THE BRASSICA MAFIA
My neighbour Ted and I were driving to a Country Show in north London on a Saturday morning earlier last month. ‘Increasingly,’ I explained, ‘Country Shows are held in towns and cities. I’ve been to several.’
Ted looked unimpressed as we joined the M25 at speed.
‘At the last show, my cheese, onion and potato pie courtesy of Reader’s Digest Cookery Book circa 1970, took a third prize.’
Ted looked unimpressed as we overtook a luxury coach. Coach occupants appeared alarmed. ‘Will there be livestock?’ Ted still speaks wistfully of a black-faced sheep that he’d felt real affection for as a boy. Apparently the feeling was returned. ‘Don’t think so. This particular Country Show is in someone’s admittedly extensive back garden.’
First rule of Country Shows: be prepared. No point peering out into your garden the weekend before and thinking it might be nice to enter a mixed 24 spray of onions, garlic and shallots only to find that you’d forgotten to plant any in the first place. For months I had been encouraging my yellow courgettes. I now had three possible rosette winners. Ted had accused me of jumping on a bandwagon. ‘Which bandwagon would that be?’ ‘The yellow courgette bandwagon. The world and his wife will be growing those.’
Second rule of Country Shows – clothes are important. Ted felt flat caps were in order but they didn’t suit either of us. Ted felt a waxed jacket would be appropriate but his pension wasn’t in his bank account yet so he couldn’t afford to buy one. Ted said that a shotgun broken over his arm would strike an impressive note. I said that Ted would be arrested if he went down that road.
After some bickering we’d settled on a rustic look with a reliance on hand-knitted items from the Hospice Shop; cardigan and scarf for me, sleeveless pullover and leg warmers for Ted. (Not sure if Ted realises that leg warmers are more often worn by ballet dancers than country folk.) Deirdre calling in to deliver her windfalls for my apple and sultana parcels said we looked like a couple of old scarecrows. ‘Scarecrows are good,’ I said. ‘Drop the “old”,’ Ted growled.
By 6am he’d already been down to the allotment to dig up his treasured purple-veined cabbage. ‘You can’t beat a good brassica,’ he said proudly.
(I believe Ted gets an almost erotic pleasure from saying the word ‘brassica’.)
‘What could be nicer than bunting fluttering in the breeze on a warm autumn morning?’ I asked as Ted squeezed his car between a Volkswagen and a Land Rover.
‘A Full English Breakfast for a start,’ Ted said. ‘Followed by watching the motor racing while sitting in an armchair, with easy access to my own kettle and tea bags!’
We carried our produce through the house and out into the crowded garden. I rather regretted Ted’s level of rural authenticity, noticing he still had allotment mud on his boots, and hoped he hadn’t left a trail. Decided to disown him if hostess complained about her ruined Oriental kelim. ‘I’d like to enter the vegetables and small puddings sections,’ I told the woman behind a picnic table who was dressed in brogues, lisle stockings, gabardine raincoat and headscarf. (As I mentioned, clothes are important.)
‘I’m supposed to be the Queen.’ She gave me a thin smile. ‘Sans Corgis.’
Ted nudged me out of the way. ‘I’ll be entering this splendid cabbage and my Mexican tomatillos.’
‘You kept those tomatillos mighty quiet, Ted.’
He smirked. ‘Greenhouse.’
Third rule of Country Shows – trust nobody!
I arranged my courgettes in an attractive fan shape and delivered my fruit parcels. Ted rushed up looking furious. ‘The judges have disqualified my tomatillos. You’d think they’d never seen a slug before.’
‘What sort of slug?’
He shrugged. ‘Big, black, slimy.’
‘Now come along, you two.’ The Queen gathered us against her gabardine raincoat. ‘The Morris Dancing Workshop is full but we’re a pair short for the Blindfold Knitting Contest.’
‘Count me out,’ Ted said.
‘We use sharpened broom handles. It’s not for sissies.’
Ted squared his shoulders and mentioned his Jiu Jitsu Purple Belt as if it had been achieved the previous week instead of over three decades ago.
We lined up. Four other couples, all younger. The Queen handed out broom handles, blindfolds and balls of rope.
‘You wear the blindfold, I’ll knit,’ Ted said.
‘But you don’t know how.’
‘Used to knit in the army.’
‘But that was 1950.’
‘Like riding a bike.’
‘I feel as if I’m facing a firing squad.’
Ted positioned the broomsticks under my arms.
‘Ready, steady, go!’
Like a master puppeteer he began to work them.
‘Next row,’ he barked.
‘What?’
‘Swap your needles, you imbecile.’
‘Cheat,’ a childish voice shouted.
‘The lady’s supposed to be doing the knitting.’
‘Do you want a clip round the ear?’ Ted asked.
‘That’s my son you’re talking to.’
‘Then teach him some manners.’
We came second. Had Ted not left the contest to attempt to clip the ears of both mother and child we would have been first.
I went off to try some elderflower wine, followed by oak leaf wine, followed by rosehip and Cape gooseberry wine. As we assembled for the prize giving I felt a deep and abiding love for man and womankind throughout the world. Or even the universe.
Fourth rule of Country Shows – be prepared to feel very ill on the way home. ‘It’s all a fix,’ Ted whispered. ‘We don’t stand a chance.’
‘Shush, Ted.’
‘Don’t shush me.’
Nothing for my yellow courgettes but a commendation for my fruit parcels. ‘Patronising so-and-sos.’
When the judges reached the brassicas, Ted stood to attention and appeared to shoulder an invisible rifle. Third prize, second prize…
‘And first prize goes to Ted Foster for his magnificent cabbage.’
Ted lowered his invisible rifle. His ears had turned scarlet. I’d swear his lower lip trembled. Mine certainly did.
