But most of the berries did get harvested safely and packed into cotton-wool-lined boxes, or egg-boxes or even egg cups and other suitable containers for their precarious journey to the show. It was not unknown for a berry to burst during that hair-raising trip — these berries were far more fragile than eggs — but, invariably, a suitable complement did arrive at the weighman’s table. His task, of course, was critical — if he burst a berry due to careless handling, he could he accused of sabotage or malicious damage.
In uniform, I went along to the show room prior to the 1 p.m. closing time for submissions and saw the new weighman, appropriately named Barry Scales, carefully weighing those berries already submitted. As he worked, I saw that both Joseph and Jacob were present, along with other members of the committee. It was a rule of the society that the berry weighing was supervised by at least two persons independent of the weighman — currently, they were Joseph Marshall and Jacob Butterworth, the latter resplendent in his famous red waistcoat.
Joseph looked different — his skin was more rosy in colour with just a hint of suntan, his cheeks and face were fatter than they had been for weeks and his clothes seemed a better fit because he had put on some weight. Everyone commented on how well he looked. It was amazing, the transformation a week could make. Clearly, the Lourdes trip had been of benefit and I managed to have a quiet word with him as he was replaced at the weighing table by another committee member.
“You’re looking good, Joseph,” I smiled. “Nice to have you back.”
“They’ve asked me to give a talk about my trip,” he said. “By gum, Mr Rhea, it was good. I never thought the world was such a big place, all them folks with different coloured skins and ways of dressing. None of ’em had heard of Aidensfield, mind, but I’ll tell you what, it made me realise there’s a lot going on out there, things to see and good food to eat and nice folks . . .”
“You’re quite taken with the idea of travelling, then?”
“I am, and no mistake about it. I want our Mabel to see what I saw, Mr Rhea, and they say there’s mountains in Switzerland that have snow on all the year round and spots so hot you can fry eggs on the pavement and sands in deserts that stretch for hundreds of miles without a drop of water. You’d never grow big berries there, would you, Mr Rhea?”
“I thought you were frightened of flying and sailing?” I said quietly.
“Don’t you go telling folks that, Mr Rhea! It’s not true, not any more. They had to give me summat to make me sleep on the way to Lourdes, across the water that is, but on the way back, I wanted to see what was happening — all them ships cruising up and down the Channel, big enough to put all the folks in Aidensfield on board, some of ’em were . . . No, Mr Rhea, I’m not frightened of travelling, not anymore.”
“So you were cured then?” I said.
“Aye, I was. Yes, I was cured, Mr Rhea. Is that a miracle?”
“I’d say it was, Joseph. Just think if you’d never gone to Lourdes . . .”
“Aye, I’d still be frightened of our Mabel wanting to take off to foreign parts and now I can’t wait to go.”
“You have changed! And that reminds me, what about your own berries, this year? You’ve not submitted any, have you?”
“Nay, Mr Rhea, I thought it best not to. Being sent off to Lourdes meant I couldn’t tend ’em like I should, so I thought it better if I got myself cured first, then I can concentrate on my berries next year. And it’s worked out right. I am cured, Mr Rhea, I know it — so look out next year, all you Big Berry Men, that’s what I say! I’ll aim for the Supreme next year, my first year of not being president.”
“That’s provided you are not too busy touring all those places you’ve wanted to see!” I laughed.
“Well, even though I might be travelling, I shan’t go away during the berry season, Mr Rhea. Besides, who wants to go travelling in August when all them tourists are about?”
“So you can plan your year now?” I said. “But I’m pleased you’re continuing with your berry growing. At least, it might knock Claude Jeremiah Greengrass off his perch!”
“Why, is he growing again? He never forgave me for telling him to chop some of his stalk off. It was half a branch, Mr Rhea, not just a bit of stalk. It was enough to take any berry off the scales, but he wasn’t very pleased. He said I cost him the prize that year. But he wouldn’t have won, not with the tiny specimen he produced.”
“Well, he’s got a monster this year, I’ve seen it,” I said. “And he’s going to submit it.”
