The Harbottle Skylon

Following on from my last post about business cashing in on the Festival of Britain, I was inspired to write this short story:

 The Harbottle Skylon

Mrs Bartholomew shook the Illustrated News and expelled a high-pitched “Ha!” Mr Bartholomew paid little heed to his wife’s exclamation.  He sat with a piece of paper and a pencil, trying to work out an exciting new display for this season’s salad vegetables. He wondered if it was possible to create a face.  Perhaps lettuce hair, radish eyes and a cucumber smile. That would make them stop and look.  Another “Ha!” came from behind the Illustrated News, this time accompanied by a disdainful sniff.  Mr Bartholomew failed to respond again.

“Have you seen this, Father?” The Bartholomews were of the age where Christian names had been long forgotten.  They had no place in their home or shop.

“What’s that, Mother?”

“This advertisement here, using the festival dome thing to sell tinned peas.  Blatant cashing in it is, I don’t know how they’ve got the cheek.”  She held up the offending page for her husband to squint at.  He moved his glasses up and down his nose.

“Well, that’s processed pea sellers for you. Always taking the lazy way, just like their customers.”

“What, I ask you, has a tin of peas got to do with the festival?”

“Nothing Mother, nothing at all.”

“Blatant.”  She turned the page, they both returned to the previous silence.

Mr Harbottle parked his wheelbarrow outside the Bartholomews’ shop on the following afternoon. He brought in a wooden crate which overflowed with tomatoes, filling the air with the smell of hot greenhouse. He placed the crate on the end of the counter and immediately began to rub his buttocks and puff out his cheeks.

“You should have called out, Mr Harbottle.  I could have carried those in for you.”

“It’s what keeps me going though, isn’t it?  I reckon I’m in just as good shape as you, lad.”

Mr Bartholomew laughed as he began to pick through the tomatoes.  They were the first of the season, some of them still not quite ripe.

“These’ll sell well, I reckon.  Got any more lettuces ready?”

“Not be long.  I’ll get you a few by the end of the week if this warm sun stays with us.”

Mr Bartholomew took a handful of coins from the till and passed them over to the old man.  A group of schoolboys paused outside the shop and giggled at the window display.  One of them came inside and bought an apple.  He rubbed it on his short trousers before taking a greedy bite.

“Like your salad face, Mister!”

“Good lad!  You tell your Mum to come and get her salad here.  Tell her not to bother with old Hoole…misery guts he is.”

“Right-oh, I will!”

The boys raced off along the High Street. 

“Is he giving you trouble then, this Hoole feller?” Mr Harbottle leaned on the counter.

“Well, I reckon people are going around there to see what he’s like.  He’s a novelty.  But he’s new to it all. People know that I’ve been in this game much longer than him and I know quality fruit and veg.”

“So custom has dropped off a bit since he opened then?”

“Perhaps a bit, but they’ll be back.”

“So that’s why you’ve gone all out with the window display then.  I see.” He staggered over for another look. “Good idea.  That cucumber reminds me, I’ve got some lovely marrows on the way, shall I bring a few?”

The greengrocer hesitated. The marrows hadn’t gone down very well last year, and people had been speculating on exactly what Harbottle had been using as fertilizer.  They were a lovely size, they gave old Harbottle that, but the taste was odd.  One or two people had tried to find out what he put on them by leaning on the allotment fence and gently probing him as he hoed between the rows of carrots. But his only response had been to tap the side of his nose and change the subject. Mr Bartholomew had ended up throwing a considerable number of browning marrows onto his compost heap.

“Well then, Mr Harbottle. There just wasn’t the demand for them last year.  The old marrow’s not a favourite vegetable.  Tell you what, you just bring me a couple and we’ll see how they go.”

“Alright, next week or two then.” He lifted up his hand and shuffled out of the shop.

The marrows arrived at the end of the following week, ballasting Mr Harbottle’s wheelbarrow beneath dark green lettuce heads.  He had wrapped them in sheets of newspaper to stop them from rolling around and gathering at one end as he tackled the incline on Station Road.  Mr Bartholomew met him outside the shop and enthused about the lettuces, putting them straight on display.  He then lifted the four marrows out, tucking two under each arm.

