Tower of Souls VI. Hope!?
She walked a path, that was paved.
Challenged it with cutting prose.
Maybe save but one from the rope.
The wind plucked at her, and rocked her like a flower.
In the tower fair maiden stepped, with hope.
Eyes ablaze she stood firm and spoke.
And give him and me a new dream.
There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me.
Death looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.
The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went.
Then the merchant went down to the market-place and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?
That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
Edward held his breath. Surreptitiously he crossed his fingers – although he would have denied it vehemently to anyone that asked. Edward was a superstitious man.
He glanced sideways, where he could see his arch enemy and rival leaning forward expectantly. At that particular moment he could have rushed across and landed a punch on that ridiculously bulbous nose. He remembered to breathe again, and his temper cooled.
He thought back at how empty the polished mahogany plinth on his mantelpiece had seemed this morning. The plinth that he had lovingly crafted after his 5th successive win last year. It was inconceivable that someone else could win HIS trophy.
Frank leaned forward expectantly. Although this was his first competition, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, that he had beaten that old horticultural fossil, Edward. He had supreme confidence in the superiority of his modern, up to date gardening methods. Frank embraced technological progress with a medieval, almost religious fervour – the irony of this being totally lost on him.
He glanced over to the trophy and with a self- satisfied grin, he imagined where he was going to display it – maybe he should place it prominently in his front window so that Edward would choke every time he walked past. That would serve the old bugger right .
The annual Catford & District Garden and Allotment Society Garden Show was the highlight of the the horticultural year for the 54 fully paid up members and their families.
In the main, the members entered into the show for the fun of it and especially for the camaraderie found while bemoaning their common enemy, the great British weather. The slugs had been enormous – “Never seen the like” – not to mention the devastation caused by the “near Hurricane” at the end of July.
No-one wanted to admit that they had set the alarm for 5.30 that morning. After all , they had to choose the best cucumber for the show, polish the giant marrow lovingly, label the jam with their best handwriting. make another sponge cake because the first one had sunk in the middle ( and was now the basis of a very fine trifle – Craft Class No.67) as well as leaving that pumpkin to grow until the very last minute.
On the Top Table the various cups and trophies shone from their annual polish. There were some minor prizes to be won, but the real glory was to be found in winning just two hotly contested cups – The Greenwood. Philpotts & Atkins( Feed Merchants) Ltd Cup for Best Floral Display, a large and gaudy cup whose size reflected the perceived importance of its donor, and the oldest and most coveted of all, “The Champson Trophy”,first awarded in 1892 and the only cup to survive the robbery of ’65.
Edward Lawrence had won “The Champson” for the last few years. he was a man who took his gardening seriously. He believed that traditional methods were best and was never seen without a wooden-handled trowel made by his great grandfather in one hand, and his Gardening Almanac in the other. His favourite exhibits were his large show onions, polished to a soft sheen using baby powder, and displayed carefully on cardboard rings. Then came his enormous parsnips, nurtured to extraordinary lengths in plastic gutters. He cleaned them with a soft toothbrush to get all traces of dirt off them before he laid them out on the red display cloth. Best of all though, were his runner beans. They were the product of many months of planning and nurturing – from preparing the ground with his secret recipe compost to choosing the best and plumpest seeds, from planting just after a full moon to the scattering of carefully saved crushed eggshells around the base of his fledgling plants to deter those wretched slugs.
He watched the baby beans as they set and had selected the ones that were most likely to grow long and strong. Every day he tended them until they reached a size where he could surreptitiously tie a small weight to ensure they grew straight, and maybe just a few centimetres longer. Frank Gibbons, had howled with laughter at the spectacle.
Frank was new to village life – a successful businessman, he had recently retired to the country ” to enjoy the benefits of clean country air and grow a few fresh veggies”. An over large shed that blocked a good amount of sunlight from his neighbours fruit trees heralded the start of his campaign,followed by a large and noisy Rotavator which had made a quick job of creating a vegetable bed; a liberal dose of weed-killer followed by gallons of liquid fertilizers had ensured a remarkable spurt of growth. Pesticides, herbicides, fungicides all guaranteed that the only living things in Franks garden were there with his express permission. Frank’s competitive nature, which had stood him in good stead in many a boardroom battle, now reasserted itself on hearing about the show and its coveted trophy. He immediately decided that the longest bean would be his. His determination strengthened when he found out that his neighbour, Edward , was considered to be unbeatable in this category.
From the day he had moved in, Frank and Edward had formed an instant loathing for each other. Although everyone else in the village could see how alike they were, neither of them would have welcomed the comparison. as far as they were concerned they were as different as roses and radishes and that’s how they wanted to remain. Edward’s traditional methods were treated with scorn and derision by Frank, and Frank’s use of chemicals had led to several nasty exchanges over the garden wall. The ill-will between them spurred on their rivalry and desire to win that trophy.
On the morning of the show, both men picked their chosen bean; Edward wrapped his carefully in tissue paper and inserted it into the cardboard tube he had saved specially for bean transportation. Frank opened the aluminium case he had purchased and laid his bean in the plush blue interior. Both men smiled with satisfaction.
In accordance with show rules, the beans were measured behind closed doors. This ensured that the winning bean was a closely guarded secret until the final announcement. The village hall was packed with competitors and spectators, the winning exhibits had been admired and prize tickets examined and debated over. All the cups, bar one , had been handed over to proud winners . An expectant hush fell over the hall…….
With thanks to my lovely, friendly neighbours and villagers, who grow long beans and big marrows, and yes, who do polish their show onions with baby powder!
This Exmoor pony was full of bounce , he and his twin rushed around the moorland, scenting the morning air. I watched, fascinated by their antics and the joy of their play when for one , long, moment, he stopped.
Elemental: There’s a Storm Coming!
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