CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “I’ve no idea,” I had to admit. “But we must be sure there are big bikes for him to steal.”

  “It’s just that if there is such a club, you might get them all riding out to wherever you advertise this trap,” smiled Craddock. “And that could ruin the whole show. This scheme needs careful planning — and secrecy, gentlemen.”

  “And we’d all be there, lurking in the bushes or hiding in the gents, watching and waiting to catch him with a stolen bike,” laughed Blaketon. “But seriously, taking all considerations into account, I think it could work.”

  “We’ll make it work. To begin with, we need to put an announcement in the Evening Gazette among the other cycling-club outings, prepare a reception committee for him and then see if he takes the bait?” said Craddock.

  “Great,” enthused Blaketon. “It would be wonderful if Ashfordly Section caught him!”

  “It would indeed,” agreed Craddock. “Right, can you leave this with me? I have the contacts on Teesside and will set up something for a week or two’s time. On the day, I’ll need all available officers, Oscar,” he said to Blaketon. “If we can persuade our thief to join us for Sunday lunch, we mustn’t let him slip through our net, must we?”

  “OK, we’ll let you make the plans,” agreed Blaketon. “I will assume that you concur, PC Rhea?”

  Blaketon liked to use the word ‘concur’ but I told him that I did agree with this suggestion and would await Sergeant Craddock’s next move with pleasure.

  “I hope you get your bike back,” I said to him as I rose to leave.

  “That would be a real bonus,” he smiled.

  As I drove back to Aidensfield after that meeting, I experienced a feeling of elation because, at last, something positive was being done to catch a cunning and determined thief. I found myself getting quite excited at the prospect of a cleverly laid trap and wondered just what kind of a plan Sergeant Craddock would produce.

  * * *

  In the days which followed, I noticed Joseph, sometimes in his garden, sometimes pottering around the village and invariably at mass on Sundays and during the week. I thought his face showed a little more colour than hitherto but wondered whether that was due to the summer sun beating down upon him as he worked out of doors or sat in his garden with his pipe to keep the insects away. His weight, however, did not appear to increase and his clothes hung from him as if he had shrunk in the wash and they had expanded. Around him, of course, plans were being made to raise funds for his surprise trip to Lourdes, but whenever possible, I stopped to pass the time of day with him.

  Invariably I asked about the progress of his gooseberries. On that topic, he was always extremely guarded, usually grumbling that they weren’t doing very well because it was too dry or too cold or there was not enough nourishment in the ground or they had become diseased. It was amazing, the number of things that could go wrong with growing gooseberry. In spite of his careful pruning and delicate selection of those he wanted to remain on the trees for the show, his berries weren’t swelling anything like they had in previous years and he thought it was going to be a bad berry year, at least for him.

  But under all that contrived gloom, I knew that, somewhere behind his cottage, he would be encouraging colossal berries to flourish, well away from the prying eyes of his competitors. And his competitors would be doing likewise. It was around this time of the summer, as the berries were filling out due to plenty of good manure and pruning, and as the sun was pouring its goodness into them, that the berry growers adopted their most competitive and secretive attitude. Big reputations were at stake in the world of big berries but if anyone listened to these characters, there was not even a moderately sized berry to be found in the whole of Aidensfield. Certainly, I never noticed one upon my travels, but I knew the truly gigantic examples were safely hidden from view, being nursed and cared for like new-born lambs and being shown to an astonished public only on the day of the berry show — that’s if they hadn’t been stabbed by wasps or burst like balloons before the event.

  It was during those days that Mary, my wife, mentioned something over tea.

  “The wheelbarrow’s collapsed,” she told me. “It’s the wheel. The axle’s broken. Can we get another from somewhere?”

  I told her I knew just the fellow, a specialist in barrow wheels and promised I would measure ours to ensure I obtained a perfect replacement. After tea, therefore, I went down to the bottom of our garden with Mary. Armed with a tape measure, I checked the size of the barrow wheel. It was of solid metal with a rubber tyre and was 15” in diameter, and I could see that the section close to the spindle had cracked.

