As he stood up and twisted around to answer it, a cable from his computer coiled itself around his foot, tripping him as he turned. He fell heavily across the bed, and hit the wall with all his weight. Being cardboard, it bellied out and, with an ominous ripping noise, folded up. He was horrified. Amid visions of himself nose-diving into the privacy of his next-box neighbour, he grabbed vainly at the cardboard wall, but it was too heavy and unwieldy, and collapsed away from him in a billowing cloud of dust.
Instead of his neighbour’s box, he found he was looking into a huge empty room with a big window at one end. It was very gloomy, as the window was filthy and there was another office block built right up close to it.

Jack lay there, gaping at all this space, and noticed that there were parallel tracks in the dust on the floor in front of him – but with none leading to or from them. As he wondered what could have made them, something appeared. And it fit exactly where the tracks in the dust had been.

It was a sort of a framework, with a saddle in it, a couple of levers all bent, and a stump that looked like it had been a lever, but had been snapped off – like an old VR rail, he thought, but no helmet. Jack picked himself up and looked more closely. When he sat in the saddle, the room and all the other partitions disappeared! Wow! True head-up VR, he thought. Awesome. Lights flashed on and off, then there was a sort of a stripe in the sky, then the flashing again, and suddenly the room was filled with furniture, all covered in sheets, and the sun was shining through french windows – and they were clean! Jack climbed off the rail, and looked out.
He saw a garden filled with flowers and vegetables – no visible pixillation, and it looked just like he remembered his mother’s garden looking when he was young, before BioDiversity had been compacted, digitized, stored in the new Matrix Labyrinths, then outlawed as a waste of economic resources. And a greenhouse! The windows weren’t locked, so he stepped out.

Inside the greenhouse, tomatoes hung heavily on their vines. He hefted one in his hand. And then it struck him. He could touch. And smell. This wasn’t virtual it was real! And potatoes, freshly-dug, stacked in a box. He felt the dirt on his fingers, thought of his mother and their long wrangles over the rights and wrongs of the BioDiversity ban – then grabbed the box, topped it up with tomatoes and some other goodies… and suddenly wondered how he was going to get them home!

He ran back to the window, the box bumping his thighs, and the room was exactly as he had left it – except the rail was gone. His heart was pounding as he stepped back in and looked at the space where it had been. There were definite grooves in the carpet. He remembered the empty tracks in the dust and the way the machine had suddenly appeared in them; and so sat in the corner to wait. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, the thing was back! He jumped into the saddle – and when the wreckage of his own room appeared, climbed off the rail and, clutching his treasure, retreated into the familiar.

*************

Jack dozed smugly on the train. Despite the Christmas Eve rush, he had managed to force his way onto a bench, and he could afford to relax as the press of strap-hangers made it impossible to fall off. He recoiled briefly as the heavily pregnant woman standing in front of him shifted from one foot to the other and, apparently unaware, pushed her bulge into his face. Ridiculous woman, he thought. You’d think someone in her condition would have more sense than to go on a train, especially this time of year.

He leaned his head back, and caught a waft from the merrily-wrapped cardboard box he clutched tightly in his lap, the heavy, earthy smell, and wondered at his own daring, bringing such treasure on the railways. His mind drifted over the contents of the box. He imagined his mother’s surprise when he presented her with something genuinely wonderful for the first Christmas in ages… and his reverie was rudely interrupted by a hand grasping his shoulder and shaking him. If it was Mrs. Pregnant, he’d give her a piece of his mind. She really ought to be more considerate. His eyes snapped open, and the tirade died on his tongue. The figure before him was clad entirely in black, and, impossible though it seemed in that crowd, was standing alone, so that the truncheon on one hip and the automatic pistol on the other stood out in weird relief against the background of cramped commuters. Even the pregnant lady was pressing back, out of the way. The night-dark terror held out its hand, and its computer-masked voice intoned: “Ticket, please.”

Jack flushed. Since persistent fare dodging had been declared a crime against humanity and ticket inspectors had been armed, armoured and masked, he had often wondered how they could ever tell simple guilt from the terror they inspired. He hoped this would cover his guilty start and the spasmodic grasping of his box. He released one hand from the box, and reached slowly into his coat for his season ticket – not too fast in case the TI thought he was going for a gun, not too slow in case he appeared to be time-wasting – fished it out on its long security chain, and proffered it. The TI flicked a laser finger over the barcode.

