Greengrocer Jack and the Talking Cabbages   

Some time ago in a place far from here lived a man named Jack. He was, in most ways, like any other man you might meet. He lived a normal life. Nothing much exciting ever happened to him. He got up at the same time each morning, and, after having a wash and shave, ate breakfast – tea and toast being his favourite, except in the wintertime when hot, sticky porridge replaced the toast. He always said, “In wintertime you need something more substantial in you, to keep out the cold.” And to look at him heading out each morning, be it summer or winter, in his heavy, multi-coloured checked coat, you would be forgiven for thinking he couldn’t be anything but warm (with or without the porridge).

Pulling the door closed Jack put the key into his trouser pocket and then headed down the garden path. The old wrought iron gate squeaked as he opened it. “I’ll have to oil you tonight,” he said as it squeaked closed behind him. It was a lovely June morning, the trees in full leaf, the birds singing their hearts out and the sun shining gloriously. “A perfect start to a perfect day,” said Jack as he paced the short distance to work with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to unfold. Indeed, if on that fateful day he had been privy to certain information, and, if he had, instead, chosen not to leave home that morning the world might now be a quite different, darker place for us all. So, as we follow Jack along the road, let’s see how his adventure began…

“Morning, Jack,” said Mr. Fryer, passing on his way to the fish and chip shop.

“Morning,” Jack replied, adding, “I’ll see you later, Mr. Fryer, I’m looking forward to a nice piece of Rock Salmon for lunch today.”

“Ok, Jack, bye.” Mr. Fryer said as he turned down the lane disappearing from sight.

Passing the old rectory Jack always took the time to admire the Vicar’s wonderful garden. Today, as always, it looked a treat – picture perfect. Spying a particularly large clump of Sweet Williams just coming into their own, Jack stopped, and, leaning on the old rickety picket fence, enjoyed their wonderful perfume. “Hmm, that’s heavenly,” he said, allowing his mind to drift back to days long past, when, as a boy, he grew them in a little patch of garden assigned to him by his father.

“I’m glad you approve,” Vicar Fernbach said as he walked up to the fence.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there, vicar. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Glorious,” the old man replied as he lit his timeworn pipe, enjoying the aromatic perfume of the igniting tobacco.

“You know, you shouldn’t be doing that,” said Jack, scanning the garden.

“It’s all right, Jack, my wife has gone shopping,” said the old man, sucking the pipe. “She took the 237 bus, to Hounslow - won’t be back till some time this afternoon,” the vicar added.

“That still doesn’t mean you should be smoking, you know how it plays havoc with your health,” said Jack, sternly.

“I know, but let’s keep it as a secret between us,” said the vicar, winking. “How about a big bunch of flowers to brighten up your shop? It might take your mind away from all this smoke.” Vicar Fernbach waved his arms in a mock effort to disperse the smoke haze surrounding him.

“As long as they’re from that clump of Sweet Williams,” said Jack, chuckling, “You know, I have no idea how you managed to ever become a vicar, I really have no idea at all.”

The old man, knee deep amongst the wonderful assorted blooms, trod carefully until he arrived at said the clump of Sweet Williams. Bending down, he cut several dozen of the wonderful flowers until he had a huge armful, “How’s that, Jack? he asked, proudly displaying the fruits of his labour.

“God! That’s far too many,” said Jack, though he took them anyhow.

“You’re welcome, Jack,” said vicar Fernbach. “But remember, not a word to the missus?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack replied, laughing, “discretion is my middle name.” After bidding the vicar goodbye Jack once again headed down the road. Looking at his watch, he said, “Just enough time to pop into Bennett’s for a newspaper.” As he entered the small shop Jack never failed to be amazed at the variety of sweets on display behind the old, glass counter front, and the patience that Mr, and Mrs Bennett had for the mesmerised children it attracted.

“The paper, Jack?” said Mr Bennett, leaving two small children almost hypnotised at the counter.

“Please,” Jack replied, handing him the coppers. “Exact money today, no change needed.”

“Thanks, see you this evening?”

“You sure will, I can’t go home without a Lucky Bag for my niece, Ally.”

