Late Potatoes

Late Potatoes

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good pair of shiny boots, must be in want of a new wife.
At least that is what Clad reckoned. He remembered reading it somewhere.
You could trust in shiny boots. They reflected a good and self-respecting man. The mark of a promising catch. Women looked for that kind of thing. They seemed to find it important, but Clad could never fathom why. Shiny boots didn’t keep good vegetables in the scullery.
He gazed at the bouquet of flowers in his hand. Women might fail to admire the glint of his boots but they would never miss the flowers. A fisted mayfly posy signalling the due romantic ardour expected on such occasions. Again Clad could not fathom why. Flowers were best thrusting the good soil, not drooping in tinselled plastic for the sake of a functional troth.
Clad Barrow wiggled his woollen tie knot to smart, shrugged a length of sleeve to the frayed cuffs of his best and only visiting jacket, palm smoothed his salt and peppered beard to little noticeable effect and, after a robust sigh in readiness for the moment, pulled the chain of thin prancing fairies. A faint cacophony of viciously kicked hand bells sounded far off in the cottage depths, intermingling with the snapping yaps of a petulant and petite dog.
As he waited Clad rubbed more shine to each boot on the back of his somewhat stained corduroy trousers, checked his breath against the cusp of his free hand and, not for the first time, eyed the verdant richness of the garden about. The lawns were a mite too pattern mown and the flower borders fussy, but it was not an unpromising neck of land. Insects buzzed in the high hedge fringes. Frogs burped in unseen ponds. Dell Cottage and its lands had potential. He gazed up the hill to his own land and the brow top gate in the low stone wall. This was a visit of neighbours.
The dog continued to yap as if from a far cupboard and Clad heard a distant muffled voice coming through the rear of the house.
“Hush Berwick! Now get in your basket. This instant!” The yaps continued, only more so.
Clad inspected his boots. The tops shone with the snickered spark of ferret’s eyes in a rabbit tunnel. He turned his foot over and saw the soil from his morning digging still clung to a sole. He laid the bouquet of flowers carefully on the cobbles, pulled a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket and meticulously scraped the soil into the bag with his penknife. He then placed the bag of soil and the knife back in his jacket pocket, picked up the bouquet and was theatrically re-posed in purposeful ardour even as the door opened on the happy sound of tinkling fairies and heavy panted breath. Clad raised a cavalier cap as if sprung whipped from a morning cupped egg and swept it in smiles down to a low, bent and mildly arthritic knee. He fisted the flowers out before him on a ragged piston arm and with the late afternoon sun glinting on his star freckled pate, and a piratical moon glinting each eye, he offered up his usual Quarterday plea.
“Widow Moss, will you marry me?”
Clad held his plea and gazed deep and long in admiration at the sight before him. The Widow Moss’s grey hair was awry, her comfortable cheeks were flush and panted with hurry, plaster casts of flour dusted her pollarded forearms and her full barrow of bosom heaved like couple of yoked wet nosed bullocks nuzzling a daisy patterned sky. Clad licked a bearded lip. The Widow groaned
“Oh not you Clad Barrow!” she said with exasperation. “Not Quarterday already is it? I told you last time. And the time before. Now I’m busy doughing so get off with you.. Stop being such a silly old fool. Are those daisies?”