“This expires today. Renew it?” Jack dared breathe.
“No, I’m not going to be travelling for the next three days. I can’t afford to pay for days I won’t use, and anyway there are no trains on Christmas and Boxing Days.”

“Criticism?”

“No! Realism! I don’t earn very much…”

“Criticism is ingratitude and ingratitude the root of fare evasion. Please be careful of what you say.” The nightmare figure leaned over him, tapped the box with its laser finger.

“In here?”

“A… a… present… for my Mum! I’ve been saving all year…”

“You should be more careful. You were asleep. Thieves never sleep. Beware. And remember. TIs only look like robots. We’re just as human as you. Have a good Christmas, and wish your Mum a Merry Christmas from me too.” Jack could only nod as the TI turned away. He glanced down at his treasure. He had crumpled the box, and the rich coarse earth smell seemed stronger than ever to him, but it was masked by the rich aromas of fear and relief that washed over him from all around.

*************

It was the worst Christmas Jack had ever had. He had been so sure that his mum would be pleased with the treasures he had brought her. And she had been, to begin with. The delight on her face had been wonderful as she had held the strange unruly shapes of the potatoes and caressed the tomatoes.
“And four courgettes! Where did you manage to get courgettes, Jack? You know they were… are your Dad’s favourites! He always used to joke about it – ‘they’s a darn sight better than mouldy old poetry’, he’d say. Where on Earth did you get them?”
So he had told her. And as the tale unfolded, so her face had darkened. When he’d finished, she’d said,
“So you stole them! And you’ve come here to give me stolen goods as a present. I thought I’d raised you better than that, Jack. Well, I’m not taking them. I don’t care where they came from, you’re taking them back, and I’m going to come along to make sure you do.” And they had spent Christmas Day and Boxing Day eating nutri-bricks because Jack hadn’t bought anything else, and he’d told his mother not to bother. And now they were coming back to his cupboard to return the goods.

The snow that had fallen the night before had turned to a grey slush around their feet. Nevertheless, as they approached the building, his mother stopped.
“Is this it? Is this where you live?”

“’Course it is, Mum. You know my address.”

“Well, they must have changed it!”

“What do you mean?”

“This building. It’s where your Dad was working when he disappeared. They never worked out what happened to him. So they closed the building down. I never realised they had turned it into shoeboxes, though. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Jack helped his mother over the threshold into the dusty cavern. The two tracks in the dust were there, but no rail. Then, as they watched, it materialised.
“That’s it, Mum, exactly as I said.”

“I thought you said it had a single saddle. That looks suspiciously like a tandem to my elderly eyes, son!”

Jack was so pleased that his mother’s mood had lifted – she had not laughed or joked at all for the past two days – that he failed to notice what she was saying.

“Oh, that’s all right. Come on.” And they mounted the two saddles. In moments, they were in the light-filled room, and Margaret’s jaw dropped.

“Jackie! This is… unbelievable.” The room had changed. Where the garden had burgeoned, it was now a picturesque snowscape, soft blue-white curves lit by a late sun. All the furniture had been uncovered, and in the corner by the French windows stood a magnificent Christmas tree, laden with decoration. Its rich piney scent joined with the woodsmoke from the open fire and the aroma of roast dinner drifting in from the kitchen to create a wonderful heady mix. She stepped out of the machine, kicked her shoes into their corner, buried her toes in the carpet, and walked over to the tree, where she stood lost in her senses, smelling and stroking the needles. Jack followed with the box of veg.

“Mum, what do you want me to do with this?” But his mother didn’t answer. Instead, from behind him another, deeper, voice answered – one he thought he recognised.

“Keep them, lad. They’ve served their purpose.”

He turned. Behind him, in the shadowed part of the room where the sun didn’t reach, a man stood. Shorter than he expected, shorter even than him, but then he hadn’t seen him since he was eleven years old, still he’d know that voice anywhere…

“Dad?” His voice thickened. He croaked, “Is that you, Dad?” The man reached out, and Jack felt he was falling forward, and suddenly he was wrapped in strong arms, fiercely gripping him.

“My but you’ve grown, son. I can hardly reach.” The voice had the same burr in it that Jack had felt a moment before in his own voice.

“Jack, what is it? Are you all right?” Margaret’s voice brought them to their senses. They turned to face her.

