It seemed they had not been taken in by his eminently visible garden of trees bearing mediocre berries — they knew his capabilities and guessed he’d been planning a coup de grâce with monster fruit on trees concealed behind his cottage. Until this moment, they’d all been expecting him to produce a majestic specimen for the Supreme but his decision to go to Lourdes suggested he had abandoned any idea of competing at all this year. That, in itself, was an indication of the seriousness of his plight. Never before in the history of serious berry growing had a competitor abandoned his berries to God, the weather and wasps in the final week before the competition. Stories were told of family funerals being delayed because of the needs of maturing berries, of men continuing to guard their berries while their chimneys were on fire and men sitting up all night with their berries while their wives were giving birth to babies. In short, berries were never abandoned during those final days.
In Aidensfield, therefore, Joseph’s condition was regarded as extremely serious — that he had actually decided to abandon his berries was destined to become part of the local berry lore. Even non-Catholics believed that Lourdes was the only solution to his problems, but his absence meant that anyone might win the Supreme without being castigated by the villagers. It had been an unspoken wish that Joseph should be allowed to win the Supreme, most berry growers retaining their biggest berries for the other classes. But as potential winner of the Supreme, Joseph was no longer a consideration. Anyone could win any of the prizes in the show.
Joseph’s forthcoming absence meant that more growers decided to spend additional time with their berries in those final days; whereas they might have aimed for one of the many minor prizes, now they began to focus on the Supreme. Nonetheless, most of them found time to assemble outside Joseph’s cottage to wave him farewell that Sunday afternoon. I was there too and I must admit it was a rather emotional occasion, with lots of parishioners and villagers all coming to wish Joseph God Speed for his forthcoming journey. With his full suitcase and a new camera bought by his children, Joseph settled in the front seat of Father Simon’s Hillman Minx as Mabel clambered into the rear. Their family was there too, kissing Joseph farewell as the villagers produced a rousing cheer to accompany the car as it moved away. I noticed one lady with a rosary, praying for a miracle as Joseph was carried up the hill and over the moors to catch the pilgrims’ coach. I thought it was a miracle he was going at all — but he wasn’t on the bus yet! I wondered if poor Mabel would have a struggle with him in Middlesbrough, a battle to get him to board the coach. As I turned away from the small crowd, I bumped into Claude Jeremiah Greengrass who’d been lurking at the back as the little drama had unfolded.
“What brings you here, Claude?” I asked him.
“I just wanted to be sure Holy Joe Cut-Stalk was on his way, that’s all. I wanted to see it for myself; I couldn’t believe a Big Berry Man like him would abandon his show berries just when they needed him.”
“He’s ill, Claude. He’s going to Lourdes.”
“Well, I hope he prays for a miracle because he’ll need one if he hopes to produce a Supreme. Well, I mean if he was competing, he’d need a miracle. He’s finished now, isn’t he? While he’s away, his berries will shrivel and wither away, and without that pipe of his to keep ’em off, all the local wasps are going to go berserk and there’s nowt they love better than a big, fat, juicy gooseberry that’s being plumped up for the show. But even if he did grow the heaviest he’s ever seen, I’ve got a world beater at Hagg Bottom. Just you wait and see!”
But I thought the berry that Mary was tending in the police-house garden was larger than Greengrass’s. But would it be heavier? And would it survive the dreaded wasps?
We’d all know in just over a week from now.
Chapter 11
The enforced absence of Joseph Marshall prompted a surge of gooseberry mania in Aidensfield. Berry growers know that such a lot can be achieved in the final days, although total success depends upon a lengthy period of protection from the elements along with oceans of tender loving care. All this must be supplemented by the very best of farmyard muck spread in the right places at the right time, fine weather which is not hot enough to shrivel the fruit, a dearth of wasps and a vital spot of good fortune. Those factors, plus the unknown magic that somehow elevates this winning combination into a powerful formula, can turn a fairly modest berry into a fabled prize-winner. The secret is to ensure that the berry gains those extra minuscule portions of weight, hardly more than the imponderableness of a barn owls breast feather, which make the vital difference between a winner and a loser. The splendid, delicate scales used by the berry weighman are placed in the show room on the previous day to ensure they adapt to the prevailing temperature so that they are perfectly balanced to record the tiniest of distinctions. Weight is all important; the size or beauty of the berry counts for nothing in the final judgement.