“And Sweet William.” said Clad.
Widow Moss turned the bouquet in her ghosted fist and hesitated on a snort. She dropped the bouquet carefully on the porch shelf.
“I told you no and I mean no!” she said. “Every Quarterday I say no! You’re daft in the head Clad Barrow. Look at you. When did that shirt last see a soap cake? And what’s that all over your trousers?”
Clad looked down and contemplated a discoloured patch of crispness on his trousered shin. Buggered if he knew.
“I got land.” said Clad. “Good vegetables.”
“I’ve got land too thank you.” said the Widow. “Down Berwick!”
The little rat skin dog sniffed at Clad’s crisped shin and yapped even more.
“Might be rabbit gut.” said Clad. “From a few days back.”
He guided the dog off with half checked but rewardingly telling kicks. The Widow Moss stooped and scooped Berwick up into her arms. The rat dog sneered at Clad.
Clad eased a smile and leaned to the door frame.
“Saw you on the hills last forepast. Collecting mushrooms you was, Clad says I, that Widow Moss is a fine and handsome looking woman. Good bones and plenty in the barn come winter. You were a grand sight Widow Moss for this old man’s heart. Like a fine sack of spuds.”
“Oh charming!” said the Widow crack slapping her forearms with hefty palms and forming flour clouds in halo around her. “Very nice I’m sure. Sack of potatoes am I. There’s a compliment.”
“Nothing more beautiful than a fine sack of potatoes.” said Clad.
“Well none of my potatoes is going find itself laying along your trench, Clad Barrow. Now go away!”
Clad rubbed his beard. After some thought, he said,
“Separate beds after we wed. Pushed together every second Friday and on Saints days. An equitable arrangement. Just to keep our old bones warm. Nothing wrong in that. I am a competent rooster.”
“We’ll have none of that talk.” said the Widow, bristling “You got too much energy for a man in your time, Clad Barrow. Isn’t natural. Ever since your Pauline got up and went you’ve been nothing but daft. How she put up with you I’ll never know. And I wouldn’t have left a four word note. Two would do for me. Be off! Good dose more digging will sort you out, Clad Barrow. And I looked up them Saints Days. Barely a nights rest from the snuffing of candles as far as I could see. Marriage night and the occasional special birthday is more than sufficient thank you very much. Tidy mind, tidy house, is what I say.”
Clad sighed. He tried a last roll.
“I’ll do all the gardens. Kitchen’s yours. And the front lounge. No muddy boots beyond the range and the bedrooms negotiable.”
The Widow Moss sighed.
“Go away and be daft somewhere else Clad Barrow.” she said. “I’ve not got time for all this.”
“Autumn days are here for the likes of us Widow Moss.” said Clad, “What say we make store and enjoy the last of the sun while we can. Kitchen fire always warmer with twenty toes wiggling. And winter is coming. How about only the women Saints?”
There followed a not unusual sight for Clad on Quarterday. It was the closed front door of Widow Moss’s cottage. But he did notice that the bouquet had gone.
The bait, he mused, was still running.
Clad made his way back up the hill in late afternoon sunshine. He took the stringed dead rabbit out of the hedge and trailed it behind him as he strolled up to his top gate. He left the rabbit on gibbet hang on the gate post. He made for his new bean patch and, after removing the plastic bag from his pocket, sprinkled its contents back to his bed.


