“Just thoo look at yon berries, Mr Rhea,” he eyed them with pride. “Thoo’s done a grand job, protecting ’em like you have, Ah’m grateful.”
“It’s all part of the service, Joe,” I said, closely inspecting the berries. One had burst, I noted, and none of the others was up to Egton Bridge standard. I realised I had not seen any of the opposition, except my own little clutch, so perhaps this was a poor berry year? Were the Egton Bridge whoppers smaller than normal?
We would all know tomorrow. I went home and booked off duty. That night I decided to enter the Gooseberry Show.
Next morning, having allowed the hot sun to dry my Yellow Woodpeckers, I picked the largest single berry I could find, and followed with a further six. I packed them gently in an open box of cotton wool, and began the long drive across the spectacular heights of the North Yorkshire moors. The scenery must be seen to be believed; I once met a Londoner who thought the moors were flat, and I wondered if he also believed the moon was a green gooseberry!
I drove into Egton Bridge, parked near the gigantic Catholic Church of St Hedda, and entered the building next door. Many years ago, this used to be the church but it is now the village Catholic School where I learned my reading, writing and arithmetic. On Show Day, it is converted into an arena for displaying monster berries.
I was off duty, of course, and clad in Berry Show clothing which really meant a good suit because members enjoy dinner afterwards, at the curious hour of half-past five, in a local hotel.
I located the small queue near the weighman and joined the growing number, clutching my seven Yellow Woodpeckers in their cosy bed of cotton wool. Each man’s berries were carefully weighed and documented before being placed on the table for exhibition, and my large single Yellow Woodpecker weighed in at 20 drams 11 grains, a very useful fruit, but far short of the World Record of 30 drams, 9 grains. The six accompanying berries weighed a total of six ounces, 5 drams and 10 grains, but I would not know whether I was included in any prize list until all had been weighed and catalogued. The beautiful scales used for the ceremony are serviced regularly and they are so delicate that the tiniest feather affects them. The difference between a champion berry and a second best is miniscule in terms of weight, but enormous in terms of prestige.
I turned to leave the weighman’s table and bumped straight into Joe Marshall; he stood in the queue bearing a little box which he shielded with his big hands.
“Ah, Joe!” I beamed at him. “Is that one of your champions?”
“Noo then, Mr Rhea,” he smiled slyly at me. “Nice day.”
“It’s a lovely day, Joe,” I eyed the box, but he kept it covered. “Is that the world champion then?”
“’Appen,” he said.
He was very reticent about revealing the gem he cosseted so carefully, and I suspected something was afoot.
“Summat wrong, Joe?” I asked. “Has your berry burst, or something?”
“Nay, lad,” he beamed. “This is a cracker, mark my words,” and he graciously opened his box to reveal a colossal Lord Derby of magnificent proportions.
“By, that’s a rare berry!” I spoke with genuine surprise. “Is it one of yours, Joe?”
“Aye, lad, it is that,” he sounded very smug. I wondered why I had not seen this fruit on any of his Aidensfield trees, and I must admit that I suspected skulduggery of some kind. Had Joe Marshall and his mates done the very thing they’d expected of the Egton Bridgers? Had he raided an Egton Bridge bush to steal this giant?
“It looks like a winner,” I had to admit, for it was certainly bigger than my Yellow Woodpecker.
“Mr Rhea,” he whispered confidentially, “Sorry about this . . .”
“Sorry for what, Joe?” I was puzzled.
“The secrecy about this big ’un.”
I didn’t understand his remark because my brain was racing to anticipate his next statement.
“Go on,” I said, as others brushed past us to weigh in.
“We cheated thoo a bit,” he admitted. “We knew thoo was a chap frev this area, and that thoo grew berries for showing.”
“Go on,” I folded my arms and looked steadily at him.
“Well, thoo sees, we reckoned that if we persuaded thoo to look to our bushes, thoo’d see t’quality of oor berries, and then thoo’d tell t’Egton Bridgers they were no good.”
“Go on,” I instructed the crafty character.
