Best in Show

‘Do you fancy a cuppa, love?’

Harold Babberton straightened up from where he had been pulling weeds from his cucumber patch and wearily rubbed the small of his back.

‘Be right in Brenda’ he called back although he made no attempt to move from where he was standing and just continued to stare down at his cucumbers with a morose expression on his face.

To be fair, it wasn't the fault of the cucumbers; they were just as long and juicy as any of the cucumbers that he had ever grown over the last few decades and in any other year he would have been absolutely certain that he would be raising the cup for ‘Best in Show’ at the church fete in a couple of weeks time.

He raised his head and squinted into the sun to catch sight of the cucumber monsters that were currently flourishing in Mickey Dean’s garden three doors down.

Mickey had never grown larger cucumbers than him, never, never! Harold tried to imagine how he would feel when Mickey claimed the prize that Harold had become accustomed to assuming was his to take, and realised that trying to twist his mouth into a smile and thump his old mate heartily on the back when congratulating him would probably be the hardest thing that he had ever been called upon to do. Aye and he would have to do it, seeing as how happy Mickey had always been for him when he won year after year, buying him a pint afterwards and showing his cup around the pub to all their mates.

‘’Come on inside before your tea gets cold and stop brooding over those vegetables’ called Brenda in an irritated tone.

Alright for her thought Harold grumpily as he stumped up the path to pull his boots off at the back door; it wasn't her that was going to have to face the humiliation of losing to Mickey Deans and to have to try and ignore the smirks and sly digs every time he went for a pint.

‘How do you think he’s done it’ he asked his wife suddenly as they were sitting in the back parlour after supper watching the telly ‘he’s never managed it before; it like a miracle or something?’

‘How should I know, love?’ she queried mildly ‘you know I'm no gardening expert’.

‘Well, has Vera said anything?’ he persisted.

‘We do have better things to talk about than your cucumbers you know! The only thing that I remember her mentioning was that Mickey was right pleased with those new fertiliser pellets that he’d got up at the market’.

‘From that new kid? Called Wayne or something?’

‘Yes that would be the one, apparently those fertiliser pellets he sells are marvellous and loads of people are growing veggies twice the size that they can normally manage. It won’t only be your cucumbers; you might lose out with your tomatoes and runner beans if you aren't careful!’

‘Thanks for your vote of confidence, but I ain't cheating just to win’ replied Harold testily as he folded his newspaper and placed it on the sofa cushion next to him.

‘Using fertiliser ain't cheating’ protested Brenda ‘loads of people use it, including you’.

‘Yes but I only use honest to goodness horse manure from the riding stables down the road, none of this modern muck. There’s something not right with those pellet things and that kid gave me the creeps’.

Brenda just smiled at her husband’s continued bad temper, but gave a little start when the screeching wail of an ambulance siren went streaking down their street.

‘That’s the third I've heard this week’ she said uneasily as she looked anxiously at her husband

On the following afternoon Harold schooled his features into an admirable semblance of pleasure as he stood at Mickey’s side while he showed off his gigantic cucumbers.

‘What do you reckon Harold?’ Mickey asked shyly ‘have you ever seen the like before?’

‘No, I have to say that I haven’t’ replied Harold truthfully ‘but it almost don’t seem natural to me?’

‘A bit jealous are we?’ chortled Mickey digging Harold in the ribs with his elbow.

‘Not at all Mickey, but it just don’t seem right? Let us have another look at them fertiliser capsules you bought?’

‘Thinking of buying some yourself?’ Mickey queried slyly as he walked down to his shed and brought out the plain, white plastic box ‘it’s dead easy to use them, you just break off the top of a couple of the capsules and pour the liquid into your watering can. It works so fast that I swear that you can see them growing before your very eyes; this lot only took three weeks to get this big’.

‘Do you know what’s in this stuff or who makes it? There’s no writing on the box, so it could be anything?’

‘All I know is that it pongs a bit! But if it works who cares what’s in it?

‘Have you never heard about caring for the environment Mickey Dean?’ retorted Harold sharply.

‘ I've heard of the environment’ laughed Mickey ‘but I still reckon it’s jealously that’s the problem with you. Hey, did you hear about old Larry Garner? Found dead in his raspberry canes last night, they reckon it was a heart attack’.