VG Lee’s new novel, Always You, Edina is published by Ward Wood Publishing: www.vglee.co.uk
Ted looked unimpressed as we joined the M25 at speed.
‘At the last show, my cheese, onion and potato pie courtesy of Reader’s Digest Cookery Book circa 1970, took a third prize.’
Ted looked unimpressed as we overtook a luxury coach. Coach occupants appeared alarmed. ‘Will there be livestock?’ Ted still speaks wistfully of a black-faced sheep that he’d felt real affection for as a boy. Apparently the feeling was returned. ‘Don’t think so. This particular Country Show is in someone’s admittedly extensive back garden.’
First rule of Country Shows: be prepared. No point peering out into your garden the weekend before and thinking it might be nice to enter a mixed 24 spray of onions, garlic and shallots only to find that you’d forgotten to plant any in the first place. For months I had been encouraging my yellow courgettes. I now had three possible rosette winners. Ted had accused me of jumping on a bandwagon. ‘Which bandwagon would that be?’ ‘The yellow courgette bandwagon. The world and his wife will be growing those.’
Second rule of Country Shows – clothes are important. Ted felt flat caps were in order but they didn’t suit either of us. Ted felt a waxed jacket would be appropriate but his pension wasn’t in his bank account yet so he couldn’t afford to buy one. Ted said that a shotgun broken over his arm would strike an impressive note. I said that Ted would be arrested if he went down that road.
After some bickering we’d settled on a rustic look with a reliance on hand-knitted items from the Hospice Shop; cardigan and scarf for me, sleeveless pullover and leg warmers for Ted. (Not sure if Ted realises that leg warmers are more often worn by ballet dancers than country folk.) Deirdre calling in to deliver her windfalls for my apple and sultana parcels said we looked like a couple of old scarecrows. ‘Scarecrows are good,’ I said. ‘Drop the “old”,’ Ted growled.
By 6am he’d already been down to the allotment to dig up his treasured purple-veined cabbage. ‘You can’t beat a good brassica,’ he said proudly.
(I believe Ted gets an almost erotic pleasure from saying the word ‘brassica’.)
‘What could be nicer than bunting fluttering in the breeze on a warm autumn morning?’ I asked as Ted squeezed his car between a Volkswagen and a Land Rover.
‘A Full English Breakfast for a start,’ Ted said. ‘Followed by watching the motor racing while sitting in an armchair, with easy access to my own kettle and tea bags!’
We carried our produce through the house and out into the crowded garden. I rather regretted Ted’s level of rural authenticity, noticing he still had allotment mud on his boots, and hoped he hadn’t left a trail. Decided to disown him if hostess complained about her ruined Oriental kelim. ‘I’d like to enter the vegetables and small puddings sections,’ I told the woman behind a picnic table who was dressed in brogues, lisle stockings, gabardine raincoat and headscarf. (As I mentioned, clothes are important.)
‘I’m supposed to be the Queen.’ She gave me a thin smile. ‘Sans Corgis.’
Ted nudged me out of the way. ‘I’ll be entering this splendid cabbage and my Mexican tomatillos.’
‘You kept those tomatillos mighty quiet, Ted.’
He smirked. ‘Greenhouse.’
Third rule of Country Shows – trust nobody!
I arranged my courgettes in an attractive fan shape and delivered my fruit parcels. Ted rushed up looking furious. ‘The judges have disqualified my tomatillos. You’d think they’d never seen a slug before.’
‘What sort of slug?’
He shrugged. ‘Big, black, slimy.’
‘Now come along, you two.’ The Queen gathered us against her gabardine raincoat. ‘The Morris Dancing Workshop is full but we’re a pair short for the Blindfold Knitting Contest.’
‘Count me out,’ Ted said.
‘We use sharpened broom handles. It’s not for sissies.’
Ted squared his shoulders and mentioned his Jiu Jitsu Purple Belt as if it had been achieved the previous week instead of over three decades ago.
We lined up. Four other couples, all younger. The Queen handed out broom handles, blindfolds and balls of rope.
‘You wear the blindfold, I’ll knit,’ Ted said.
‘But you don’t know how.’
‘Used to knit in the army.’
‘But that was 1950.’
‘Like riding a bike.’
‘I feel as if I’m facing a firing squad.’
Ted positioned the broomsticks under my arms.
‘Ready, steady, go!’
Like a master puppeteer he began to work them.
‘Next row,’ he barked.
‘What?’
‘Swap your needles, you imbecile.’
‘Cheat,’ a childish voice shouted.
‘The lady’s supposed to be doing the knitting.’
‘Do you want a clip round the ear?’ Ted asked.
‘That’s my son you’re talking to.’
‘Then teach him some manners.’
We came second. Had Ted not left the contest to attempt to clip the ears of both mother and child we would have been first.
I went off to try some elderflower wine, followed by oak leaf wine, followed by rosehip and Cape gooseberry wine. As we assembled for the prize giving I felt a deep and abiding love for man and womankind throughout the world. Or even the universe.
Fourth rule of Country Shows – be prepared to feel very ill on the way home. ‘It’s all a fix,’ Ted whispered. ‘We don’t stand a chance.’
‘Shush, Ted.’
‘Don’t shush me.’
Nothing for my yellow courgettes but a commendation for my fruit parcels. ‘Patronising so-and-sos.’
When the judges reached the brassicas, Ted stood to attention and appeared to shoulder an invisible rifle. Third prize, second prize…
‘And first prize goes to Ted Foster for his magnificent cabbage.’
Ted lowered his invisible rifle. His ears had turned scarlet. I’d swear his lower lip trembled. Mine certainly did.
VG Lee’s new novel, Always You, Edina is published by Ward Wood Publishing: www.vglee.co.uk