Bearing Fruit by Pamela Kavanagh

IT was generally accepted in Wrenbury that Jeremiah Tucker’s raspberries were the best ever tasted. So it stood to reason that when the first prize at the summer fayre went to him for several years on the trot, the entries started dwindling in that particular class.

“Why not try with some of yours?” Daisy asked Eddie Shaw over the garden wall. “Mam says they have a flavour all their own.”

Eddie gave her his quiet smile.

“Well, now, that’s right nice of your mam. There’s a good crop this time. Tell her to help herself whenever she likes.”

Daisy felt a spurt of exasperation. Since she was one of the organisers of the fayre, she thought he could be more supportive.

She and Eddie Shaw had been walking out for 12 months now.

“Eddie, we need the entries. Otherwise we may have to drop the class and that would be a shame.” “Aye,” Eddie said. “What’s that supposed to mean? Aye, it’ll be a shame, or aye, you’ll give them an entry?”

Eddie just shrugged. “It’s like this, Daisy. Jeremiah is well past his three score year and ten. He puts a lot of work into his garden and looks forward to exhibiting the produce. I reckon we should leave things as they are.”

“And risk losing the class?”

“It won’t come to that. There’s always been an opening for late-fruiting raspberries. Folks like to see a range of exhibits. There would be an outcry if a class was dropped.”

“You weren’t at the last committee meeting when the matter was brought up. Reginald Lloyd meant it all right. And what he says goes, him being Chair an’ all.” Daisy’s voice trailed off.

She loved Eddie’s kind heart and gentle ways, but he could be stubborn, too. In this case she thought it stemmed from lack of confidence, which she herself possessed in bucket-loads.

She tried a different tack. “Do it for me, Eddie. Mam’s baking a raspberry cream sponge to enter in the ‘Best Sponge Cake’ class – and she’s using your fruit for the filling.”

“I seem to remember that happening last year. Didn’t win, though.”

“Mam’s cake came second,” Daisy said loyally. “It was a big class so she did well. Oh, come on, Eddie. Do give it a try.”

“We’ll see,” he said, and picking up his watering-can he left to attend to his lettuce plants that were wilting in the heat.

Daisy watched him go, a stocky figure with a battered straw hat on his head, that familiar doggedness in the set of his shoulders and measured stride.

So be it. She would just have to find another way round the problem.

Jeremiah Tucker paused a moment from watering the crop, then reached to sample one of his raspberries. Not bad, not bad at all.

It was hard going this year, what with the drought and the canes being so thirsty. Not only here, but down at the allotment, too.

Still, that was how it was and there was no point grousing about it. Folks didn’t want to know a grumble-grouser.

The creak of the garden gate caused him to look up. Someone was approaching along the path and he squinted his eyes, the better to see who it was.

His sight might not be as sharp as it used to be, but at least his taste buds were up to standard. Be thankful for small mercies, that’s what he said.

“Hello, Jeremiah,” a cheery voice called.

Ah, now he knew who his caller was. It was pretty little Daisy Greaves from

Eddie stood a chance of winning the raspberry competition, if only Daisy could convince him to enter . . .

the end cottage on the green.

“How do, Daisy,” he bid her.

Last evening he’d overheard Daisy and her sweetheart having a difference of opinion when he had been passing. It seemed to have had something to do with the fayre, of all things.

Fearful of eavesdropping, he had not heard the full conversation but hurried on as fast as his rheumaticky limbs would allow.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

She flashed him a smile that went right to the depths of her blue eyes.

Lake-water blue eyes, she had, and a cloud of dark hair. Put him in mind of his Cecily, God rest her.

“It’s Eddie. Mam says he can be a bit backward in coming forwards at times.”

“Aye? Not much harm in that. Tes better than bragging.”

“True, but I wish Eddie would be a little more assertive. I want him to enter the Best Raspberries competition and he refuses.”

So that was it! Jeremiah thought the entries had dropped last time. He’d wondered if it had anything to do with him winning so often over the years.

Man and boy, he’d been growing soft fruits, and he knew his raspberries were a cut above.

Then again, it couldn’t last. Nothing ever did.

“Have you asked him to take part? Coaxing, like?”

“Oh, yes. That’s all lost on Eddie.” Jeremiah pondered. “My Cecily got round a similar problem once. She wanted me to accompany her on the chapel trip to the coast. Not one for outings, me. I’d rather a day in my garden.”

He paused, lost in memories of earlier times.

“So what happened?” Daisy prompted.

“Eh? Oh, well, when all else failed Cecily feigned indifference. Went from yammering on about the trip to shrugging the matter aside, as if it were nowt to do with her. It fair got me down.”

“And you think if I pretend not to care whether Eddie submits an entry or not, he’ll come round?”

“Nothing’s guaranteed, but you could give it a try,” Jeremiah said.

“Taste these.”