*

The Widow Moss speared the bouquet into the elephant foot and then washed her forearms in the kitchen twins. Unplanned guests were often greeted by the sight of the Widow Moss’s floured forearms. Few failed to take the hint that important baking was being interrupted and that the call was to be both brief and terminal. None ever noticed the two pots of flour into which Widow Moss would thrust her forearms should any unwelcome visitor hove into spied view through the lavender trellised frontage. Seeing Clad coming down from his top field had Widow Moss thrusting deep in the ceramic ewers like a weightlifting Olympiad.
She wiped the last of her hands and re-joined the ladies on the back lawn.
“Clad still a courting is he, Gwyneth?” asked Mrs. Root licking an envelope with a dry whale tongue and just failing to keep both disapproval and envy from flickering.
“Dafter than geese, men.” said Gwyneth resuming her tassel cushioned wooden recliner and picking up the pen and pad. Mrs. Archibald poured more apple juice until the ice clinked high in the glass.
“Clad Barrow is just a silly old fool.” said Gwyneth. “Now what about the Hillers at Pipers Cross?”
“Got a motorbike.” said Mrs Archibald with gimlet eye under an arching gothic eyebrow. “Saw it in his garage when I dropped off the Newcomers Welcome. And a Morris Minor on bricks in the back garden.”
Mrs. Root sucked hard on her strawed apple before letting an aghast skate out over a mouth of crushed ice.
“Motorbike!” she said. And then said nothing, because she had said it all.
Gwyneth scratched a line through the Hillers on her pad.
“It’s nice to have a man around sometimes.” said Mrs Archibald. “They can be useful .”
It was well known that Mrs. Archibald had a strong marriage. Her Ronald told everyone so.
“Nothing useful in a man except his wallet.” said Mrs Root. Mr. Root was a retired corporate solicitor who now worked longer hours on the various local golf courses than he ever had at his law. It was an equitable arrangement. Mr. Root enjoyed himself. Mrs Root enjoyed his signature.
“Oh that’s too harsh, Isobel.” said Mrs Archibald. “Plenty of things they are useful for. Getting the coal in for one thing. And the logs.”
“Un-blocking the middy drain.” said Gwyneth. “And despatching hens.”
“Unlimited credit at Harrison’s” said Mrs. Root.
“And what about bathroom grouting. And someone to hang on your arm come Gala night.” said Mrs. Archibald. “They have some uses. Even Clad Barrow.”
Gwyneth looked doubtful.
“They can be useful if a burglar calls.” said Mrs Root flicking magenta tipped fingers in shoo of a couple of summer drunk wasps hovering hazily over the apricot chessecake..
“I think Ronald would be more of a forlorn hope.” said Mrs Archibald. “Our drive lights are more alarming. And his pyjamas definitely do nothing for him. Funny about Clad’s Pauline though. Five years is it? Such a short letter. You would have thought she would have said something. She was such a talker.”
“Goodbye. Gone to Canada.” said Mrs. Root in loud recite. “Says all you need to know. Pauline just wanted to make a clean break. Just get away. God, haven’t we all! She was always talking about her brother out there."
Mrs. Archibald hunched her knees and pressed her glasses to her bridge with eagerness.
“Yes and his daughter running off like that all those years ago. Only nineteen. Middle of the night. Pauline never heard from her you know. She was never all there after Lucy left was she? Remember that plum crumble she made? A troubled mind. And Clad was no use. Always in his garden. That is all Clad Barrow ever does. Young Lucy never even packed her brushes. Just up and left.”
“Like her mother after her.” said Mrs Root.
The ladies contemplated the thought.
“You could always escape to your sister in Australia, Gwyneth.” said Mrs Archibald laughing. Gwyneth smiled.
“What about the Brocklebanks?” she said returning to her pad.
“Moved away. He got promotion. Apparently” said Mrs Root “Somewhere warm and sunny. So I don’t think we are meant to infer Croydon.. New ones not in yet. Say Meadowbank is up for nearly a million.”
“No!!” said Mrs Archibald. “For that red brick box. Hardly got a garden.”
There was a long silence of calculating thought. About property values mostly.
Apple glasses were chinked. Mrs Root pulled a silver flask from her bag and poured a little to each. She took a bedouin gulp
“Hung like a horse so they say.” she said and reached for another slice of cheesecake.
Mrs. Archibald took a moment.
“Who?” she asked.
“Clad Barrow.” said Mrs. Root.
“No!!” said Gwyneth. “Really?”
“So my Edwin, says.” said Mrs. Root. “Or one of his caddy boys. Swears its true. Nine inch on the swing.”
“Nine!!” said Gwyneth. And then didn’t say anymore.
“Well all that sort of thing isn’t important, is it?” said Mrs Archibald. Gwyneth and Mrs. Root shared a look that seemed to doubt it.
“Well its not.” continued Mrs. Archibald. “Doesn’t have to be. There are other things. He is so untidy! Clad is a walking compost most of the time. And I swear he sleeps in his boots. He is so agricultural.”
“Bovine even.” said Mrs Root with a pantomime leer. “Too much for Pauline!”
“Clad is going to be nothing but heavy work.” said Mrs Archibald. “I know he’s got land and, well, other assets. But he will need a strong hand. Muzzle on quick with Clad’s sort. The only way.”
Gwyneth came back from a long thought and returned in blink to her pad.
“The Greys on Morebank.” she said.
“Evangalists.” said Mrs. Root despatching an inebriated wasp to pulp under a hard pressed sugar tong.
Gwyneth scratched deep on her list. She totted the score.
“Three.” she said. “Not including the new vicar. Does he count as a new comer?”
“Don’t reckon the new vicar counts for much.” said Mrs Archibald. “Had a guitar last Sunday evensong so they say.”
For a moment the ladies shared a silent outrage.
Mrs. Archibald broke it.
“So you going to hold out on Clad forever then Gwyneth? Time comes when its useful to have a man about. Someone to get the scullery painted.. Even if its only Clad. At least you know where he’ll be. In his garden.”
Gwyneth smiled.
“At least they will all fit in the lounge.” she said, “We can buffet on the terrace if it’s a nice day.”
“Nine inches.” said Mrs. Root sliding the last slice of apricot cheesecake onto her plate with delicate aplomb. She licked a creamed thumb. “On the swing.” she added.
“And get the muzzle on quick.” said Mrs Archibald.