  “What caused this?” I asked her. “Have you been quarrying or something?”

  “No, I got a load of horse manure from Home Farm. George Boston brought the stuff up for me on his tractor and trailer, and shovelled it over the fence. I wanted to move it and the wheel collapsed with the weight.”

  Mary had recently taken an interest in gardening; it was something to provide an interest as the children were now at either school or playschool during the day, and she had a little more time to herself. My interest in horticulture was limited to cutting the lawn and weeding, although at times I managed to destroy flowers and vegetables thinking they were weeds. Consequently — for the sake of domestic harmony — I tended to leave such matters to Mary. Mowing the lawn was something I managed to achieve without too many problems, however; although on one occasion my runaway Flymo made a staggeringly successful job of demolishing a strawberry patch.

  “So what’s the manure for?” I asked.

  “I’ve put some under our gooseberry trees,” she said. “And I took off some of the smaller berries and pruned the branches. We’ve got quite a good crop, you know, we ought to submit one or two for the show. We are members.”

  “I know, but I’m no gooseberry grower!” I had no wish to make a fool of myself in front of the Aidensfield experts. My puny berries were scarcely large enough to make a pie even when used in multiples of hundreds, let alone win prizes.

  “Well, there’s one berry that already looks like becoming a giant,” she said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  She led me into a sunny corner of the garden where she had weeded carefully among our half-dozen gooseberry trees, presents from both my father and Mary’s, each of them being keen growers. The tiny copse looked so neat beneath their all-embracing nets, and I could see there was an abundance of handsome fruit. The nets would keep away the birds but our problems would come later in the form of war-like wasps.

  “There!” She pointed to a small, heavily pruned tree at the back. “That tree on the right.”

  And I could see that it carried what was already a super-large gooseberry. Still green and young, it had several weeks in which to swell with pride as it matured, and during which it would have to fight off mildew, wasps and birds. It was an outstanding berry, of that there was no doubt and I found myself wondering whether it would survive until the berry show day on Monday, 3 August. But, to be honest, although a berry of this magnitude might be a winner if it survived until the show, I did not want to beat poor old Joseph in this most important of all years. I decided not to mention this monster to anyone . . . and asked Mary also to keep our secret.

  “What sort is it?” I asked her. “Any idea?”

  “An Admiral Beatty,” she told me with confidence. “I remember Dad telling me. He said there were over a hundred and fifty different varieties in four colours, but this variety was a particularly good one for producing heavy berries, ideal for shows.”

  “Well, if we’re going into the berry-show business, we’ll need that manure. I’d better get that barrow fixed.”

  “So where will you get a barrow wheel?” she enquired, as we returned to the house.

  “Claude Jeremiah Greengrass has a pile of them,” I said. “Or if he hasn’t then Tin Lid Talbot has. I’ll go and see Claude now.”

  Half an hour later I was plodding through one of Claude�
�s outbuildings as I followed the scruffy old fellow into his barrow-wheel shed. He told me he’d acquired a few more since disposing of the last selection to Tin Lid Talbot, and thought he had one which would suit my requirements. Fortunately, he had.

  It was in fetching blue with a fitted solid rubber tyre, and when I checked the spindle and the ball-bearing race, everything seemed in good order.

  “How much, Claude?”

  “To you,” he said. “A pound.”

  “Ten shillings,” I offered.

  “Fifteen bob,” he countered.

  “Twelve and six,” was my next offer.

  He paused and then said, “Right. Yours for twelve and six. And a bargain, I might add.”

  Having done the deal, we were leaving his buildings when I asked, “How’s the berry growing coming on, Claude?”

  “Oh, wonderful,” he beamed. “I moved my bushes like you said. They’re at the other side of the house now, in the sunshine, and, by gum, they’re producing some whoppers.”

  “You’ll be pruning and thinning them, to make sure the biggest are ready for the show?”