“Well, dissn’t thoo see? We kept this big ’un very, very secret. Thoo was allowed ti see all oor middling berries, and we reckoned thoo wad tell these folks over here how small oor berries were, then they’d nut bother aboot growing very big ’uns this year . . .”
“Joe!” I said, pretending to be hurt. “You didn’t . . .”
“Aye, well, we wanted this big chap to be a surprise, thoo sees, to win t’Best in t’Show award . . .”
I gazed at the massive berry. Unless someone from Egton Bridge produced a bigger one, Joe’s berry might win this year’s award. Then I smiled at him.
“Joe,” I said, “I didn’t tell a soul. I didn’t report back here — there’s no need. These chaps don’t stoop to terrible things like nobbling their competitors’ berries! They fight true. In fact, I’ve entered one of my own.”
“Thoo has?” It was my turn to surprise him.
“A Yellow Woodpecker,” I said proudly. “It’s been weighed in, it’ll be on the table now.”
He blanched. “Thoo can’t beat this ’un o’ mine?” he gasped.
“No,” I smiled. “But there’s more to come from Egton Bridge.”
He weighed in his prize fruit and it scaled at 25 drams 9 grains, a large berry, and, to be honest, large enough to win the prize for this show, albeit not to gain the World Championship. He had beaten me, but would he triumph over this village of champions?
“Joe,” I asked when he came back to talk to me. “Where did you grow that berry?”
“In a spot not far from my house,” he smiled. “Ah kept it very secret, and shall yet. Next year, thoo’ll see, Ah’ll grow a real big ’un . . .”
He checked the time. The latest for weighing-in was two o’clock and it was five minutes to two as we waited. An air of expectancy descended as the final moments ticked away. I could see Joe’s crafty face growing redder and redder as he visualised himself walking off with the Champion Berry prize for this year. But at the last moment, in walked a pretty woman clutching a jewellery box. She ran across to the table and smiled at the weighman.
“Am I too late?” she oozed at him.
“Nay, lass, thoo’s just made it in time,” said the man, accepting her box.
Out of it, she produced a colossal Yellow Woodpecker, and gasps of astonishment filled the room. The crowd surged forward as the enormous fruit was placed delicately on the scales.
“It’s from your own tree, is it?” The question had to be asked.
“Yes, my dad gave them to me and I’ve grown them myself. This is my first try, though, and I don’t know if it’s any good . . .”
As she twittered on, he announced the weight, and the clock struck two.
“Twenty-seven drams, fifteen grains,” came the verdict. “This is the year’s Champion Berry . . . Miss Jean Ferris . . .”
“She’s from Egton Bridge,” I leaned across and smiled at the unhappy Joe. “You’ll have to try harder next time, Joe.”
“I used a recipe given to me by my dad,” said the young woman, “but he said not to tell anyone what it was . . .”
Loud applause filled the busy room, as the doors opened to admit the sightseers, and I wondered if she was the first woman to win a berry championship. Maybe she’d try for the World Championship next year?
But as a maiden grower, she’d upheld the reputation of the berry village of the North Yorkshire moors.
* * *
If Joe Marshall’s dream was to win the World Championship for gooseberries, then Hubert Mitford wanted to raise his status by winning the Best of Breed with his La
rge White pigs at the Great Yorkshire Show.
Hubert’s pigs were certainly noted in Aidensfield, if only because their presence was confirmed by the strong smell which rose from their sties, and by the continuing grunts of satisfaction which filled the evening air at feeding time. Occasionally, one of them would escape to gallop in joy along the main street, or else to sample the culinary delights of the cottage gardens en route to freedom out in the big wide world. One frisky piglet got into the pub where it scattered the bar stools and terrified a barmaid in its wild thrashings as it was chased by the assembled drinkers.
But such incidents apart, Hubert’s litter of beautiful white pigs was one of the prides of Aidensfield. He carted them to all the local agricultural shows, and came back with rosettes and cups; he bred lovely little pigs and handsome large pigs, and he knew them all by their first names. It seemed they all knew Hubert too, and there was undoubtedly a firm bond of affection between man and beast at Brantgate Farm.