“These are a good weight again Mr Harbottle.  Have you been putting your secret fertilizer on them again?”

“Of course.  Plenty more of them if they sell.  Just keeping two or three back for the show.”

Mr Bartholomew took the marrows inside, straight through the shop and into the kitchen, where his wife was boiling up raspberry jam.

“I think we’d better try one of these, Mother, before we put them on sale.”

“Oh, not Harbottle’s marrows again? I had enough of those last year.”

“Well, we’ll just have a taste of one later, just to see.”

“Alright.  I’ll stick some in a cheese sauce.  Now clear off while I get these jam pots ready.”

The glut of raspberries resulted in the jam-making session overrunning a little.  Mrs Bartholomew was behind with the evening meal.  This irked her more than it did her husband.

“That jam brings in plenty of custom, Mother.  Don’t you worry.”

She whipped a wooden spoon around a milk pan, stopping to sprinkle in a handful of grated cheese.

“Well, sit yourself down and put your feet up for five minutes, Father.  Won’t be long now.”

He rolled up his sleeves and did as he was bid. The sheet of newspaper that one of the marrows had been wrapped in lay on the table, discarded in a hurry.  He pulled it towards himself and began to read.  Most of the left hand side was taken up with pictures from the festival in London.  The centrepiece of the montage was a long photograph of the Skylon, hovering above a group of pointing schoolboys. A small thought occurred to Mr Bartholomew, but he put it aside as he wife presented him with a steaming plate of vegetables crowned by a tiny pork chop. The marrow lay sliced under a blanket of cheese sauce.  He pushed it around with his fork.

“I only used a bit of it.”  Mrs Bartholomew sat down by her husband with her own plate. “The other half’s in the larder in case we like it this time.”

She watched her husband.  He stabbed the smallest slice and pushed it into his mouth.  As he chewed, the corners of his lips curled downwards, while his nose wrinkled upwards.

“Cor.  It’s worse than I remember it.  I can’t sell that!”

“Can’t you even stomach it in the sauce?”

“You try it, Mother, and tell me what you think!”

She did so, and immediately followed it down with half a glass of water.

“What DOES he grow them in?”

“Search me.  They’ll have to go on the compost heap again.  Or you can give them to your sister.”

“I don’t think even our May could make a decent chutney with these.”

Mrs Bartholomew began to clear the table while her husband went to stack the marrows in the outhouse.

“Put that on the newspaper pile, dear.”

She handed him the crumpled sheet that had been used to wrap the marrow.  He looked at it again, and then at one of the marrows. He took them both straight through the outhouse and into his little workshop, calling back to his wife that he was just going to have half an hour on an idea that he’d had.  She rolled her eyes and stacked the dishes in the sink.

Two days later, Mr Harbottle had a little trouble parking his wheelbarrow outside the shop.  A group of four women stood on the pavement, shifting their shopping baskets from arm to arm and laughing. One of the women leaned over to squeeze a tomato and nodded to her friend.

“There’s some more of those, freshly picked, in my barrow, Missus.” He manouvered in, partly blocking the display in front of the ironmongers next door.

“Is that one of yours as well, Mr Harbottle?” The group began to laugh again, peering into the window. Mr Harbottle followed their pointing fingers, then bent over, squinting over the top of his glasses.

“That looks like it could be one of my marrows, yes.  What’s he done with it?”

The marrow had been pared back to make it look thinner, it was somehow suspended in mid air by several sticks of celery.

“He’s turned it into a Skylon, hasn’t he?”

“A what?”

“Skylon, Mr Harbottle. Like what’s at the festival in London.  I think it’s marvellous.  I’m going in to get some of these tomatoes.”

Mr Harbottle took his cap off and wiped his forehead with it.  “Whatever next.”

Find more fiction by Sarah Miller Walters by clicking here.