triangle sandwiches and biscuits. I put the digestives back
in the tin and the pink ones, because my heart hurts to see
them. We have Barbara’s relish, and Kale and Heritage
bring an organic f lan.
The offer is too kind, says Mum. It’s above and beyond.
But she can see from my face that she has to say yes, if the
Allotment Police agree.
I stand in the earthy damp dim of the potting shed and
look through the seed packets. I am adding to them. I now
have Saskia’s Olden Days Kale and Mrs Marchmont’s Fine
Peas. I pour the tea and get out the biscuits. They are
different these days, I still have the pink wafers but Barbara
favours a garibaldi. She’s outside propping up the tomato
plants. Summer is here and the plot is a riot.
“We’ll have a bumper crop she says, there’ll be jarfuls
when the time comes.” I nod, wisely.“
E
verything has its season,” says
Grandpots. “Everything has its time.”
He has his glasses up over his forehead
and sad eyes so I know that he’s talking
about something Important. Most of the
time he smiles. The rest of the time he
pickshisearsandappears baff led. I nod wisely and look at
theseedpacketsinhis hands, some packets new with
picturesbright,others dog-eared and faded.
Seedsandstalksand tubers and seedlings go into the soil
andoutcomewormytwisty earthy bird-pecked slug-
gnawedfruitsandvegetables.
Broughthomebyus in a carrier bag. Frowned at by Mum.
Everythingwegrow has a proper name, a variety, F1
Brigitte,GoldenGlobe, Maestro. But when Grandpots
collectsseedshelikes to rename them after his allotment
friends,GreenhouseDave’s Offerings, Barbara’s Relish.
Barbara’sRelishare the seeds that will turn into the
tomatoesthattheplump lady two plots down will squash
intojamjarsandre-label. We have cupboards full of the
stuffbecauseBarbara is sweet on Grandpots.
Theyoungcouplein the next plot only grow kale and
heritagevarieties.Their seeds are twelve times more
expensiveandtheydo not believe in pesticides.
Grandpotsdoesbelieve in pesticides, as did Percy
Thrower,whoistheGod of Grandpots. Percy Thrower
wouldf lingbeneficial chemical around with his pipe on.
There’sa pictureofhim in the book on the shelf. Eyes
narrowed,smokerising, hand on the pump.
Grandpotsputsthe seed packets away and has a cough.
Thenit’stimefora cup of tea and a biscuit. He has a
digestiveandI havea pink wafer. It’s always the same.
Thesebiscuitsliveside by side in the tin.
Aftertheteaweset about it. In May things grow like the
clappersandtheAllotment Police is never far away.
TheAllotmentPolice is a woman called Mrs Marchmont
whohasa clipboardand a shivery dog in a coat.
I goatthingswithshears and Grandpots potters, then
hesitsdownona camping chair. I glance over at him from
timetotime.Hiseyes watering, a hankie balled in his fist.
I bringhimthingstolook at, a dug-up shoe sole, a ladybird
anda beanfromlastyear.
BarbaraRelishcomes and sits by him. We all have a
cupofteaandturnour faces up to the sun. Barbara looks
awaywhenGrandpots coughs. When it’s time for us to
goshepatshisknee.
Afterthefuneralthere is a party called a wake. We have ILLUSTRATION: LARA PAULUSSEN
Jess Kidd’s short story ‘Dirty Little Fish’ won the Costa Short Story
award. Her third novel, the gorgeously gothic Things in Jars
(Canongate) features intrepid Victorian detective Bridie Devine, her
sidekick Cora Butter and a missing child with mysterious gifts. Her
simple thing is the first sip of an exceptionally good coffee.RELISH
A shortstorybyJESSKIDDBEDTIME STORY