  “Oh, aye, I’ve done all that. I’ll tell you, Constable, I’ve never had such a berry year as this. A Blackden Gem it is. Joseph Marshall had better watch out, and so had all his cronies on that committee . . . I’ve enough big berries on my trees to win every prize this year . . . mark my words. You name it and I can win it! And that includes the Supreme. I can see it now. Supreme Champion — Claude Jeremiah Greengrass! That has a lovely ring to it, hasn’t it? World Champion even! You know, I might even send one or two of my best ones to Egton Bridge. I reckon I could win the Aidensfield with my second-best ones, knowing the sort of second-rate competition I’m up against.”

  “It’s all to do with weight, not size, remember,” I reminded him.

  “Mine’re all good solid berries, Constable, not full of wind like pigs’ bladders that are used as footballs or so full of water they burst like paper bags. They’ll weigh enough to win everything, just you wait and see. Anyway, come and have a look for yourself.”

  Claude’s little forest of berry trees now basked in a sunny corner of what was mainly a wild and uncultivated patch of moorland. A feeble attempt had been made to convert some of the adjacent ground into a vegetable patch and a few straggly potato plants, cabbages and broad beans were pushing through the couch grass, nettles and briars. Without any further help from the owner of this place, they would surely have a struggle to survive.

  But the berry trees, growing from a patch of cultivated earth which had once borne a midden, looked strong and well-tended even if a few strands of goosegrass and a foxglove or two were growing through the strands of the nets which covered them. I could see they had been pruned and that a quantity of the original berries had been removed. It was clear that Greengrass knew what he was doing so far as the cultivation of berries was concerned.

  “There you are, Constable.” He pointed proudly towards one of his trees, the one on the most southerly side of his patch. “How about that for a whopper, eh?”

  There was a tree full of very large berries, but among them was the largest gooseberry I’ve ever seen. Hanging in the evening sunshine like a monstrous plum, I could see the veins beneath the tight, reddening skin and had to admire its beautiful shape. Here was a truly memorable berry, a winner beyond all doubt, I would have anticipated, because it had plenty of time to grow even larger and even heavier.

  “Claude, it’s a monster!”

  “I’ll bet it weighs enough to get me the Supreme,” he blinked. “That’s if I can keep it on the tree till show day. That’ll be the tricky bit. Making sure it doesn’t fall off or get knocked off. It looks happy enough, doesn’t it? It must like my soil and my treatments.”

  “Treatments?”

  “Food stuffs. Stuff I chuck around the roots of them berry trees. Some folks use horse manure and others use cow muck or sheep droppings brewed in moorland spring water, or cold tea or sometimes water that’s been used for boiling cabbages, and even washing-up water because the soap clears the bugs away. But I use my own secret recipe, Constable, and wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me. So you’ve no need to ask, have you? All you have to do is look at the berry and agree I’ve come up with a recipe that works. Berries that size are the work of a genius, and no mistake!”

  “Well, I must admit it’s the biggest I’ve seen for years,” and I spoke the truth. “You might have trouble keeping it on the tree, there’s a long way to go yet.”

  “I’ll put a little umbrella over it so the rain won’t knock it off, and a little hammock underneath for it to rest its weight on. I mean, Constable, the weight of a berry that big can soon snap its stalk, can’t it?”

  “You’ll have to care for that berry day and night, Claude, treat it like a new kitten. I think you’ve a potential winner there, provided it’s as heavy as it looks.”

  “’Course it’s as heavy as it looks, and I’m not going to put a bit of lead shot inside to increase its weight! Just in case you were thinking I might be thinking of doing summat like that.”

  “The judges know all the tricks, Claude. Just look after your berry and make sure it stays on the tree till show day. And the best of British luck, as they say.”

  “Aye, well, I thought you’d like to see it, then you might feel like guarding it for me; you know, stopping jealous rivals from nobbling it.”

  “I’ll certainly look out for berry bashers whenever I patrol past your premises, Claude, but I can’t offer more. Hiring the police for special guard duties is a very expensive operation too, as you might know if you attend race meetings. But I will be happy to keep an eye open for mischief-makers.