“A big berry? On those trees of his? He had ’em growing in the shadows, out of the sun. They’d never do any good!”
“He’s moved them,” I said. “He’s transplanted his trees, moved them to the south of his house, into the sunshine and onto a patch of land that seems to be rich and fertile. He’s got some lovely berries, I must admit.”
“Moved his trees? But that means he must be disqualified. Anybody who moves his trees must do so with committee members watching, otherwise how do we know those trees are originals? And nobody’s reported it to committee, so it looks as if he’s broken the rules. Well, thanks for telling me that, Mr Rhea, I’ll see that his berry is disallowed. I don’t care how big it is! After all, rules are rules.”
“That’ll be worse than cutting his stalk off!” I muttered with some remorse. I hoped I wasn’t responsible for having Claude banned from the show but reconciled myself to the thought that if he was a committee member as he’d claimed, he would be familiar with the rules.
As Joseph returned to his duties to observe the weighing, I decided to remain in the room until the time for submissions had closed — chiefly because I wanted to see the competition faced by our modest berry. From what I could see and hear in the room, this year’s berries were about average, with no massive ones and no surprises. Many growers had submitted berries for the various classes while keeping their biggest and best — the Supreme contenders — on the bush until the last minute.
The range and variety of berries was fascinating — there were classes for the heaviest dozen, the heaviest twins, the heaviest maiden, the heaviest maiden twins, the heaviest half-dozen, the maiden half-dozen and the heaviest four colours. There were more entries than usual, it seemed, certainly an increase upon last year and the berries already submitted included some wonderful names, such as Just Betty, Kathryn Hartley, Delves Derby, Fascination, Leveller, Transparent, Firbob, Castle Rock and dozens of others. In my untutored mind, they all looked green or red, although I knew that some were classified as white and yellow, in addition to green. But it took an expert to distinguish them and every one of them looked huge to me, even if the experts did not regard any as particularly impressive. I felt rather sad that Joseph had not been able to compete — he hadn’t entered any other class and surely he would have beaten these very average specimens.
I was becoming quite excited because Mary had not yet brought in our sample. I had suggested she bring it around after quarter to one and, as I waited, she arrived clutching an egg box containing our pride and joy. We had decided to enter just the one berry and she handed the box to Barry Scales. She and I watched as he carefully extracted our Admiral Beatty, checked the stalk length, made sure the berry was dry and then gingerly placed it on the scales. It weighed in at twenty drams and five grains, a very commendable weight.
Joseph smiled at Mary. “Your first time, Mrs Rhea, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she told him. “Really, we’ve no idea about growing big berries, but Nick thought I should submit this one . . .”
“It might be the heaviest maiden,” said Joseph. I knew that maiden was the term used to indicate a first-time submission. “In fact, I’m sure it’ll get the Maiden Prize . . . but there’s a few minutes left before closing.”
Mary came across to me and gave me a hug. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we won something,” she said. “Dad will be so proud.”
And then the door crashed open and in breezed Claude Jeremiah Greengrass
clutching an egg box. “I’m not too late, am I? My truck wouldn’t start . . .”
“You qualify to submit an entry, do you, Claude?” asked Joseph pointedly.
“Qualify? Of course I qualify. I’m a fully paid-up member, like my father before me . . .”
“I mean, you’ve not broken any rules about moving trees, have you? I understand you have moved your trees from one place to another. Those trees previously belonging to your father . . .”
“I have,” snapped Claude, still clutching his box. “And I’ve not broken any rules. It says in rule sixteen that I can compete from trees belonging to another member — my dad that was — if the trees are moved in the presence of one or two committee members.”
“Right,” smiled Joseph.
“Well, in case you’d forgotten, I am a committee member. I was present when I moved my trees. It says nowt about who the committee member must be. According to that rule, I’ve done nowt wrong — except I might have grown the heaviest berry seen in Aidensfield and it’s not all stalk, like some have said my berries are.”
“He’s right,” said Jacob Butterworth, coming forward with a rule book in his hand. He had checked the relevant rule and announced, “According to the wording of this rule, he does qualify.”