During my forays into Aidensfield in those final days, I learned that the true berry men, friends and competitors of Joseph over the last four decades, had honestly wanted him to win the Supreme this year.
For that reason, some had decided to withhold their finest specimens from the Supreme contest, but with Joseph’s absence all that had changed and so the berry growers of Aidensfield got down to some serious work in that final week.
There were the inevitable dramas and sorrows, however. Old Jack Youngman’s lovely red berry, a Lord Barney Weston, was pecked by a blackbird when it was a sure winner; Fred Singleton’s whopping Wonderful Saunders fell off the bush because his neighbour’s golden retriever wagged its tail against it; the Reverend Chandler’s white Lord Kitchener burst on the bough and the wonderful yellow Wakefield Wardle twins reared by Austin Sheffield were fatally attacked by a pair of raiding wasps. Austin had witnessed the attack — he said it reminded him of wartime pilots engaged in dive-bombing missions because accuracy and determination of the wasps was a lesson in itself. In that final week, dozens of similar stories circulated about potential prize-winning berries being nobbled in some devious way — it was far worse than the fish which got away.
I must admit that our berry, a splendid green called Admiral Beatty, remained on the tree and it was responding wonderfully to Mary’s love, devotion and loads of manure delivered from her barrow with the replacement wheel. The night after Joseph departed to Lourdes, I went to examine it with her.
“You know,” I said, squatting on my haunches to locate the berry under its canopy of leaves, “I reckon that berry stands a chance. I don’t think it’s capable of winning the Supreme but I think it could win one of the other awards, such as the Maiden Prize. And we qualify as competitors, Mary.”
“Have you seen any of the competition?” she asked.
“Well,” I had to say, “I’ve seen Greengrass’s biggest berry and it’s huge, but I think ours might beat it. But every time I’ve visited the home of any other berry man in the last few weeks, they’ve always been down the garden, out of my sight, doing something very important and very secretive with their berry trees. If I attempt to enter that part of the garden, I’m always escorted to a safe distance, to some remote patch where I can’t see the berries. And then they complain about the small size of this year’s berries, blaming too little rain, not enough sun, poor ground conditions, wasps . . . you name it, their berries have got it.”
“So that means we’re in with a chance?” asked Mary.
“No,” I said, “it means just the opposite. It means they’re all hiding gargantuan berries. The deviousness of berry men when they’re under threat is astonishing, Mary. But having said that, I still think ours has a chance.”
“So what do we do? Do we have to register our entry now, pay a fee or what?”
“No, just take it along on the morning of the show. It will be weighed in your presence and cared for . . . but you’ll not know who’s won until the very last berry has been weighed. And some cunning old devils leave theirs on the tree literally until the last minute, t
o get every available piece of succour from it. And it keeps the opposition guessing. So there’s a tip I’ve learned since coming to Aidensfield.”
“So we enter our berry?” she smiled.
“We do,” I agreed.
Next day, I regretted my decision because I had to visit the Greengrass ranch to interview Claude Jeremiah about a parking infringement in York.
He denied it vehemently while leading me to his grove of gooseberry trees. He lacked the sophistication and guile of the true berry men, for he wanted to boast about his berries way ahead of show day. I know he was proud of his crop and I could see his trees bore lots of massive berries, reminding me of giant plums as they dangled temptingly in the sunlight. Each one seemed large enough to win a prize and I felt sure he wasn’t hiding a crop of secret monster berries elsewhere on his ranch.