Every time he won at a show, Hubert would visit the Brewers Arms and buy drinks for everyone, local and visitor alike, consequently it was in the interests of the community to ensure Hubert’s pigs were the best in Yorkshire. And indeed they were; they thrived on an expert diet of excellent food, personally supervised by Hubert. Among their treats were many delicacies from proud villagers, and he even named his best sows after some of the village ladies. I’m not sure whether they knew that. Everyone wondered who “Cuddles” really was, for she had beautiful eyes, a fine rump and shapely rear legs with juicy, milky white thighs.
Hubert’s popularity in the village and the good will he generated through his wonderful animals led to the vicar deciding to buy a pig. He did so in the belief that his activities would draw people to him as they were drawn to Hubert and thus he would fill his empty pews.
I received my first hint of this when the Reverend Roger Clifton hailed me as I patrolled along the village street.
“Mr Rhea,” he greeted me formally. “I was hoping to catch you.”
“Yes, Vicar?” I liked him; he was a friendly man who worked hard to preach his faith.
“I am contemplating the purchase of a pig,” he said seriously, “and wondered whether I need a licence of any kind.”
“You will need a movement licence to bring it from the place of purchase,” I answered, “so the Ministry of Agriculture can trace its movements should it catch Swine Fever or some other notifiable disease.”
“And where do I get such a licence?”
“From the place you buy the pig,” I said. “Usually, there is a policeman at the market to issue pig licences.”
“And that is all?”
“So far as I know,” I had to admit. “Where will you keep it?”
“There are six disused sties at the vicarage,” he said. “They are very sound and fully enclosed with a brick wall. I’ll use those.”
I did not know whether any recent legislation had imposed conditions about keeping pigs on private premises, and advised him to discuss this with the Ministry of Agriculture or the local council. After talking about the village and its flock, he went on his way rejoicing, and I popped into the Brewers Arms for one of my routine official visits.
Two weeks later, the Rev. Roger Clifton journeyed along the village street, beside the driver of a Land Rover which towed a trailer. In that trailer was a delightful Large White sow. The parish had acquired a pig.
The Parochial Church Pig was one of his undoubted hits. She was christened White Lily, which means purity and modesty, a fitting name for an unmarried sow. As the lovely creature blossomed in the fullness of her youth, and flourished on her diet of holy scraps with lashings of mashed potato, she found herself being used as the basis for many sermons. All kind of parallels were suggested from the pulpit, and the swine of biblical times became succulent meat for the Rev. Roger Clifton.
I think Mr Clifton, in truth, had rejected any suggestion of ever killing the fat pig because he often quoted those parts of the Scriptures where the meat of the pig was not to be eaten because it was considered unclean. This was not a nice thing to say of White Lily, and he reminded his congregation of the Hebrews’ views on the subject when he said,
“It is said they had the flesh of this animal in such detestation that they would not so much as pronounce its name, but instead of it said, ‘The beast, that thing’.” The village felt he did this to gain sympathy for White Lily, and so it became evident that the vicar had no intention of killing Lily or of selling her on the market. So, instead of White Lily helping to swell the Parochial Church Funds, she became another mouth to feed on the Parochial Church Income.
One village gossip, a voluble lady, who felt the church shouldn’t subsidise a pig, said that the Hebrews and Phoenicians only abstained from pork because there was none in their country, but the vicar retaliated by quoting from the Book of Proverbs, Chapter 11, Verse 22, where it said, “As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman without discretion.” No one really understood it, except that it meant the church pig was not for sale.
I think it was another villager’s quote from Matthew, Chapter 8, Verse 30, about a herd of swine feeding, that gave the vicar an idea. He would keep the sow and breed from her. He would produce a litter of swine, and sell the little ones. That would satisfy his critics, for church funds would swell to enormous proportions. At least, that was the Rev. Clifton’s theory.
By chance, sometime later, I was in Hubert Mitford’s farmyard, leaning on a pigsty wall with a coffee in my hand as the Reverend Roger arrived. He had come to discuss the possibility of breeding a litter of pigs from White Lily.
At that stage, I had no idea of his plan, but his blushing hesitancy suggested he wished to talk about a delicate matter.