“Fair enough,” said Joseph. “We might have to reconsider a rewrite of that rule to make it clearer.”
“It’s clear enough to me!” blinked Claude.
“We might rewrite it to say the committee member who is present has to be in addition to oneself,” said Jacob. “Anyway, you’re OK this year, Claude, so let’s see what you’ve brought.”
He opened his egg box to reveal a colossal red Blackden Gem and beamed at the various officials. “How about that, then? I’ll bet you’ve seen nowt like that one this year. Come on, Barry, get it on the scales and see how much it weighs.”
After carrying out the necessary checks for dryness and stalk length, Barry Scales placed it on the delicate weighing machine and it recorded twenty-five drams, twenty grains.
“Open class, Claude? You’re not a maiden, are you?”
“A maiden? Me? I’ve shown more berries than you’ve had apple pies. And you’ll see I’ve entries in for other classes, some I brought earlier. But this one’s for the open. How about it for the Supreme, eh?”
“It’s a beauty, Claude,” Joseph congratulated him. “I must admit you’ve done well . . . not world champion class, but well in the running for today’s prize list.”
“Well, can’t I know now? Is it the heaviest in the show?”
“It’s not closing time yet,” said Jacob. “There’s a few minutes left before we close the weighing. There’s time for somebody to fetch a heavier berry in.”
“There’s still time for a big one to arrive,” muttered Joseph, and I thought I detected a certain amount of guile in his facial expression.
“It’ll have to be weighted down with lead shot to beat that ’un,” chuckled Claude. “So what about you, Joseph? I’ve heard you’ve not entered this year?”
“That’s right,” admitted Joseph. “I didn’t get back from Lourdes until late last night and didn’t bother to check my berries; there’s no point, with me being away. A week without being tended condemns them to the rubbish tip, as you know. I’ve not fetched any to the show, not for any of those classes.”
As Claude hung around with the clock slowly ticking towards 1 p.m., I decided there was no point in waiting anymore; I would leave. But just as I reached the door, Mabel Marshall came hurrying across the forecourt with an egg box in her hands.
“Oh, dear, Mr Rhea, am I too late?”
“For weighing, you mean?” I was surprised at this development.
“Yes, I’ve brought this along for Joseph.”
She opened her egg box to reveal a huge yellow Firbob.
“You’re just in time,” I smiled. “You must take it in!”
And so Mabel closed the lid of the box, then rushed indoors with about a minute to spare, handed it to Joseph and said, “There you are, Joseph, your big berry.”
Without opening it, he smiled at everyone and said, “Thanks, lass. I think this might do the trick.”
“If there’s owt in that box, you might as well chuck it away because you know mine’s heaviest!” grinned Claude. “So come on, Joseph, get it out and let me see what your abandoned fruit weighs!”
Joseph opened the box with all the tenderness of the enthusiast to reveal a massive berry which one of his trees had nurtured. It sat in the box like a large egg, dry and clean, with its ripe yellow skin taut and revealing the veins beneath. It was magnificent.
“Give us it here!” said Barry. “We’re nearly out of time.”
And so Joseph’s berry, submitted in the open class, was placed on the scales and it recorded twenty-six drams eighteen grains.
“I reckon this is the winner,” said Barry Scales. “It beats yours, Claude.”
And so Joseph won the Supreme Championship that year. He said it was all due to Mabel’s secret attention to his berry during his absence. She claimed she hadn’t done a lot, saying it was all due to the carrot water she used, perhaps with a mixture of onion gravy and some cold tea, not to mention the bottle of holy water from Lourdes she poured over the roots last night. In spite of that, word got around Aidensfield that when in Lourdes, Joseph had prayed for a miracle to happen to his berry, praying that it would survive without his close ministrations, and the whole village thought two miracles had happened because Joseph’s appetite had returned and his energy levels had been restored. That was the first miracle.
The second was that he had clearly put on weight — and so had his berry. Did that mean he’d got the wording of his prayers muddled up?