“I don’t know how you do it, Claude!” I was genuinely amazed.
“Sheer skill,” he grinned. “Mind you, there’s years of berry expertise in my blood, going back to my great-great grandfather. He was good at growing rhubarb an’ all, and his parsnips weren’t tiddlers, but his berries were the best for miles around. Anyway, that patch of land is virgin soil, Constable, reclaimed from the moor, enriched with all manner of things and laced with special food whose recipe I cannot divulge. But you can see what a crop I’ve got! And just you have a look at that tree in the far corner on the right, under them leaves at the back . . . I’ll bet you’ve never seen such a whopper! That’s a berry and a half! You know, I just wish Holy Joseph was entering because that berry of mine would make his look like a pea on a drum.”
“Well, I wish you luck, Claude. All you’ve got to do is make sure that berry stays on the tree till show day — no wasps or birds. You know the risks.”
“There’s not many wasps on these moors, Constable; the smell of heather mixed with sheep muck keeps ’em away. And I know my berries. See you at the show then? With me holding the Supreme trophy, eh?” and he chuckled as he wallowed in thoughts of future success.
As I toured the village, I did not encounter any berry, of any class or colour, which compared with Claude’s Herculean red Blackden Gem and I reckoned it must crush any competition — except ours! But, as I constantly reminded myself, it was weight not size which determined the winner. A good solid berry was better than one full of fluff and wind, and in spite of Claude’s overt confidence, I felt the result was wide open. After all, I had not seen any other large berries, apart from my own, although I guessed they were all being kept out of sight. But, I told myself, people would hide little berries too, out of a sense of shame . . .
It was on the Saturday preceding the show that Mabel received a postcard from Joseph. She told everyone about it, saying it bore a picture of the shrine where St Bernadette had experienced her visions, that he’d bought some bottles of holy water, was having a wonderful time and that the pilgrimage organisers had had to dose him with something to put him to sleep before they crossed the Channel because he’d started to shake a lot, but now that he was in Lourdes, he felt fine and had never seen so many foreigners, and he couldn’t understand a word most of them were saying. But on the bus he’d met a chap whose cousin’s wife knew a man whose grandfather’s brother had once lived in Aidensfield, so Joseph reckoned he was not too much of a stranger among the English pilgrims.
As postcards from abroad tend to do, this one arrived only a day before Joseph’s triumphant return; several friends, including Father Simon and Dr McGee, called at the house to admire it and some came to ponder the fact that this card had actually come all the way from Lourdes. One or two pointed out that it didn’t mention his berry trees nor did it say whether or not he had been cured.
Not that anyone really knew what was wrong with him, but they appreciated that the whole purpose of going to Lourdes was to receive a miracle cure. However, as Mabel told them, he was due back on Sunday night, disembarking at Middlesbrough around 8 p.m. if the bus was on time. Father Simon had offered to go and collect him from Middlesbrough, but Mabel had declined the offer of a trip to meet him off the bus, saying she’d better stay at home and make him something to eat. If he’d not had any Yorkshire puddings for a week or more, he’d be famished, whether or not his lack of appetite had been cured.
Due to the lateness of the hour, there was no welcoming party for Joseph but one of the committee who’d organised the fund to send him to Lourdes had suggested he gave a talk about his experiences. She suggested a meeting in the village hall a week on Friday and said she would approach Joseph to seek his cooperation. And so Joseph returned home quietly — Father Simon dropped him outside the front door of his cottage, saying he’d not come in because Joseph would want to be alone with Mabel. Later, we were told that Joseph was so thrilled with his trip that he hugged Mabel with the front room curtains standing wide open and kissed her passionately the minute he put his suitcase down. And then he never stopped talking.