  “Well, if you’re counting me as a possible mischief-maker, Constable, thinking I might be going into the village to nobble rival berries, then you’re mistaken. I mean, with a berry this size, I’ve no need to demolish any of the opposition’s berries before the show, have I?”

  “No. You’ll simply demolish the opposition, Claude!” I laughed.

  “I know I will. All I have to do is keep my berry safe and sound, and keep feeding it with my secret potion.”

  “Don’t give it too much or it’ll burst,” I warned him. “There’s many a good berry man lost a potential winner through having it burst, even on the morning of the show. I’ve even known some burst on the way to the show or even in the show itself, the minute they’re handled . . . so be careful.”

  “I used egg-boxes, Constable, they’re just the right size, although this whopper might be too big. I might have to put it into a coffee cup.”

  “When it’s fully grown, you might need a muslin bag to carry it in, or something large and soft enough not to damage it. How about my crash-helmet? I don’t need it now . . .”

  “Coppers’ crash helmets are for big, hard heads, not tender, juicy berries of giant dimensions . . .” he chuckled.

  “Whatever happens, I wish you the best of luck — and thanks for the barrow wheel,” I told him.

  “I might have to put my berry in a wheelbarrow, eh? Lined with cotton wool. And push it to the show like a giant pumpkin!” he chuckled. “You heard about the berry that was so big, a sheep ate its way inside and slept there? Or those that were so juicy the salmon came up the river and hobbled across the land on their fins so they could enjoy the juice . . . there’s some good tales about berries, Constable, but this beauty will astound everybody.”

  “Once they see that berry, they might want to buy your magic potion, Claude. Maybe you ought to patent it and sell it.”

  “How about Greengrass’s Berry Beverage then? Patent applied for. Produces wonder berries and enriches the earth,” he laughed.

  “Did you know they are called thapes in the south of England?” I began. “And grizzles in Scotland. In some parts of Yorkshire, they’re called carberries or even day berries, and goggles in Lincolnshire. Think of Greengrass’s Goggle Juice, or Claude’s Carberry Cobbler . . .”

&nb
sp; “Cobbler? What’s a cobbler?”

  “Apart from a chap who fixes shoes, it means a cooling drink, so there’s plenty of scope for naming your magic mixture. Anyway, I must leave you now with your pride and joy — and thanks for the barrow wheel.”

  “You’ll not tell anyone about my big berry, will you?” were his parting words.

  “I wouldn’t dare!” I called to him. “They’d all stop trying with theirs . . .”

  And he returned to his sheds chuckling to himself as he took a happy glance at his monster berry.

  It was truly colossal, there was no doubt about it, but as I had not seen many of its potential competitors, apart from my own specimen, I had no idea how it compared with the serious opposition. But it was bigger than my largest.

  Wondering whether I was silly even to think about competing in the berry show, I returned home with my second-hand barrow wheel. I just hoped it was not the proceeds of crime.

  Chapter 8

  It was during those long weeks of high summer which preceded the August bank holiday that berry-growing frenzy intensified in Aidensfield. A tangible air of expectancy prevailed as small groups of worried men gathered and muttered in the street and in the pub. They bemoaned the fact that the berries this year were the smallest anyone could recall. There were more gooseberry-pecking birds than ever before. Even worse, the long-term wasp forecast was horrendous with millions of the little airborne black-and-yellow devils expected as the heat of summer continued. On top of all that, mildew was rampant and that there seemed to be some kind of virus which was attacking berry trees. It caused potential prize-winning berries to drop off the bough without reason or to wither until they had the appearance of shrivelled grapes or over-dry prunes.

  It was a highly stressful time for the Big Berry Men but, of course, these problems prevailed every year and in spite of them, mammoth heavyweights were produced with astonishing regularity. They materialised in secret places, little Gardens of Eden to which the Big Berry Men resorted in trying times. Wives, families, gardens, dog-walking and even pub visiting were all temporarily abandoned by these growers; their devotion was legendary and their berries were miraculous.