At 2.30 p.m. that afternoon, Bank Holiday Monday, the berry show opened its doors to the public and they flocked in to admire Aidensfield’s renowned annual show of huge berries. Claude got second prize in his section, Mary won the maiden but Joseph Marshall won the Supreme fair and square. The committee also made a presentation to him to mark his retirement; it was a silver cup engraved with his name and the date of his lengthy term as president. Afterwards we all adjourned to the pub for celebratory drinks and the inevitable inquest on the results.
“I never thought I’d win anything!” Mary said, as we enjoyed the atmosphere as winners and losers relived their experience, blaming wasps, frosts and a host of other outside influences for failing to scoop the Supreme, or just failing in any of the other categories.
“Oh, but I’ve always regarded you as Aidensfield’s heaviest maiden!” I laughed, as we thought about her prize, a new ironing board.
“It’s funny that both a Joseph and a Mary won prizes,” she laughed. “It must be the Lourdes influence!”
Joseph was nearby and laughed at her remark saying, “It was, Mrs Rhea. Due to Lourdes, I mean. I haven’t told anybody yet, but I think I had a vision there.”
“A vision?” I smiled.
“Mebbe it was just a dream,” he capitulated.
“Really? So what happened?” I was intrigued.
“It was Our Lady clutching a rosary, Mr Rhea, one night while I was asleep.”
“That sounds like a dream, quite normal under the circumstances.”
“Aye, but her rosary was made up of big gooseberries, Mr Rhea. What about that, eh? A gooseberry rosary made up of all four colours. I’ve never seen owt like that before. And by gum, they were whoppers. She must have some secret recipe for growing ’em. They’d have won a prize or two in our show, make no mistake about that.”
“Perhaps there’s no wasps in Heaven, Joseph!” I laughed.
“Now, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Joseph puffed at his pipe. “That’s summat I can ask Father Simon about, isn’t it? And if there is wasps in Heaven, will I be allowed to smoke pipes there, to keep ’em off my berry trees?”
“You intend growing berries in Heaven then?” I put to him.
“I do, when I deci
de it’s time to go,” he smiled. “But it’s Heaven here just now, isn’t it? Me with my Supreme and my pipe and my berry trees — and Mabel.”
It was afterwards that I pondered the deviousness of Big Berry Growers, but if Joseph had gone to Lourdes to wrong-foot the opposition, he’d succeeded. Would a Big Berry Man who was a Big Catholic do a trick like that, I wondered?
THE END
ALSO BY NICHOLAS RHEA
CONSTABLE NICK MYSTERIES
Book 1: CONSTABLE ON THE HILL
Book 2: CONSTABLE ON THE PROWL
Book 3: CONSTABLE AROUND THE VILLAGE
Book 4: CONSTABLE ACROSS THE MOORS
Book 5: CONSTABLE IN THE DALE
Book 6: CONSTABLE BY THE SEA
Book 7: CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE
Book 8: CONSTABLE THROUGH THE MEADOW
Book 9: CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE
Book 10: CONSTABLE AMONG THE HEATHER
Book 11: CONSTABLE BY THE STREAM
Book 12: CONSTABLE AROUND THE GREEN
Book 13: CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES
Book 14: CONSTABLE IN CONTROL
Book 15: CONSTABLE IN THE SHRUBBERY
Book 16: CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS
Book 17: CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH
Book 18: CONSTABLE AT THE GATE
Book 19: CONSTABLE AT THE DAM
Book 20: CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE
Book 21: CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH
Book 22: CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD
Book 23: CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES
Book 24: CONSTABLE ALONG THE HIGHWAY
Book 25: CONSTABLE OVER THE BRIDGE
Book 26: CONSTABLE GOES TO MARKET
Book 27: CONSTABLE ALONG THE RIVERBANK
Book 28: CONSTABLE IN THE WILDERNESS
Book 29: CONSTABLE AROUND THE PARK
Book 30: CONSTABLE ALONG THE TRAIL
Book 31: CONSTABLE IN THE COUNTRY
Book 32: CONSTABLE ON THE COAST
Book 33: CONSTABLE ON VIEW
Book 34: CONSTABLE BEATS THE BOUNDS
Book 35: CONSTABLE AT THE FAIR
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 21