At this point Mrs. Bennett, who had just finished serving three giggling girls, looked up and her eyes were immediately drawn to the huge bunch of flowers. “Why, what lovely flowers, Jack. Where on earth did you get them?” she asked.

“The vicar gave me them. Here take some,” said Jack, dividing the large bunch in half.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Mrs Bennett said in astonishment at the unexpected gesture.

Looking at his watch, Jack said, “I had better get my skates on, don’t want the boss to be at my throat, you know.” Laughing, he disappeared through the open doorway.

“Bye,” said the happy couple.

Placing the folded newspaper under his arm, Jack began the last leg of his morning journey…

Standing at the kerb in his white coat with lollypop in hand was the old, familiar figure of Mr Swan. Jack walked up to, and alongside, the frail looking man. “Morning Jack,” said Mr Swan, looking left and right along the length of the road.

“Hello, Mr Swan. It’s a great day, isn’t it?”

“Lovely, I hope it keeps fine for my holidays,” the old man answered.

“Going anywhere nice?”

“Jill and I are going up to the Lake District, went there once, years ago, thought it about time we tried it again.”

“When are you going?”

“In three weeks.”

“I hope you both have a great time, Mr Swan,” Jack replied, with sincerity.

Spotting a gap in the traffic Mr Swan walked into the centre of the road holding the metal sign high for all to see. “There you are Jack, been doing that for a long time, haven’t I?” the old man said. And in truth he had, for Jack had been crossing at this same point since he was a young child. And now, even a mature adult, would never, ever consider doing otherwise. Life can be strange at times, can’t it?

On reaching the other side of the road Jack stepped onto the path, and walked the short distance down the driveway leading to his place of work – The Wooden Shop. Now you might think that a strange name for a shop, but it was made of wood - completely, so what better name might it have? The Metal Shop, maybe? Nah, that would be stupid – it was The Wooden Shop, and that was that.

Approaching the tired-looking door Jack took the key from his pocket, and pushed it home turning the lock mechanism anticlockwise. The door opened, and as he entered the premises the smell of its stock wafted out, greeting his sensitive nostrils. Smell is, perhaps, a rather inept and inappropriate word to describe the wonderful odour produced by the amazing variety of fruit and vegetables on offer. Aromatic aroma might better describe it because, truly, the array of produce on sale was staggering. There were apples from England, oranges from Spain, tangerines from Israel, peaches from the Canary Islands and leeks from Wales. There were also plums from Cornwall, pears from France, potatoes from Scotland, strawberries from Wexford and cabbages from Lincolnshire. Moving further a field there were pineapples from Ghana, bananas from Jamaica, melons from The Lebanon, kiwifruit from New Zealand, and yams from Nigeria. It was a most remarkable shop, indeed. Entering it was like going on a safari and having a geography lesson combined.

Jack stood in the doorway and flipped the light switch. The fluorescent tubes spluttered into life. He always enjoyed this part of the day. He loved his work and would never dream of doing anything else. Sure why would he? – He had a perfect life, and he loved every moment of it.

After placing the bunch of flowers and newspaper upon the counter Jack took off his heavy, checked coat and hung in on the hook behind the counter. Then, stepping into the small alcove to the rear, he plugged in the electric kettle and made himself a nice cup of tea. He always said, “It tastes better in a cup,” and, “Tea leaves are far superior that those awful, new fangled tea-bags.”

Pulling himself up onto the high stool next to the till Jack took a mouthful of tea, opened his newspaper and settled down to catch up with all the latest news. It always intrigued him how so many things, both good and bad, seem to happen somewhere else in the world. “Nothing much happens around these parts,” is what he always said, and up to then that certainly had been to be the case. Sunbury was a quite place in those days, a backwater, to a point, but soon, very soon the peace and tranquilly that he took so much for granted was to dramatically change …

Flicking through the pages of his newspaper Jack took another gulp of tea, and, scratching his chin, began reading an article about the wholesale price of fruit and vegetables that had caught his attention. It read, ‘Fruit and vegetable prices soaring.’ “Hmm, I wonder what this is all about,” he said, folding the page in half. He continued reading, ‘All around the world the wholesale price of fruit and vegetables is rocketing.’ It continued, ‘Almost overnight the supply of these items has been dramatically cut. While the reasons are varied, from bush fires in Australia to drought in France and England, from locusts in Africa to floods in Ireland the outcome is always the same – the supply of fresh fruit and vegetables has been dramatically cut, causing an unprecedented rise in the cost of these commodities.’