*

Clad took a lean against the tree stump on his top acre field and flinted a casual stone across the blade of his upturned shovel. Clad often flinted his shovel blade. A good gardener looked after his tools. The blade sang on a scratch of metal followed by the satisfying ping. Clad turned the shovel deftly in his hand and speared it to the earth. It disappeared tread deep.
Along the track he heard the booted sounds of visitors. Clad had been expecting them. The Wootton Horticultural Society Show Committee was always punctual for the Annual Show checking.
Clad lit a slow pipe and watched them approach. Reg Dyer, Bob Ellis and that bugger Rosemont. Come sniffing out the competition. Spraying the paraquat.
“Clad,” said Bob on a cheery wave, “The committee are just checking around. See all the entrants.” He consulted a clip board at his arm. “You’re down for beans, yes?”
Clad thumbed his pipe.
“Among others.” he said.
“Quite.” said Bob smiling. “And I can see the beans over there, yes?” He pointed to a small green forest along the garden.
“If you got eyes.” said Clad.
“Well that’s a tick then.” said Bob flicking his pad.
“How long this year?” asked Reg.
Clad knocked out his pipe on the stone wall.
“Nineteen inch,” he said.
“Nine…” gasped Reg. “I got a seventeen. With a little pulling. I thought I’d get it this year.”
“Always have a couple of unpulled inches on you, Reg Dyer.” said Clad.
“So what’s your secret?” asked Rosemont. He was a tall man with a military field stick. It had a spike on the end of it and leather strap for perching on. “Elephant manure? Or maybe river silt shipped in late at night. The rumours fly at The Wootton Arms, Mr. Barrow. Perhaps its just good old blood and bone.”
Clad spat out a flick of tobacco and pulled his shovel from the earth with Arthurian ease.
“Just digging.” he said. “Lots of digging. Turn the soil. Churn it deep. That’s all there is to it.”
“What about your big onions?” asked Reg. “I got a special.”
“Will it fit snug in the top of Pearl Bamber’s stocking?” Clad asked.
Reg thought about it. They all did.
“Yeah. It would slip in easy.” said Reg after due consideration.
“Got one that would split her seams.” said Clad casually.
There was a long silence of further imaginings. Mostly by Reg. He gulped.
“You dig this all yourself? No help?” asked Rosemont surveying the acres of tilled and bedded earth and the jungles of vegetables growing in between.
“Just me and the shovel.” said Clad.
“Must be a damn fine shovel.” said Rosemont spiking his stick to the wall and taking perch.
Clad lifted his shovel to eye level glint and speared it down to his boots. The shovel blade sliced clean through the three inch wooden fence post at his feet with the ease of a scimitar blade through a Saracen thigh.
“Yep.” said Clad. “Damn fine shovel.”
“Why are you digging out the stump?” asked Bob
“For vegetables.” said Clad. “Always need more land for vegetables.”
“You got an exotic this year, Mr. Barrow?” asked Rosemont with an officer’s smile. “Can you beat a greenhouse avocado?”
“My outdoor growed kiwi fruit might give it a gamble.” said Clad.
“Kiwi? What up here? Outdoor?” said Rosemont springing off his perch.
“Bushes over there if the committee want to check.” said Clad with a smile.
“Carrots?” asked Reg somewhat tentatively.
“Like rugger playing parsnips.” said Clad.
Reg deflated further.
“Did you get planning permission to fell that tree, Mr. Barrow?” asked Rosemont prodding the stump with his stick.
“Dutch Elm.” said Clad. “Planning not needed.”
“Looks more like a beech to me.” said Rosemont.
Clad smiled and said nothing.
“Well that all seems fine, Clad.” said Bob with an oil on water cheeriness. “See you at the show, eh!”
The Committee made their leave. At the top of the rise Reg turned around. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Cucumber?” he asked.
Clad held out his hands as if awaiting a large ball of twined wool. After due consideration he doubled the space between. He saw Reg turn back and stone kick his way up the track with head bowed.