Eddie handed Daisy a saucer of ripe red raspberries over the wall.

She took one, chewing. Eddie waited for the usual glow of enjoyment to light her face, and the eager reach for another.

It didn’t happen. “Very nice,” Daisy said, and handed him back the saucer of unsampled produce.

“Nice? Is that all? Seems to me someone round here thought my raspberries were the best to be had. Fit to win at the fayre, in fact.

“Here’s a change of tune. Don’t you want me to enter the competition any more?” Daisy shrugged.

“It’s up to you. Entries close on Saturday. You’ve got five days to make up your mind.”

She gave him a nod and left.

Eddie stared at her departing back. This wasn’t like Daisy at all. What had got into her?

An awful possibility occurred to him. Had she found someone else? Someone more outgoing?

Like Reginald Lloyd, a small inner voice suggested.

Eddie shook his head. Surely not. She was his Daisy! He loved her and she loved him. Or so he had thought.

He heard the Greaves’s kitchen door close, quietly but with what seemed a dreadful finality.

That did it. He’d get one of those entry forms right away!

It was just after Eddie had handed in his form at the village hall that he bumped into Jeremiah coming out of the entrance to the allotments.

The old man was leaning heavily on his holly stick and Eddie felt a stab of concern.

“Evening, Jeremiah. Are you well?”

Jeremiah quirked his lips wryly.

“Aye, fair to middlin’. Funny how this heat plays havoc with the rheumatics. You wunna think it, would you.”

“Oh, I remember my grandfather saying the same. Intensity of weather, be it cold or warmth, could bring on a bout of the twinges. Sorry to hear it, though.”

“Aye. Thank ’ee.” Jeremiah looked pointedly at the evening sky. Not a single cloud in sight. “All this watering dunna help matters.

“Too much to-ing and fro-ing involved, then standing about playing the hosepipe over the crop. Ground’s so parched it just swallows the water up.”

“No need to haul yourself about like that,” Eddie said at once. “I’ll see to things here for you, if you like. That’ll leave you with just the garden to do.”

“Well . . .” Jeremiah looked doubtful.

“Want to show me what’s what? Wouldn’t do to be hosing the wrong patch, would it!”

“True enough. Right, then, this way.”

Eddie followed the old man back into the allotments, with their neat rows of vegetables and soft fruits, some sporting cheerful displays of marguerites and dahlias to cut for the house.

There, on an end bed, were Jeremiah’s heavily fruiting raspberry canes in all their glory.

“By, but they look good,” Eddie couldn’t help but say. He hesitated. “I’ve put in an entry at the fayre myself this time.”

“Oh, aye?” Jeremiah’s expression was inscrutable. “That’s good. The more competition the better. Now then, young fellow, let’s show you where the hosepipe is.”

All that week, early morning and late evening, Eddie faithfully watered the allotment as well as tending his own garden.

If Daisy noticed his absence she said nothing, though he allowed that she was extra busy herself, what with the fayre.

He liked the allotments. It was good to chat with the other gardeners and share ideas. He even considered applying for a plot. But he worked long hours at his job at the mill and his garden took up a fair amount of time.

Then there was Daisy. She enjoyed going out now and again, maybe to a dance at the village hall or to the cinema at Whitchurch.

He wasn’t bothered himself, but if Daisy was happy then so was he.

He couldn’t wait for the day he put his ring on her finger. His savings were mounting, but not quickly enough.

And lately she seemed to be spending too much time in the company of Reginald Lloyd for Eddie’s liking.

Reg Lloyd was his boyhood adversary who had landed a white collar job in the post office.

He never came home caked in flour dust from the day’s milling. He was a fancy dresser with an eye for the lasses and a smooth tongue, who’d not dream of wasting his time growing fruit and veg.

Eddie frowned. Perhaps he should raise a few flowers that Daisy could pick for the house. Roses? Every girl liked roses, didn’t she?

Eddie trudged to the very end of the garden where his mam had once planted a crimson rambler in the hedge.

He’d never thought to cut any. His preference was all for leaving the

A thought occurred to him. Had Daisy found someone else?

blooms on the bush to scent the air with their sweetness. Still, when in need . . .

Twilight was falling and the perfume from the roses was powerful. He snipped off some perfect buds that would open on the morrow, and, wrapping the stems in sodden newspaper to keep them fresh, he stole next door to place the offering on the front step where Daisy would find it in the morning.

“Oh!” Just in time Daisy saved herself from treading on something on the step.

Roses! Daisy picked them up and inhaled their heady scent. Who could they be from?

Not Eddie – his type of gardening was strictly utilitarian: nothing but rows of cabbages, potatoes and peas, not to mention the raspberries and other soft fruit which he grew in abundance.

Red roses. Everyone knew what that meant.

Could they be from Reginald? She knew he liked her, but then, he liked all the girls, and never once had she given him any encouragement.

