Seasonal short story…

As summer turns to autumn, I thought that a short story about the changing seasons might go down well. It features in a free Kindle download (link below), so if you like it, give it a go and you’ll come across brilliant tales by the likes of James Runcie, Conor Fitzgerald, Anne Zouroudi and Parker Bilal. The beauty of the collection is that all the stories are under 1000 words. Anyway, on with the story (and a rather large picture of some vegetables)…

ASPARAGUS

by Thomas Mogford

July 1st

The spear bisects my palm. I run a finger across the purple arrowheads, which zigzag around the shaft, each pointing to the tip, the plump apogee of perfection. The colour, the weight… just perfect. Is that our supper, I hear behind? The summer sun has brought out the freckles on Flora’s cheeks; the sides of her new Hunters are felted with earth. I smile as I go to kiss her. Not in the first year, I say, dropping the spear onto the compost heap. You know not in the first year.

May 14th

Things looked dire at first. Our stall was in the worst position, in the corner of the pub garden, beside a plastic slide with a murky pool of water in its base. And everyone seemed to know each other. The man next to us, who just grunted in a Cotswold burr at my hello, had sold all his spears within the hour. Just as Flora began to look worried – pursing her lips into that dark red heart – he arrived. I’ll take all of them, he said. All? Best I’ve seen on sale. We could have kissed him. A drink in the pub was the least we could do.

His name was Gregory Towne and he was young and American and worked as a sous-chef in Oxford. Respect what you’ve done, he said. Leaving good jobs, leaving London: takes guts. We just woke up one morning and knew we had to uproot, Flora explained, telling the story with more passion than I’d seen in a while. After he’d gone, Flora gazed at me and said, It’s really going to work, isn’t it?

June 24th

Strange one today from Greg. Sitting post-sale with our drinks, he asked to pick up next week’s stock direct from our house. Season’s over, I told him. So where’s Chef going to get his asparagus? Greg, I said, the English season is six weeks’ long. Mid-May to end of June – sweetest, most intense spears in the world. Tell him, Flora – flying a kilo of asparagus from California uses a thousand times more energy than the home-grown equivalent. Chef won’t be happy, Gregory said.

June 30th

The last supper; Flora making fresh Hollandaise. As if anticipating the change in season, a powerful wind rattles the dormers upstairs. Must get someone in to take a look. Flora tells me she wants to enrol on a course in Oxford. Carry on her Classics from university. I tell her there’s work to be done, winter veg, farmers’ markets, it’s not just about asparagus, but she’s determined, and she looks so beautiful when upset that I hide my anger and say yes.

Let me tell you something about asparagus. A single spear will pass through a man’s digestive system within ten minutes of consumption. Scientists are baffled at how the kidney can get to work so fast. Let me tell you something else. 50% of us claim asparagus has no effect on our urine. One particular digestive enzyme: either got it or you haven’t. The old wives’ tale, of course, is that those who give off the smell are more intelligent than those who don’t. Flora claims to be odourless; me, one spear’s worth would fell a tomcat.

October 15th

I stare out of the kitchen window at the ferns blackening beneath the first frost. Time to get out the asparagus knife, use the narrow blade to pare the vegetation back, let the crowns build up energy for spring. Perhaps spring will be more productive for Flora. Humans follow cycles too.

Velocius quam asparagi coquantur, Flora trills as she comes in. Quicker than you can cook asparagus. Augustus Caesar was mad for the stuff, apparently. Used to have it rushed from the Tiber to the Alps, packing it in snow for year-round enjoyment. Well it can’t have tasted any good, I snap, and when Flora asks what’s wrong, I show her the repair bills. And still she wants to drive to Oxford in that fuel-consuming car.

April 2nd

First spears prodding through the loam. Surprisingly early.

May 28th

Astonishing crop, far too much to sell. Flora keen to freeze but I refuse. No sign of Greg.

June 30th

Flora mentions at the last supper that she’s enrolled for another year. She’ll be driving to Oxford twice a week now.

Still no Greg: has he jetted home to California?

September 9th

The spears continue to sprout: over-composting? Mention to Flora my plans to sell the car. Another night in the blustery spare room.

November 6th

Now I need to take this step-by-step. Flora comes home, then goes upstairs. When she re-emerges, she has something behind her back. A thin plastic tube. She shows me the tip: purply-blue. I embrace her and she rushes back up to call her mother.

Alone, I hold the tube in my palm. A sharp, unmistakable tang. I press it to my nostrils and sniff. Unmistakable.

November 7th

Let me tell you something else about asparagus. There’s a new theory doing the rounds. Scientists used to believe just 50% of us gave off the odour. Know what they’re saying now? That we all do. Every one of us. The only difference is that half of us can’t smell it. It’s steaming off their piss but they’re way too thick to realise.

November 8th

‘Yes, sir, we serve asparagus all year round’. I hang up and grab the asparagus knife. May have pared back the ferns too ruthlessly.

November 12th

A buyer at last for the car – I shall drive it to Oxford myself, make Flora take the bus. Back in the bathroom: her smell, still there.

November 13th

The spear bisects my palm, glinting in the winter sun. From inside the parked car, I watch the restaurant door open, and there she is, one hand in his, the other cradling her belly. Slipping the asparagus knife into my coat pocket, I get out of the car and fall in behind them.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Short-Sentence-stories-dastardly-deeds-ebook/dp/B00BS7PNYM