She tried to say his dinner was in the oven and the table was set ready in the kitchen, adding it was a bit late for supper and very late for dinner, but she’d done some Yorkshire puddings and hoped he’d got his appetite back. He said he’d never enjoyed himself so much in all his life. And the food! He’d never stopped eating once he got across the Channel. Then there was all those masses with sermons in hundreds of different languages with a special international mass attended by 30,000 folks, and the processions by candlelight, and non-Catholics getting baptised because of the atmosphere and all the abandoned crutches and folks saying the rosary. There was the anointing of the sick in the underground Basilica, confessions in a tent on the Prairie, mass at the actual grotto where Bernadette had seen Mary, Stations of the Cross, places to get a bath and lots of hymns and a mass in a hospital for sick folk. Somehow the priests had managed to distribute communion to everyone without long delays. The Middlesbrough Diocesan Pilgrimage had its own mass before leaving . . . oh, and he’d brought her a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and a few bottles of holy water, they were in his suitcase with some medals and rosary beads he’d brought back for family and friends. And had Jacob got things organised for tomorrow’s show? Notices out? Tables set up and chairs around the sides of the hall? Car parking arranged? Scales taken into the room to adapt to the temperature? Raffle tickets set up on a table inside with someone to sell them? Prizes laid out? Spare pens and paper for listing winners and competitors? Newspapers telephoned in case they wanted a picture?
And to each question, Mabel had nodded. She’d assured him that things were in hand, everything that needed to be done had been done by Jacob Butterworth who’d even found a new weighman — someone who was not a competitor and therefore unbiased when it came to accusations of cutting off stalks or favouring friends.
“You know, Mabel,” he said, as he settled down to a late-night meal of Yorkshire pudding followed by roast beef and vegetables, “I feel like a different chap!”
“You look different,” she’d told him. “You’ve got a bit of colour and you’ve put weight on as well, and your appetite has returned . . . that trip did you good!”
“Aye,” he said. “It did. I’ve never had such a time.”
But Mabel thought he had changed because he did not mention the berry he’d left behind. Maybe he’d come to realise there was more to life than growing big berries and winning the Supreme? Perhaps it meant he would take her to Rome or somewhere? She felt very happy as she gave him a second helping of mashed potato, some more carrots and another Yorkshire pudding smothered in onion gravy even if it was well past his bedtime.
Joseph’s first outing after his return was to morning mass the following day, 7.30 a.m. on Bank Holiday Monday. The service had attracted a congregation slightly larger than normal because so many people wanted to inspect Joseph to see if he had the appearance of being cured and to hear something of his time in Lourdes; apart from that, of course, people had a day off work which meant they could attend mass. Perhaps the most important factor was that a lot
of men came to mass to pray for success at today’s gooseberry show — provided God wanted them to win.
On that occasion, no one knew what Joseph would be praying for now that he had no berries to show, although some felt he might be giving thanks because he looked so much better. Lourdes did appear to have made him better. I did not attend mass that morning, chiefly because I had to prepare for duty and I had some paperwork to complete; it had to be taken to Ashfordly Police Station before 9 a.m.
That Bank Holiday Monday was a duty day for me — apart from supervising traffic and paying some attention to the security arrangements at the gooseberry show, I had a brief to patrol the district to cope with the influx of tourists, trippers and litter-dumpers. But the show would occupy me for most of the day — and, of course, I had my own berry to contribute to the proceedings. Mary had said she would convey our specimen to the show in an egg box; I thought she might have a more delicate touch than I because I did not want to burst our berry upon being handled.
Meanwhile, the other contestants were harvesting their berries, many using delicate nail scissors and tweezers to remove them gently from the trees. Great care was taken when harvesting them because a spike from a branch, a nick with a fingernail or a grip too tight for the tender flesh to resist could ruin a potential champion and I know that tears of frustration, sorrow and even rage were not uncommon during those harrowing moments. Another rule was that the berries had to be dry upon being submitted, wet berries weighing more than dry ones due to the water which clung to them, rather like unscrupulous coalmen selling wet coal by weight.
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 20