Why should she, when she had her Eddie, who was twice the man Reginald would ever be?

She wondered if Eddie had put in an entry for the fayre at all. Perhaps she had been wrong to make such a fuss about it.

The striking of the church clock cut through her thoughts.

“Lawks! I shall be late for work if I don’t shift myself,” she said aloud.

She darted back indoors to find a vase and put the flowers in water, then left the house again, hurrying across the green to her job at the village stores. The mystery of the red roses would have to wait for now.

On the morning of Wrenbury summer fayre folks eyed the skies and hoped the weather would hold for the duration. After which a good steady rain shower wouldn’t come amiss, they allowed, the ground being rock hard.

At his cottage, Jeremiah contemplated his selection of statutory 12 raspberries for the competition. Not bad. Not bad at all.

He had young Eddie to thank for keeping up with the watering, for, sure as weeds were weeds, he couldn’t have done it himself.

He thought hard. How could he repay Eddie for his trouble? The answer was there in a wink.

Eyes narrowing, he removed two ripe, red, perfect raspberries for a couple of slightly less acceptable fruits. Judging wasn’t until the afternoon. Then they would all know the verdict.

Over on the village green, people were putting the finishing touches to the stalls and inside the marquees. Bright streams of bunting fluttered from tree to tree.

All the previous day mouth-watering smells of baking had drifted on the air as housewives put their culinary skills into motion.

Smiling to himself, Jeremiah reached for his holly stick, picked up the dish of raspberries and headed off for the venue and the secretary’s tent (a makeshift arrangement of poles and ship’s canvas, but adequate for purpose), where he handed in his entry.

There, it was done. Back home for a bite of breakfast, after which he’d have a wash and brush up and return to enjoy the fun of the fayre.

Eddie couldn’t believe his eyes. First prize! His raspberries had come first in the competition!

Around him, people were smiling and bestowing their congratulations.

Jeremiah shuffled forwards.

“Well done, lad,” he said, shaking Eddie’s hand.

He nodded towards his own entry, which had come a close second.

“About time someone pipped me at the post.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Eddie replied kindly. “But thank you.”

His win was faintly clouded by the absence of Daisy at his side. All day she had scampered around the stalls, a flash of pink in her summer frock, seeing to the smooth running of the event with customary diligence.

More than once Eddie had seen her engaged in urgent conversation with Reg Lloyd and his heart had twisted painfully.

He made his way out of the crowded tent and went to watch a sheep-herding display on a roped-off area on the edge of the green.

He didn’t see Jeremiah reach for a winning raspberry and pop it into his mouth, tasting contemplatively.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Young Eddie’s raspberries were as good as his any day – if not better!

Eddie, standing at the ringside admiring the skilled manoeuvres of sheepdog and handler, felt an arm slip through his and looked down into Daisy’s flushed face.

Pretty as nines, she was, a broad-brimmed straw hat on her dark head. Eddie’s heart ached with love for her.

“I’ve just come from the marquee,” she said breathlessly. “You entered after all. Eddie, you’ve won!”

“Aye,” Eddie replied. “Congratulations! Oh, Eddie, I’m so proud of you.”

Eddie smiled and nodded. Praise never had sat easily on him and he was at a loss as to how to respond, but he was pleased at her reaction.

He then caught sight of the rose, pinned to the bodice of her dress.

“It was you who left the roses, wasn’t it?” she said. “Come on, own up. Where you found crimson roses I can’t imagine. The only bushes round here are either pink or white.”

“You’ll not have noticed. It’s hidden in the hedge right at the end of my back garden. Like them, do you?”

“Like? Eddie, I love them. It’s the best gift I’ve ever had. It means . . . well, it means you really do love me.”

“You doubted it?”

“I was a bit of a nag, wasn’t I?”

“Nay. You were anxious about losing the class.”

“Not much danger of that now. It was bigger than ever this time. Reginald says it’s earned a reprieve. Eddie, what is it?”

Eddie’s face had tightened.

“Him. Reg Lloyd. You and he looked very friendly, that’s all.”

“You’re never jealous?” Daisy gave a delicious giggle. “Oh, my, whatever next, as my mam would say. Would I ever look at anyone except you?

“By the way, Mam’s won first prize for her raspberry sponge. Your raspberries, of course.”

Eddie’s face slowly broke into a grin.

“She has? Well, that’s champion. And there’s someone here who’s champion and all.”

There and then, in full view of the entire village, he dropped a kiss on Daisy’s lips. She tasted of honey and all things good.

Surfacing, they both caught sight across the ringside of Jeremiah, a tankard of ale in hand.

Giving them his gappy smile, the old man raised his glass in a salute that spoke reams.

All was well. Come next year, young Eddie Shaw and his Daisy would be wed.

As for the winner of the raspberry class? Well, who knew? n

These raspberries were as good as Jeremiah’s any day