“Who’s that? What’s going on? mmff!” Her voice was abruptly muffled as she was engulfed in a huge hug. “Who is it? H…? H…? Harry?! Is it you? Is it really you?” and her voice broke up into alternate laughter and sobs.

**************

After dinner they sat in the armchairs watching the sun set over the garden while Harry explained.
“…so the root of the problem is the crack in the BioDiversity Matrix Labyrinths central stack. The density of information there has become so great that it has diverted reality around itself.

“Reality is not nearly as fixed as we like to think. Many people believe that multiple different versions of reality run in parallel, with a new version generated by every decision made. But that would violate the conservation of mass/energy. It’s a nice philosophical conceit, and useful for mind experiments, but it can’t happen. It does, however, point the way to the truth.

“There is only one real physical universe, and that is the one we live in. It exists in the four standard dimensions, but there is another defining element, alluded to in the parallel worlds theory, and that is ‘will’. Reality consists of four dimensions plus the will of every living creature compounded together into one great roiling sausage, with its beginning and end at the ends of time. It has all of space to move about in, so the only fixed thing is the rate of time passing. Where it passes depends on the sum total of all the wills affecting it.

“The crack in BioD ML central produced an impossibility; it dropped out of time, effectively splitting the time stream around itself, just the way you divide a flow of water by thrusting a stick into it. The water parts around the stick, and joins up again downstream. As time flows around the BioD incident, there appears to be a parallel universe on either side of it.

“You said the incident was five years ago, Dad. You disappeared ten years ago.”

“That’s right. BioD ML central is the stick in the stream, and its effects extend five years forward and five years back. I went one side of the stick, and you two went the other. But the problem, and here the metaphor breaks down, is that the two streams are in danger of not converging downstream.

“This house, like the world outside it, is the same one that we all lived in ten years ago, except it is now ten years older in this branch of the stream. But the one you live in is also the same house, the same world, ten years older in your branch. The physical structure is the same, but the wills informing them are different. Your version has become a grey and daunting place, more concerned with quantifying, recording, and economising. Here the accent is on enjoying, revelling, being. But what is happening is that without the life of this branch, the grey weight of your branch is dragging it away from confluence. If the streams do not rejoin, then this branch of reality will simply cease to exist, along with all its positive aspects.

“But Dad, what happens now?” Jack had been growing increasingly agitated as the explanations had progressed. “The way you explain it, it’s not all over yet. It could still all go wrong.”

“That’s right, son, and that’s where you and your Mum come in.” As he spoke, the rail appeared again. It now had three saddles, side by side. “And I’ll be glad when this is all over so we can have our living room carpet back,” he muttered peevishly.

“What we have to do is simple, although it has taken me all this time to arrange. We three must travel back to your reality together. This will remake the connection between us that was sundered ten years ago. Then, we travel back here. Our newly re-interwoven lives will then act as a catalyst to reform the links and drag our two realities back together.”

“But Harry, why us?”

“It’s so simple, really. We were the very first casualties of the split. If we are healed, the whole world should follow.”

“You said you arranged all this?”

“Yes. You don’t think it was an accident that you were living in my old office, or that your computer tripped you up…”

“Then why don’t I believe you about this rosy future?”

“Ah. Quite right, Jack, my perceptive son. There is a risk. At the point that we three step over, there is a chance that your version will break away anyway.”

“And if I’ve followed you right, that means that that world will go on, but the one we are in will cease to exist!”

“Yes.” Harry looked sombre.

“And what is the chance of this happening?”

Harry considered for a moment, then, as he opened his mouth to answer, Margaret interrupted.

“I don’t want to know!”

“But Mum, you’ve got to know what risk you’re taking.”

“No! My life has been too miserable these past few years. I’ve been feeling increasingly useless and parasitical. Everything there is numbers, nothing is colour, life, appreciation. And I’ve been so blissfully happy here these past few hours – I’ve got my garden and my husband back! So my choice is already made. Whether it is this garden of eden or oblivion makes no difference to me. I don’t want to go back to that other grey life, not ever.”

“Mum… when you put it like that, I suppose I have to agree.” He stood up and held out a hand. “Shall we.”

Her husband stood up too, and held out a hand. She took their hands in hers, stood up, and stepped bravely into the future, confident in the love of her son and her husband, and that,whatever happened, she would never ever have to wear that awful black uniform again.

** PB/JE/95**

Four Courgettes is copyright © 1995 Paul Brazier & Juliet Eyeions

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