Blackberries

Blackberries by Neil McCall

It was a warm sunny Saturday morning in September twenty years ago, the
sort of day when the cocks and jocks were out ruggering and the swots
and dweebs were making an early start on their weekend homework, but
because I was neither I was sprawled out alone in my bedroom listening
to Radio One and wondering what to do with the rest of the day. As it
happened, my choice was soon made for me.

"Simon, come on down, Susan's here," yelled my mum.

Susan Mottershead lived next door, and was the same age as me give or
take a month or two; we had been inseparable companions in the early
years of junior school until the age at which friendships with the
opposite sex become instant death. Now that we both went to single sex
secondary schools, we had resumed hanging around together; she had
curly brown hair, freckles and was quite sensible for a girl. Today she
was dressed in jeans and a sturdy lumberjack T-shirt, and was carrying
two large plastic containers.

"Do you want to come blackberrying?" she asked. "My mum's going to bake
some pies!"

Susan's mother reminded me of the character played by Felicity Kendal
in "The Good Life"; she kept hens and was always looking to get things
for next to nothing. She looked like a mobile jumble sale herself, but
at least she always bought decent stuff for Susan. I was at a loose
end, so I agreed to go with Susan. My mum fussed around embarrassingly,
wanting to know exactly where we were going and for how long; she
seemed to think that the world had changed for the worse since her
childhood and that every corner of the village was now stuffed with
undesirables waiting to jump out on us.

"Down Long Lane then along the bridle path," explained Susan.

Finding no reason to categorise Long Lane as a dangerous hot spot, Mum
merely warned us to be careful and let us go.

As we walked along Long Lane we talked about our respective schools -
we were in what would now be called Year 8 - and football. Our local
town didn't boast a professional team at all, and the nearest ones were
Halifax Town and Burnley, so there was no fierce soccer rivalry, more a
wide dissipation of mild interest; I supported Man U whilst Susan
supported Aston Villa because her granddad from Birmingham did.
Suddenly I stopped; there was a clump of brambles right alongside the
footpath, but Susan declared them to be poor quality and too near the
exhaust fumes to be worth picking and said that the bridle path would
yield a much better harvest. A couple of minutes later we turned onto
the bridle path and I could immediately see that she was right;
although there were quite a number still unripe, sporting the deep
glossy colour of red wine, most of the berries here were bowed in heavy
jet-black clusters. We split up and each took one hedgerow, and for
some time the only sound that could be heard was the soft plinking of
fruit on plastic, and that only until a layer of each container had
been filled.

After about twenty minutes we stopped to compare yields; Susan was
clearly more experienced than I was, and pointed out that the best
fruit was often concealed low down amidst the grass and nettles, or
waving tantalisingly several feet above our heads. I had also
discovered that blackberry picking was a no pain-no gain pursuit; we
had both got slight scratches on our hands, plus the odd nettle sting.
I changed tactics, leaving the container on the ground whilst I used an
old tree-branch as a hook to bend the most succulent stems to within
reach of my other hand, with which I would grab half-a-dozen berries at
once; although I would inevitably crush one or two by this method, my
container began to fill more rapidly.

"Somebody's been here before us," declared Susan, as there was
obviously a shortage of easy-to-reach fruit. So when we reached a farm
gate it seemed the sensible thing to close our containers with their
precious cargo, hop over the gate and recommence picking on the private
side. This time we worked together; I took the high fruit using the
tree branch whilst Susan crouched to ferret out the low-lying berries;
we picked quietly, staying near to the gate and listening for irate
voices or the sputter of tractors. This worked well for a time until I
took a step back with a handful of blackberries and tumbled straight
over Susan's bent back to land in a heap. Fortunately the dry spell of
weather, combined with a recent ploughing, meant that the soil was
piled in soft, crumbly furrows, so I was unhurt, except for my pride as
I saw Susan standing over me hooting with laughter. Instinctively I
shot out a hand, hooked it around her ankle and pulled her down
alongside me. Honours even, I rose first and offered her my hand to
pull her to her feet, but when she took it and got up she did not let
go immediately.

"Do you want to see my new bra?" she said shyly.

My mouth turned as dry as a blackberry husk in winter and I nodded; we
were hidden from the bridle path by a thick hawthorn hedge which would
ensure that the moment of revelation remained quite private.

She unbuttoned the thick checked shirt to reveal the tiny hillocks of
her developing breasts, encased in pristine white cotton. I thought I
could discern juicy swelling buds beneath, and reached out slowly. Her
eyes closed, and her lips parted slightly. And then ..

"Aargh! You utter dweeb! I only got this yesterday, my mother will go
ape-shit!"

Her new bra was now covered in purple juice-stains which corresponded
to the colour of my hands. I was confused as to what to do or say next;
violence came to mind, for although it was generally considered unmanly
to start a fight with a girl, siblings and close friends were exempt,
especially as she had started the insults. But the bra now changed all
that; I was dimly aware that Susan had been marking out her claim to
womanhood and somehow I could no longer dump her on the ground again
any more than I could have dumped my mother. I apologised, pick up one
of the fruit containers and returned to the farm gate. The walk home
seemed interminable; I tried to make conversation but received only
sullen, monosyllabic answers and gave up. When we reached home I
wordlessly passed her the full container of blackberries and went
inside without even saying goodbye.

The fine spell of weather held, and on Sunday I went out into the back
garden and began to dribble a football; I wasn't very good at soccer,
but I suddenly wanted to do guy-things and I wondered whether there
would be a local team desperate enough to take me on. Then came the
moment I was dreading; the face of Mrs Mottershead appeared above the
dividing fence. If Susan's prophecy had been correct and her mum had
indeed gone ape-shit, my parents would go gorilla-shit when she came to
complain; they were a bit on the prudish side and always switched off
perfectly respectable TV documentaries about childbirth or mating
animals, let alone scenes of salacious pre-teen groping.

"Oh, Simon! Thanks for those blackberries; it's a super harvest this
year! I've made some jam and I've just baked a couple of pies, come on
round and collect one for your family."

She didn't look cross, in fact she looked strangely pleased, maybe the
cheap pies and jam had atoned for the tell-tale marks of male
molestation across her daughter's underwear. But maybe she just hadn't
found out yet; I thanked her in my super-politest voice and tried to
look inoffensive as I went next door.
There was a lovely baking smell wafting through the house as Mrs
Mottershead picked up a pair of oven gloves and pulled the pies out of
the oven to test their readiness; Susan was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, Simon, be a love and put the washing out for me, would you? It's
in the basket in the garden and the pegs are already on the
line."

I obediently went to the garden and sought the wash-basket. The very
top item was only too familiar; mercifully the purple stains had come
out in the wash. I very self-consciously picked up the now-spotless
bra, held it at arms-length as though it were a dangerous snake and
hurriedly pegged it to the line. Then I became conscious of a torrent
of giggles; both Susan and her mum were now watching me from the
kitchen, and, with a sudden pang, I wished that I had a broad-minded
mum who was such a good sport?

*********************************************************************

"Dad, granny's going to take us fruit-picking!" Mrs Mottershead's
wrinkled, weather-beaten but still-sporty face has just appeared at the
front door, breaking my reverie, and our two freckled, curly-haired
daughters have rushed to hug her. Susan smiles and I thrill that, just
occasionally, wishes do come true.