“I hope this is only a temporary thing,” said Jack. “We all need fruit and veggies. It will cause chaos if it continues.” Eying the words again, he said, “I’ll bet that by this time next month this news will be ancient history – it’s just a blip, that’s all, a simple blip. Yes, I am sure of it.” So without further adieu Jack turned over the page and got on with his reading. This time an article about mushrooms caught his attention, it read, ‘Mushroom blight wrecks havoc on growers.’ Jack read on, ‘ A hitherto unknown disease, a blight, is rapidly spreading through mushroom farms across the world. Nobody knows where it originated, and how it had been able to spread so quickly.’ “Hold on a minute,” said Jack, “just what is going on here? First we have fires, floods, locusts and what have you, and now there is a mysterious mushrooms blight!” Jack scratched his head trying to make some sense of it, but he couldn’t. He was so concerned by this news that he read both articles once again, but all that did was worry him all the more. Then taking one last drink from his now almost cold tea Jack carefully closed the newspaper before placing it beneath the counter. “There’s no time to dwell on this right now, it’s time to open up shop,” he said. And with that Jack pulled the two battered doors open, and gazed up the driveway looking for any potential customers.

Staring out, into the clear blue sky, Jack marvelled at the lovely weather. At times such as this he was glad that he hadn’t taken the advice, offered by so many customers and friends down the years, that he should replace the gardens surrounding his shop with tar macadam and concrete. 'A car park is what you need, Jack,’ one might say. Then another, ‘It’s not easy parking on the street, I might have to go to that new supermarket, at the cross.’ But despite all these ‘threats’ not one of his customers had ever deserted him. The garden stayed. So also did its apple trees, picnic tables and benches. Much better than a silly car park, don’t you agree?

The first person to venture in was, as always, little Tommy Tilbert. “Morning, Tommy, said Jack to the young boy.

“Hello, Mr Wilson,” Tommy replied.

“Your usual, Tommy? Jack asked.

“Yes please, Mr. Wilson,” said Tommy, smiling.

Now Tommy had a penchant for fresh, green apples. He loved them. So much that each and every day, on his way to school, he made a point of calling in to The Wooden Shop, to purchase one.

“I have just received a new batch of apples from New Zealand,” said jack poking around behind the counter. “I have been assured they are something special. Mind you they’re not green,” Jack warned him. “Would you like to try one?” Jack held up a large, dark red apple in his right hand.

The fruit was so dark it was almost purple in colour.

Tommy gazed at it, his mouth watering, “Yes please.”

“Here you are, Tommy,” said Jack as he handed the tempting apple to the waiting boy.

“Thanks, Mr Wilson,” said Tommy, offering the usual tuppence.

“It’s alright, Tommy. This one’s on me. All you have to do is tell me tomorrow how you liked it.

The young boy’s eyes lit up, and, taking the prize apple, he placed it carefully into his satchel. “Bye, Mr Wilson.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” and with that Tommy skipped through the doorway and was gone.

Jack was happy that Tommy Tilbert had accepted the New Zealand apple. It was part of a first consignment from that country, and the importers wanted feedback as to their quality, taste and customer appeal. Tommy was the perfect subject for this trial. Despite coming from a broken family (his father had died when he was only three years of age) Tommy was the best-behaved child Jack had ever come across. He often said, “When I get married, if I have ten children as good as Tommy there won’t be one too many.”

Putting on his brown shop coat Jack grabbed hold of the broom and began sweeping out the premises. It always amazed him how so much debris fell from his neatly packed shelves. Yes the shelves were always very neatly packed. Jack might have won prizes if there had been a competition for such an activity. Potatoes, turnips, even yams, all lined up in perfect rows with their best side facing out. “Just because they are vegetables doesn’t mean they can’t be presented as appealingly as apples or oranges,” he always said. And that was so true because each and every part of the displayed produce was flawless.

