Carol’s Column

The bean trail rides again

THE bean came into our life one and a half weeks ago. On January 30 to be exact.

"Mrs Glover says I must have a bean by tomorrow," said my youngest unmarried daughter of the pigtails and gap teeth.

A bean?

"She said we've got to plant a bean in cottonwool and take it to school."

You will appreciate there are not many unattached beans floating around Johannesburg, especially at 8.15pm on a Wednesday night.

No matter. After much phoning, I discovered one by chance in my good friend Betty's bottom drawer.

A woman of the soil, I should have known she'd have a bean or two to spare.

She was apologetic. "Look, I don't know how fresh it is — to be honest, you couldn't exactly call it a young bean, in fact it looks distinctly worse for wear."

Nevertheless, at 10.07pm I did the evening dash through thunder, lightning and torrential rain and procured the bean.

At 10.23pm the bean was safely and warmly ensconced in a gay burnt-orange plastic dish on its bed of suitably-moistened cotton wool, covered with light damp gauze to enhance growth.

On Thursday it accompanied my daughter to school. That night it appeared at the dinner table carried with great care by its seven-year-old owner.

It dominated the conversation. "Mrs Glover says we have to see that the cottonwool is not too wet, not too dry, otherwise the bean will die."

I shuddered. What could be worse than a dead bean? A failed bean.

On Friday morning we were woken before the crack of dawn. Outside the sky was black and even the resident Indian Mynahs were silent.

I unstuck my eyes and looked at the alarm. Good heavens — 3.43am.

My daughter was ecstatic. "My bean's broken," she yelled joyfully.

We peered at the bean and sure enough, there, nestling in the bottom, left-hand, lower quadrant, was a thin, hairline crevasse.

By breakfast, three-and-a-half hours later, there was no doubt that the bean was cracking up — and at 7.15pm, when it left for school, it looked distinctly sick.

I was concerned, we all were. I phoned Digger Hobbs, a gardening columnist of great repute. "Don't worry," he said, "it'll survive, this is quite normal behaviour for a bean."

We were greatly reassured.

Slowly, showered with love, talk and care, the bean began to grow and on Saturday, Nicky and the bean went to play with Clare Reidy and her bean.

In comparison to Nicky's bean, Clare's was retarded in a pale and wan way, because it had still not developed a crack in its plump, swollen skin.

That night in bed, Nicky was overjoyed. "My bean's better than Clare's," she giggled as I kissed her goodnight. I bent over to kiss the bean and it was then we discovered the bean was missing.

"Mummy, you have to find my bean," said my daughter tearfully as she shut her eyeballs and dropped off into slumberland.

Which was fine except that she'd played with seven other little girls and the bean could be anywhere.

By Sunday morning, after Fiona, Jo-Anne and Vanessa, I traced and retrieved it from Clare. On the way home I got a speeding ticket.

"Madam, I thought I'd heard everything," said the tough-looking cop with the ski-jump nose and flat feet, "but speeding to get a bean home in time for lunch takes the cake."

This week has been one of constant growth, the shoot is firm and upright and has a leaf — good heavens, a leaf!

The phone doesn't stop going and talk of elections, terrorists and floods has given way to bean talk.

This morning, the bean developed a red flower. A red flower?

"Why is my bean different to all other beans," wailed my daughter.

We were speechless — after all, what can one say at a time like this.

Digger Hobbs confirmed our worst fears — the bean was indeed a nasturtium.

"What will Mrs Glover say?" cried my daughter, "you must write her a note."

Dear Mrs Glover,

I'm afraid Nicky's bean will not be able to attend school today.

It's not feeling its usual self.

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