‘Heart attack? Larry Garner? That must have been the siren that me and Brenda heard last night. But heart attack? Larry has always been fit as a fiddle?’

‘That’s what they reckon. Just shows you that it can happen to anyone. So are you sliding off up to the market now then?

Harold was indeed off to the market, although he would never admit it to Mickey. As he walked up the hill into town, he couldn’t help thinking about Larry Garner. He’d only seen him a few nights ago in The Flying Horse, and he had seemed to be his usual hale and hearty self. But what was niggling at Harold was that Larry had had a punnet of raspberries with him that night that he said came from his garden, and those raspberries were the largest that he had ever seen, and he had seen some big ones at the various shows over the years. And hadn’t Larry said that he had been using those fertiliser capsules that he had got off that kid Wayne?

Wayne’s stall, if you could call it that, was at the very far end of the market. It was traditionally one of the worst pitches on the site, but Wayne had managed to attract a long queue of customers. Harold wandered past trying to look casual, but all he could see was a plain wooden trestle table, that was piled high with the same white plastic boxes that he had seen in Mickey Dean’s garden. Wayne was just the same gangly, spotty kid that he remembered from last time, but there was something about him that didn't sit right with Harold.

He was just about to slip around the corner when he heard ‘Afternoon Mr Babberton’ called out in a high-pitched male voice.

‘How do you know my name?’ he asked abruptly, turning back to glare at Wayne.

‘Doesn't take long to know who’s who around here, mate’ replied Wayne cheerfully ‘fancy trying some of my fertiliser capsules on your garden? Hear you used to be a bit of a vegetable growing champion around here, before I turned up and gave folks a helping hand’.

‘No thanks son’ replied Harold looking uncomfortable ‘I reckon that I’ll stick with the old methods; seems safer’.

‘Safer?’ mocked Wayne lightly ‘got to move with the times, old man, and what could possibly be dangerous about a bit of fertiliser? Here have a box on the house; I bet you’ll soon be a convert?’

Harold was caught by surprise but just managed to catch the white plastic box that came flying through the air in his direction. He was just about to hand it back and protest that he didn't want it when Wayne’s slightly mocking voice came again.

‘Go on try it, I dare you! What have you got to lose? Oh yeah, I remember, ‘Best Cucumber in Show’ fifteen years running wasn't it?’

Harold’s face flushed with colour, but he shoved the white box into Brenda’s little chequered shopping bag and rushed away from the stall. On his way down the street he bumped into Nora Lester who was chatting with her cousin Kathleen outside the bakery.

‘Have you heard about little Madison Lacey?’ asked Nora anxiously after they had all exchanged greetings?

‘No, what’s happened?’ asked Harold.

‘She’s dead’ said Nora starkly ‘they found her body in the pond in the garden, reckoned she drowned’.

‘But that child could swim like a fish’ protested Harold, who was really shaken up by the news ‘we take her to the beach with our Matt’s two when they come down in the holidays?’

‘Well apparently it was dark, so maybe she slipped. She was growing some melons to show in the kid’s section of the fete, and was so excited that she had started to sneak out the back door at night to check up on them. She even used to take her doll’s blankets out to wrap around them so they wouldn't get cold.’

‘That’s tragic Nora’ said Harold ‘I must go down and see Lorraine and Andy, they’ll be out of their minds with grief, I reckon. I suppose that you've heard about Larry Garner?’

Nora and Kathleen nodded sadly.

‘Always comes in threes’ said Kathleen sombrely ‘we’ll hear about another one soon, you mark my words’.

Harold shuddered at her words, and hurried his goodbyes, still listening to the women’s conversation as he walked away.

‘And that little girl was so proud of those melons, she had got her Dad to get her some of that fertiliser stuff that everyone seems to be raving on about and they were growing so big.....’

Later on that night Harold stood at the kitchen window gazing at his darkened garden, flipping the plastic box of fertiliser capsules between one hand and the other. He knew that his garden was blooming and that he should be proud of all the hard work that he had put in, but he was also aware of a gnawing sense of discontent in the pit of his stomach. Part of him really wanted to try the fertiliser and watch his vegetables explode in size and possibly hold onto his cups and trophies. But another part of him was deeply uneasy about opening what increasingly seemed to him to be a bit of a Pandora’s Box.