Sweeping a particularly messy assortment of fallen cabbage leaves into the dustpan Jack thought he heard something. He thought he heard talking. He thought he heard whispers. Bending down he took a look beneath the display counter, but could not see anything out of the ordinary that shouldn’t be there. “Hmm, I must be going dotty, there’s no one here,” he said, scratching his head. So taking hold of his broom Jack continued cleaning the shop of yesterday’s rubbish.

After he had finished sweeping Jack’s next job was to restock the shelves. It was at this point that he tidied the displays to their daily picture perfect state. He always received so much satisfaction in this activity. He knew full well that his efforts were soon to be ‘trashed’ by vigilant housewives inspecting the produce for the very best items, and he forgave them anyhow.

First on the agenda were the potatoes. They took the longest, so he got them out of the way first, and when he had completed this task they were a sight to behold; row upon row of lovely, fresh spuds ready to tempt his most fickle customer. Jack, next, turned his attention to the onions. He always had three separate displays in this category; Regular, Spanish and Spring. He flew through the Regular and the Spring onions, but when he began sorting the Spanish onions Jack came across something odd, and it disturbed his concentration entirely. You see, taking a large shiny onion from out of a Hessian net sack Jack placed it, and many more, next to the ones left over from the day before. When he had finished adding to and tidying the display Jack stood back, admiring his work, and only then did he notice that something was obviously not right. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, scratching his head trying to figure out the puzzle. He knew that something was different, and not as it should be, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t see what the problem actually was.

Mrs Sentence coming in for her usual Friday order of potatoes interrupted his thoughts. She was a regular. She came in each and every Friday to buy a stone of potatoes for the chips she made for her husband and children. “A growing family needs chips once a week, plus a good sized piece of fresh cod, though not that rubbish Mr Fryer offers, she added” She could be quoted for saying the same sentence, word for word, each and every Friday, without fail.

“Hello, Kitty,” said Jack, greeting her. “Spuds, as per usual?” he asked, by way of politeness.
“Yes, Jack,” Mrs Sentence, answered. “It’s a grand day, isn’t it?”

“Wonderful,” said Jack as he took hold of the scoop and began placing several large, round King Edward potatoes onto it.

“Oh, will you give me that one?” she asked, pointing to a particularly large specimen.

Jack reached for the said potato. It was only after picking it up did he see something peculiar about it. Unlike its comrades already in the scoop the skin of this potato had distinct marking upon it. For a second Jack hesitated.

“Is everything alright?” Kitty Sentence asked.

“What?”

“I said is everything OK?” she asked, again.

“Oh, yes. Yes, it’s fine, Mrs Sentence. I don’t know what came over me,” said Jack, disguising his confusion. Wasting no time he weighed the potatoes put them into a bag and gave them to the woman.

“That will be two and thruppence,” please.”

“Here you are, Jack, half a crown.”

Jack rung up the money on the till and returned thruppence change.

“See you next week, Kitty.”

Bye,” she replied as she disappeared through the open doorway.

Hurriedly walking to the front doors Jack closed them, one after the other, securing each with a hefty bolt. He needed time to think.

“If any more customers come they will jolly well have to wait,” said Jack, looking back and forth like someone was about to jump out and grab him. He remained still, standing rigidly behind the closed doors. His thoughts, racing, his heart pounding, Jack tried his best to come to terms with the peculiar thing he had, only a few moments earlier, experienced. “I see it, now,” he said. “Why didn’t I notice it before? How could I have overlooked something so obvious?” he asked.

Breathing deeply, in slow, regular breaths, Jack tried to compose himself and steady his nerves. “Ok,” he spoke, quietly. “Come on, Jack, there must be a rational explanation to explain it. Yes, there must be…but what???"

It was a quiet morning, the fine weather having distracted his regular customers elsewhere. “Thank heavens it’s quiet,” Jack said, tentatively stepping toward the potato counter, “I have no idea what I might say if someone were to knock on the door, looking for service.”

Approaching the potato counter all appeared, as it should be. Everything looked right, that is, apart from one small item – THE POTATOES ALL HAD FACES ON THEM

.
Finding courage, Jack leant over to inspect them in finer detail, and, yes, the potatoes definitely had faces, AND THEY WERE ALL STARING RIGHT BACK AT HIM!!!

To be continued...

© Gerrard T Wilson 2008