*

Over the last many years The Wootton Horticultural Society Annual Show celebrations had been observed in name only. The sullen group of local horticulturists who gathered in the Wootton Arms after the annual telling and prize giving were once again not in a celebratory mood. They nursed hunched backs and bitter pints and muttered darkly at the bar. They always did. Alone and beaming in an oasis of glory at the big table by the fire, Clad Barrow sat enthroned and pinted and bedecked amongst more silver plate than on a national ploughing champion Shire.
Clad raised a pipe to his rivals and gave a cheery wink. They turned their backs as one.
“Nineteen!” said Reg stabbing his cigarette with purpose amongst the slag pile of stubs in the ashtray before him. “Nineteen first prizes! How does he do it?”
“Its unfair.” said Bob gazing at his pint as if trying to ignite it. Two fourth prize rosettes lay crumpled beside it. “He’s got more land for vegetables than any of us. Can’t compete against that. My Elsie won’t let her borders go. I got little more than an allotment. Not fair competition.”
“That’s all Clad had to start with.” said Rosemont idling his ice with a toothpick. “His allotment. Before he married Pauline of course. That certainly stepped up his acreage. I am sure it was beech you know. Went up to check the other day but the bugger had burned it. Could get the ash forensically checked I suppose.”
“Did you see his cucumber!” said Reg.
“And that pumpkin.” said Bob. “Took three to carry it in that harness.”
The defeated brooded the thought.
“But at least he can’t keep his women.” said Fred in attempt to lighten the gloom.
“My Marion reckons he tires ‘em out.” said Reg. “They can’t take no more and so take off. Marion reckons that there is only so much a woman can take.”
“You can’t be suggesting such for Lucy, surely?” asked Rosemont.
“No. Course.” said Fred. “She was just flighty. My wonder is she stayed that long. My Susan was the same. Young women! Just liked crazed ferrets. There’s no reasoning.”
“And first and second for exotics!” said Reg. “What the fuck is a cumquat anyway?”
Clad knocked out his pipe on the fire dog and made his way to the bar.
“Pearl, my dear, rather a lot to take away. Mind if I leave them and come by with a sack, or maybe two, tomorrow? They won’t be harming there.”
Pearl Bamber pulled the last tug on an oozing pint and flicked her cloth over her line backer shoulder. She gave Clad a smile.
“Sure.” she said.
Clad took her hand and kissed it courteously.
“Night gentlemen.” he said and left on sprung tread.
The defeated watched him go through whipped eyes.
“Pearl.” said Reg returning to the bar. “Fetch up a packet of cheese and onions will you, love?”
As Pearl turned and bent low to the crisp boxes the defeated craned over into the bar well as one.


*

Clad was chest deep in a turning trench when he saw the Widow Moss puffing slowly up the hill towards him. She would often stop to catch her wind.
Clad tied his neck scarf to a warming knot and rose out of the trench on the step cut treads at one end. He stood beside his deep trench and admired its engineered beauty. He was also impressed with the waist high pile of earth than ran beside it. Clad looked forward to churning the both.
The Widow Moss arrived at his stone wall in time for Clad to be able to offer gentle scaffolding and hand over the tricky stile. The Widow Moss did not look herself. Her cheeks were pale and drawn. She took a hanky from an apron pocket and skitted it across her reddened nose.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing your kind gifts of rabbit anymore, Mr. Barrow.” she said, sniffing. “Very kind of you. Berwick was quite taken with them.”
“Just a treat like.” said Clad turning his hat in his hands. “The wee thing has spirit.”
The Widow Moss burst into sudden tears.
“But he’s gone!” wailed the Widow, “Little Berwick! Haven’t seen him for three days. He always comes for his supper. Especially if you’ve left a bit of back door rabbit. But he’s gone. I’ve called. I’ve searched. I know he is stuck down a badger hole. Oh, Clad! Things will be eating him!”
The Widow sobbed deep. Clad placed a soothing hand on her shoulder.
“Dogs is always wandering off.” he said. “He’ll be back.”
“Not after three days!” said the Widow. “Berwick couldn’t last that long.”
“You know what, Widow? I don’t reckon he’s lost at all. I reckon he’s been stolen!”
The Widow looked up through red rimmed eyes.
“Stands to reason.” said Clad. “Lot of dog burglars these days. And Berwick was a bit special wasn’t he? Not an ordinary dog. Hardly a dog at all. Fetch high prices I reckon. No, he’s been stolen.”
“You think so?” said the Widow brightening up “Yes he was special, wasn’t he?”
They sat on the low stone wall while the Widow regained what composures she might.
“I do miss him though.” said the Widow after a time. “Another heart beat around the place. You know?”
Clad thumbed his pipe.
“Can always get another dog.” he said. “Dog the burglars won’t want. Good worker and a wet nuzzle in the lap come supper. Keep your toes warm on a winter’s night. That’s the dog for you.”
The Widow leaned to his shoulder.
“And no muddy paws beyond the range.” she said.
Clad sucked on his pipe and smiled.