‘Get over yourself, you silly old git’ he muttered to himself ‘do you really think that a bit of home made fertiliser had anything to do with those deaths. These things do happen you know’.

He smiled suddenly as the porch lights snapped on three doors down, and he saw a dark figure scurry down the path with a torch. Mickey was off to check on his pride and joy!

Harold continued to watch as Mickey wandered up and down his rows of vegetables, the torchlight bobbing up and down as he bent over to check on the different plants. He was about to turn around to put the kettle on for Brenda’s last cup of tea for the night, when he suddenly saw Mickey appear to slip and then fall into the lush green foliage around his knees. Harold expected to see him drag himself off the ground and get up cursing, but long seconds ticked by and nothing happened.

Harold felt half paralysed with surprise, but when Mickey still didn't appear he dragged open the back door and went running down his garden. He couldn't see much of anything in the dark, although he thought he could see a strange green mist hovering around where Mickey had fallen. He stopped to rub his eyes, as he thought they were playing tricks on him, but as soon as he stopped running he could hear a strange gurgling noise coming from Mickey’s garden. Galvanised by concern and fear for his old mate, Harold struggled over the garden fences barring his way and fought his way into Mickey’s garden.

Breathing heavily, he called out to his friend.

‘Mickey, Mickey, where are you? What’s happened, are you alright?’

He lumbered over to where the giant cucumbers were growing and saw to his horror that Mickey was laying flat on his back on the soil, the torch that he had been holding rolled off to one side, the strange gurgling, moaning noises still coming from his throat.

‘Mickey, get up, whatever’s the matter with you?’ cried Harold as he knelt down by his side and fumbled for the dropped torch. He eventually managed to wrap his shaking fingers around the barrel and lifted it to shine the weak beam in Mickey’s face.

He almost dropped the torch in panic when he saw that Mickey’s eyes were wide open and bulging, staring at him vacantly, almost as though Mickey wasn't in there anymore. Another choking noise drew his attention down to Mickey’s throat, where he was appalled to see that a thick green shoot from one of the cucumber plants had curled itself around Mickey’s neck and was pulling tight to throttle him.

Harold grabbed at the shoot and frantically started trying to pull it off with his hands, his fingernails digging into the green, organic material, causing a rancid, decaying smell, unlike anything he had ever smelled before, to spill into the warm, evening air. He couldn't believe how strong that shoot was; it was like trying to rip out concrete rather than pull plant material apart and all the time Mickey’s strangely empty eyes were staring into his.

Not even sure if Mickey was still alive despite the gurgling sounds still coming from his throat, Harold decided that he needed to go and find something strong enough to cut through the shoot and raise the alarm. He still thought that he could see a faint green mist in the air, and the disturbing, acrid rotten plant smell was getting stronger by the second. As he started to get to his feet, he looked down and saw to his disgust that smaller plant shoots had burrowed through Mickey’s clothes and into his flesh, and appeared to be pumping liquid out of his body.

Harold was repulsed by those strange little green shoots and felt a wave of terror slide coldly down his body, as he retched, coughed and then nearly brought his supper back up. He finally stumbled to his feet and took a staggering step backwards, and then looked down in shock as he realised that something was pulling him back. He had half expected to see one of Mickey’s hands grasped around his leg, like in those horror films, but to his disgust it was another one of those shoots wrapping itself firmly around his ankle and pulling tightly. He tried to shake his leg to pull himself free, but the plant shoot just kept gripping him tighter and tighter, and he started to feel little darts of pain where the smaller shoots were piercing his skin and entering his body.

Harold turned his head and shot a pleading glance at the lighted windows of his house, desperately hoping that Brenda would appear, and come and help him. He opened his mouth to scream out his fear and anger, attract some attention, but nothing came out but a low, choking gurgle as he was toppled over and hit the soft, fertile soil, smashing one of Mickey’s monster cucumbers with his head on the way down.

‘Well, at least that one will never be ‘Best in Show’’ was his last irrelevant thought as his world started to fade and the waves of pain crashed down over him.