Blodwyn's Hair

 

The Cranpick Garden Show took place each year on the second Saturday in September. It was usually a beautiful day of soft sunshine and gentle breezes, local chatter combined with a slight sadness in the shared resignation of the closing of another summer. 

 

The local ladies produced copious home baked cakes, gastronomic spectacles which seemed to get ever more ambitious with each passing year, possibly as a result of watching the Great British Bake Off and its almost unachievable standards and innovations. 

 

For most, the highlight of the show was the horticultural olympics. People planned their entire year around maximising whatever vegetable criteria they were aiming to hit, the largest, the tastiest, the longest, the most fragrant, fruitful etc. 

 

The air inside the show tent was filled with the sickly scent of victoria sponge. ‘It must bend’, said Gloria from the WI, and she was quite serious. There was also the earthy smell of root vegetables, the delicate fragrance of sweet peas and the sawdusty aroma of rabbits and chicks.

 

Blodwyn had her secret weapon wrapped up in damp brown paper in the boot of her Volvo estate which she had taken care to park in the shade, arriving early to ensure the best parking spot. She was also keen to get her hands on some of Mrs Long’s raisin and amaretto fudge; it was her own recipe, produced yearly in limited edition batches. Peppermint creams were on her wish list too, she wanted fresh breath for the judges, she had written a little rhyme which she planned to perform for them. 

 

Gloria was derogatory about uncooked confections, ‘Peppermint creams are a low-hanging fruit. If you can’t mix a bit of peppermint essence into some icing sugar then you’ve got real problems,’ she said.

 

Laddy, Blodwyn’s dog wandered behind her, his rough coat scratching reassuringly on her legs which were bare beneath the hem of her brown corduroy skirt. His black nose was in a fit of over-stimulation, barely resting as one scent merged into the next. He knew about the secret weapon, he’d seen it and been sworn to secrecy. Blodwyn had placed her finger on her lips, just after loading it into the boot, she had peeled back the paper to show him, shushing him as their brown eyes shone in shared excitement.

 

‘She’s up to something,’ said Clive, Gloria’s husband.

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

‘Her, Blodwyn big boots, she’s got something up her sleeve. I can tell. I can tell by the way they’re acting, her and that scruffy, rabid dog of hers.’

 

Gloria winked at him. ‘It’s in the bag,’ she whispered, ‘believe me, when she sees how big Charlie is, she’ll go weak at the knees and start crying into her ghastly peppermint creams.’

 

‘I quite enjoy a peppermint cream. I fancy one now actually.’

 

Gloria gasped. ‘You wouldn’t..’

 

‘I thought you were banning them,’

 

‘I’d love to. They taint everything else with the smell of toothpaste, they’re supposed to be covered in cling film but they always sweat and it comes off around the edge of the plate. I’m told by the committee that it’s a way into the baking section for people who can’t really bake.’

 

‘Ah, just as the pumpkin category is a way into the growing section for people who can’t grow.’

 

‘The pumpkins add a lot of value. Maurice’s was as big as a Nissan Micra last year. I think a lot of people enjoyed seeing it.’

 

‘Well he couldn’t do it this year because he’s had rats on his allotment. No, it's all about the carrots for me and it’s been a bloomin good year. I’m not worried about Blodwyn, she’s a good sport for taking part though, bless her. I wish she’d shave that long hair off her chin though, it looks like a…’

 

‘Stop it!’ Gloria slapped her husband playfully on the chest. 

 

The perfectly ironed checked tablecloths were laid out upon trestle tables. There was a prominent section reserved for carrots. Three people had entered the category for longest carrot and it was very popular with spectators who came to gawp at the orange roots and ask questions about their husbandry.

 

Clive was from a long line of competitive carrot growers, amateurs with day jobs who just happened to be passionate about the length of their root vegetables. Secrets were passed down, soil was sifted and enriched, companion plants were strategically placed to discourage pests and diseases. It occupied a lot of Clive’s time, it dominated his thoughts, the operational performance of the carrots set his day to day mood throughout the growing season.

 

Blodwyn had previously won the Ugly Mutt competition with Laddy who had an underbite and was cow-hocked. She’d also won best aubergine two years ago when nobody else entered the category but she’d always wanted a win in the carrot section, it had more kudos than the other vegetables and this year she had her secret weapon.

 

The day wore on, the air in the tent became heavy and humid, Blodwyn’s hair stuck to her forehead and Gloria’s millionaire’s shortbread began to sweat.

 

Mr Whale, the head of growers committee rang a special bell which alerted the participants that it was time to present their produce on the designated tables. Clive could hardly contain his glee as he unleashed his beautifully long, wonderfully orange and rather hench carrot which he slid artfully off the ends of his fingers onto the table, standing back to admire it. ‘It’s called Charlie.’ he muttered to a couple of admiring spectators.

 

Blodwyn shuffled back from her Volvo, carrying something small, wrapped in brown paper which she unwrapped rather unceremoniously. Her carrot was stubby in comparison and quite dirty. Clive laughed through his nose and a couple of people whispered and looked puzzled. There was another participant who’s offering was somewhere between the two in size but he had a better colour, deep orange, almost red.

 

They loitered until the judges arrived with their clipboards. They asked Clive a few questions, variety, growing techniques etc which he answered with smug tones in his voice. Then one of them turned to Blodwyn. ‘Good effort. Anything to add before we measure up and choose the winner?’ She tapped one foot on the other, then broke into a little poem.

 

‘Sow on the pink moon

prick out in June, 

damp but not wet, 

under a net, 

take out the stones, 

treat as your own, 

grow down a pipe, 

mulch them with tripe, 

feed them weekly, 

speak to them meekly,  

you’ll not go far wrong,

for your roots will grow long.’

 

The judges stood staring at Blodwyn who looked down at Laddy the whole time. They coughed awkwardly and took out a tape measure and began to measure the samples. Clives was over sixteen inches, the red one was thirteen inches, Blodwyn’s was eight inches but it didn’t quite terminate in the same way as the others. The judges stepped away and began to have a heated discussion, whispering amongst themselves and occasionally breaking into impassioned cries of protest. One of them fondled Blodwyn’s carrot, holding the fine root which got narrower and narrower until it was just a hair’s breadth for several inches until it disappeared altogether.

 

‘It’s still the root!’ said Mr Whale flatly, who had been called over to adjudicate. ‘So it counts as part of the vegetable because a carrot is a root vegetable so all the root is measured, however fine it happens to be.’

 

‘What?’ Clive stepped forward and himself handled the root, ‘It’s just a hair, it’s like the one growing out of her chin. That doesn’t count as part of the vegetable, it looks like a…’

 

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Whale as he adjusted his tie, ‘my decision is final. Blodwyn’s carrot is seventeen and a half inches from top to tip, most of it is a thin hairy root I admit but nevertheless, she is the winner. Gold rosette here please. Well done Blodwyn. Silver for Clive this year.’ He patted Clive firmly on the shoulder.

 

The colour drained from Clive’s face. Gloria rushed over with tea and something sweet from Mrs Long. ‘It’s not fair,' she said, then looked around at the spectators who seemed embarrassed. ‘We’re contesting this!’ she shouted, ‘It’s simply not on, it’s not cricket.’

 

Blodwyn held onto her gold rosette then bent down and attached it to Laddy’s collar. ‘Well done you and well done me,’ she said, smiling to herself.