*

Clad Barrow and the Widow Gwyneth Moss were married in the Wootton parish church one late Friday afternoon in a fine and warm early Spring. The celebrants were small in number and the catering smaller but this did not detract from the joys of the occasion. The happy couple honeymooned a weekend at the Berkley Lodge Hotel and Clad was back digging in his garden by Monday.
Against all local expectations the marriage proved to be an equitable and happy one. The newly weds maintained their own homes and after a days digging in his own garden Clad would wander down the hill to dig a couple of hours in the gardens of Dell Cottage.. On South American Saints Days he would leave his shovel leaned at Gwyneth’s back door and only retrieve it the next morning.
Mrs Root and Mrs Archibald could not help but notice the new bounce in Gwyneth’s step and the healthy glow to her cheeks.
“Marriage living up to expectations?” asked Mrs. Root.
Gwyneth just smiled.
“A satisfactory arrangement.” she said.
The contentment was broken with the arrival of a letter from Australia for Gwyneth which told of her sister being in the local hospital following a recent serious car accident and that she would need looking after for several months. Could Gwyneth help her sister. The letter was from a concerned neighbour of her sister but despite their every efforts Clad and Gwyneth could not fully decipher the spidered handwriting and smudged address or read with any clarity the name of the writer. Gwyneth became quite distraught. They tried to contact her sister’s last known address but found that she had moved some months before and left only a PO Box number. Calls to such hospitals they could find proved only frustrating and distressing.
Mrs Root and Mrs Archibald tried to help but came up against the same dead ends.
“There is nothing for it, Gwyneth.” said Mrs Root. “You will have to go out there yourself. You won’t find her from here.”
“And I’ll buy you the tickets, my dear.” said Clad. “I can look after everything here. Go to your sister’s bedside.”
Gwyneth took Clad’s hand.
“Oh thank you, Clad. Maybe it would be best.”
The night before Gwyneth’s departure for Australia Clad wandered down the hill with his shovel and left it by the back door, even though no Saints were abroad. The next day he drove Gwyneth and her bags to the airport and was back digging his garden by midday. In the afternoon he wandered down the hill to Dell Cottage and began digging a churning trench beyond the hollyhock borders.


*

“Have you heard anything recently?” asked Mrs Archibald as she passed Clad in the lane.
“Phone call some days ago.” said Clad. “Her sisters still mighty broke up. Still in traction. Several months yet Gwyneth reckons. But she says the weather is real fair and the people friendly.”
“What’s the Letting sign doing down at Dell Cottage?” asked Mrs Archibald.
“No sense in leaving it empty.” said Clad. “While Gwyneth is away it can be earning rent. Gwyneth can use the money in Australia. Makes sense.”
Mrs Archibald had to agree it did.
The advertisement offering short term rental of Dell Cottage was put in train and the notice duly appeared in the next issue of the Wootton Gazette..
Miss Woodland was the first to respond and, at the appointed hour, was met by Clad at the cottage gate. Miss Woodland was a small, handsome woman of middling years who talked with a nervous and happy excitement. She was the new school teacher for the primary. Clad escorted her on a quick tour of the cottage made long by Miss Woodland’s delight in all she saw.
“A pantry!” she exclaimed. “How glorious.”
“Family local?” asked Clad.
Miss Woodland smiled. She had good teeth.
“No. Only a brother in Newcastle.” she said.
Clad sucked his pipe.
“Foreign Newcastle?” he asked.
“Very!” said Miss Woodland.
Clad watched her open cupboards and feel curtains. As they entered the gardens Clad had come to appreciate that Miss Woodland had good shoulders, a fine flush to her cheeks and a not unpleasing shape to the eye. He lifted a discrete boot and shone it on the back of his trousers.
“Oh what a wonderful garden!” said Miss Woodland. “Is this all your work?”
“Just me and the shovel.” said Clad.
“Marvellous. And what’s that planted over there?” asked Miss Woodland. She pointed to a small tumulus of fresh churned soil at the end of the hollyhock flowerbeds.
Clad offered a smile like a shovel blade after a flinted whet.
“That over there,” he said, ”is late potatoes.”


THE END