“I’ll go,” I said, diplomatically.
“No, Mr Rhea, don’t go on my account.” He shook his head vigorously. “I’d like you to hear my plans.”
“Summat good, is it?” smiled Hubert, revelling in the Reverend’s shyness.
“That sow of mine, Hubert,” the vicar took a deep breath and spoke his piece. “I’m thinking of breeding from her.”
“Ah!” beamed the farmer with an evil glint in his eye. “Then that’ll be more pigs for t’church to keep.”
“No,” cried the vicar. “No, it won’t. You see, I will keep White Lily, and sell her piglets. I was wondering whether this was feasible . . . I don’t know much about pig-breeding, you see . . .”
“Ah’ve a smashing awd boar,” came in Hubert. “Nobbut a tenner a time for serving a sow. If that’s what thoo’s come for, Vicar, Ah’m your man. Ah’ll soon fix yon pig and she’ll give nice little piglets that’ll sell like hot cakes at Thirsk Mart.”
“Is there a special time, then?”
“Well, noo, there might be and there again there might not,” smiled Hubert. “Ah’ll tell thoo what, Vicar. Ah’m summat of an expert in these matters, so Ah’ll pop around to see that pig o’ thine, and we’ll soon get her fettled up.”
The vicar looked at me.
“Well, Mr Rhea? Do you think it will make money for my church?”
I had to be honest and say I did. Many folks who had taken to breeding pigs had made money, so I gave my considered view that the church at Aidensfield was about to prove yet again that where there’s muck, there’s money.
It would be three weeks later when I saw the Reverend Roger taking his pig to be served by a boar. In the manner of a medieval monk, he had a long piece of rope tied to one of White Lily’s hind legs and she was ambling down the street, sampling the growth of the verges and causing ladies to leap for safety into houses and gardens. This contented pig grunted and rooted until she arrived at Hubert’s farm.
There, with the aid of Hubert’s skill, she was driven towards a cosy pen for a hectic session of love-making with one of his prize boars. There could be no doubt that White Lily’s litter would be beautiful and valuable, and in that sense, Hubert was doing more than his bit for the
church.
As I was there, I helped to drive White Lily through the gate, and was a witness to the next, and most important, part of the proceedings.
Hubert brought the boar from a sty; he was a massive, ugly creature but he must have been a prince in a white suit in the eyes of the waiting maiden because she grunted with gleeful expectation as the scent of his ardour reached her nostrils. Hubert opened the gate and the willing boar needed no further guidance; he was beside his loved one in a trice, sniffing with pleasure at the perfume she wore.
Hubert shut the gate. They were alone.
At this stage, the pink, embarrassed complexion of the Reverend Roger turned a brilliant red. He had, by some mischance, positioned himself very close to the marital bed and was clearly embarrassed by the opening sounds and visions of pleasure coming from the happy couple.
“Er, Hubert,” he said, “I’ve never been in this position before . . . I mean, do I have to observe the actual . . . er . . . the . . . coupling . . . I mean, it is parish funds that are being used for this . . . er . . . enterprise . . . Do you think I should wait and see that they . . . er . . . do it properly?”
“Aye,” said Hubert, “thoo’d better, ’cos thoo won’t have time to marry ’em.”
And so the story had a happy ending. The pigs got married and lived happily for a few minutes, and in time White Lily produced eight lovely piglets. The parish was happy at this event and brought even more food for their pigs. I believe the church made a handsome profit from its first year of breeding. Today, if you go down the side of the vicarage, you can still hear the descendants of White Lily and her various beaus, as they grunt and snuffle around the vicarage gardens, raising much needed funds for the faithful of Aidensfield.
But for Hubert, things did not work out quite so well.
Through his important contacts in the pig world, and due to his standing in the village, Hubert decided to offer himself for election to the Rural District Council. He sincerely felt he had a great deal to offer society in general, and the folk of Aidensfield in particular, and so he sought, and achieved, nomination as the official candidate for that ward. But there was one terrible problem associated with his nomination. He had decided to stand as a Liberal.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 81
