It was a glorious day for the Little Nimby Flower and Produce Show. The marquee was fully erect on the green, and there were stalls springing up around it, a Coconut Shy (the outgoing coconuts never seem to make it across to England) Hoopla, Whack the Rat and other village traditions. The show always seemed to fall on a hot day, and the local young girls arrived in skimpy summer outfits. The Vicar always nobly volunteered to be the victim at the Soak the Bloke stall, where he spent the afternoon getting doused in cold water. He never seemed to mind; indeed he said he found it oddly helpful.
The judging in the big tent had been going on in private for some time. The folk of Little Nimby were keen gardeners and there was always a lot of competition. If anything, the hot weather seemed to help: more people than ever wanted an entry.
Finally the judging was complete. The mayor pulled the flaps apart and declared the marquee open to the public. Priscilla, who had been trying to win a ping pong ball by throwing goldfish into glass bowls, was keen to get inside and see who had carried off the rosettes.
She came first to the bakery section, where as usual Miss Glover’s buns had again been declared Best in Show.
The Sticky Tart section was a draw between the two most highly regarded practitioners of the art: Mrs G Lans and Miss L Abia.
So Priscilla had to go to the vegetables to get a surprise. And she certainly did, encountering quite the most magnificent collection of aubergines a girl is ever likely to see. But that was not all. She positively gasped with astonishment when she saw the courgette entry. Mark Dibber, who was one of the judges, heard her cry of amazement and was in a moment standing behind her, a prize parsnip in his hand.
“Impressed, eh?” He asked, noticing how the sunlight, streaming in through a gap in the marquee, played on her hair. He leaned closer but was unable took make out the tune. Still it was nice being so close to such a lovely woman. She turned suddenly, and found herself gazing into a pair of steely grey eyes. She had expected the judges to be rather older than this man, and definitely not so handsome. Mark Dibber was tall, and wore his hair swept across his brow. When he wasn’t wearing it, he kept it on the bedpost brushed in exactly the same style.
Priscilla felt emboldened by the surrounding vegetables.
“You have amazing eyes” she said, “steel grey”
“Yes, they’ve always been grey” he replied. Sensing her interest in his parsnip, he held it up. “I’ve had to disqualify this” he said.
“Gosh!” She exclaimed. “What on earth for? Is it the wrong size?”
“False start” he said grimly. “It’s a shame. But rules are rules”
He put the disgraced parsnip down.
“Would you like me to show you around?”
“I know what a round is, Thankyou” said Priscilla, a little primly. She didn’t like to be patronised.
“I can give you a tour of the prize marrows” he offered. At that, Priscilla immediately forgave him over the patronising incident; after all, such an offer does not come knocking twice, and Priscilla was not a girl to pass up a knocking.
Just as he had promised, he showed her the finest courgettes, the most perfectly formed bulbs of garlic. He showed her the winning beans, all varieties, though he preferred the broads.
The marquee was deserted by the time they came to the highlight of the afternoon, but it was definitely worth waiting for.
He never even asked her name, nor told her his. At the time this seemed perfectly natural..they were just two people together, enjoying some late summer heat amongst the brassicas.
“This is it, then” he said, his excitement mounting like a Jack Russell.
“The prize exhibit”
She looked…She gasped…
It was truly astounding. The little card beside it said, instead of the full name of the entrant, just “Mr M D”
Priscilla turned and gazed into his eyes, which were of course steel grey,
“My marrow” he said, with a smile
“But you’re a judge! Surely your not allowed an entry?”
“That’s my secret” he said. “I always enter without giving my name. It’s better that way”
