Man’s world

Joe Bennett gets saucy presenting his latest horticultural conundrum.

It was the fourth of July. The door bell rang.

Paul Robeson sighed, laid down his knife and fork, and pushed away his half-eaten dinner, the beefsteak oozing juices on the plate. “Who’s there?” he cried. Silence.

Now look, I know you’re just desperate to know who had come a-knocking at Mr Robeson’s door on the fourth of July, but I interrupt in order to inform you that this isn’t just a gripping story. It is also a competition. And the prize for the winner of that competition is – and I think you’ll agree this deserves not just capital letters but a drumroll – The Last Debifurcator.

Retentive readers will recall that last month I offered a few of my patented debifurcators to the gardening public and asked only the cost of packaging and postage. Well how you flocked. You flocked fast and you flocked eager. The debifurcators flew from my garage.

But I held two back: one for my own use and the other as a consolation prize for those who flocked too slowly. So here’s your very last chance to lay your hands on a debifurcator, and what a doozy of a competition it is, combining literary exclusivity with horticultural sleuthing.

The Paul Robeson story, of which you have already read the first few lines and by which you are already gripped, is a previously unpublished original that may well change the way you see the world. But at the same time it is a puzzle. It has a horticultural theme that holds it all together.

The moment you identify that theme, stop reading and write to me. The first correct answer gets… pause for drumroll… The Last Debifurcator. Are you up for it? Then let’s go.

You will recall that Paul Robeson had had his beefsteak dinner interrupted by the doorbell.

“Is that you, Roma?” Robeson cried, picking up his glass of brandywine and moving towards the door. “You’re early, girl.”

Silence.

“Surely it can’t be German Johnson?” mused Robeson,

“he’s supposed to be in Santorini.”

He fiddled with the bolts and opened the door and stepped back, mouth agape.

“Black Krim,” he said, trying hard to keep a tremor out of his voice.

“Who did you think it was,” said Black Krim, “Tiny Tim? Mind if I come in?”

Robeson stood aside. Black Krim stooped but not low enough.

“Azoychka,” he exclaimed as his head smacked the lintel. He stood in the hall, rubbing his skull and looking slowly around. “It’s cold in here. Fetch me a jersey, boy.”

Just as Paul Robeson was turning away, a slight female figure appeared in the doorway, saw Black Krim, launched into a flying karate kick, fetched him a cracker on exactly the point on his skull that had just come in contact with the lintel, punched him twice in the belly and once on the ill-shaven jaw, dragged him into the garden, tied him to the fence and whistled to attract the attention of a passing pack of hyenas, then came back inside and bolted the door behind her.

“Roma!” exclaimed Paul Robeson. “Bravo.”

“I need a drink,” she said, “a very large Campari, my sweet.”

“One hundred millilitres of Campari coming right up,” said Paul Robeson.

And that’s that. Once you’ve recovered from the thrills, get thinking. Answers on a postcard to Fourteentomato-varietals-in-a-singleunforgettable-story Competition c/o the most prestigious gardening magazine in the southern hemisphere. ✤