As I am now back at College, I am producing more than I am getting chance to post! Which is a good thing, well actually a great thing! However my novel is taking a bit of a back burner, but after the chaos of Christmas I intend to knuckle down and make some positive progress. As you know I entered the NYC Flash Fiction Competition (both entries posted on here) anyway as much I loved my first entry it did not achieve a top 15th place, so nil points. However lots of positive feedback from the Judges. Well my second story “Hinkley Honey” only went and got 9 points, 6th place out of 35 stories. I was elated and as far as my story critique goes I obviously don’t know what I am talking about as I much preferred my first entry. However 9 points was not enough to get me the in the top 5 out of 35 to go through to the next round, I did nonetheless get a respectable 11th place.
Here is what the Judges thought: -
- I liked the ending when David texted Bob. I thought that was a sweet moment.
- I really enjoyed the plot twist at the end of the story. The love connection was easy to engage with and cheer on. The depth of character development was great-- not too much but not too little.
- A great concept. I especially loved the reveal at the end that Bob had set the two up. Some nice humour throughout.
Well back to my college work and back to Week 2. Our task was to tell a story of our life through food. As I was raised above a Fruit & Veg Shop, and in memory of my wonderful mother, it seemed only right to tell my story about growing up amongst the apples & oranges.
“A Fruit for all Seasons”
As the first orange, hued rays of sunrise kissed the litter laden, worn grey paving stones of the deserted streets, silent and still. Whilst I was still curled in the silent slumber at peace, my consciousness swirled in the land of dreams, oblivious to the physical world. My mother bartered, traded and loaded her van with the produce for the day. Monday to Friday she rose at 3am in order to make the Preston markets for 4am, working tirelessly, without complaint to ensure I had the privilege of my peaceful sleep.
You see, I didn’t have a front door, a front garden or indeed a back garden. I had a shop door, a back yard and an outside toilet. I was raised above a ‘Fruit & Veg’ shop, it was never a house, but always my home. From as far back as I can recall, I lived and played amongst the freshest of foods, back when the bananas came housed within crates, straight off the boats, together with the occasional stow-away spider, terrifyingly bigger than my tiny hand. When we had a ‘spud-bin’ where potatoes were poured, straight from the sack and then bagged and weighed by me to earn my pocket money, as soon as I could reach the scale. The same scale which was used to weigh my baby brother, born at home on the 13th October 1976.
Whilst part of me craved the normality of living in a house, it was always to my home everybody came, it was a novelty, enticing, as much fruit as we could stuff into our eager faces. Numerous days spent sat in boxes in the shop window, treats from the customers as they admired my flushed cheeks and wild red curls, Easter eggs, selection boxes, the odd ten pence thrust into my fervent fist. Where everybody knew my name and the shop-assistants were my un-related Aunties. I was the proud daughter of a greengrocer.
With the rich smell of strawberries, this little fruit royalty wearing its deep green crown, perfectly red, flawlessly formed, bearing no resemblance to the ones you now get in the supermarkets with their diffuse flavour and unsightly white skin. Golden delicious, wet and crisp, as I bit into it, it broke between my teeth with a soft crunch. The lingering sounds drifting around my ears, filling my heart with pleasure. Icy sweetness filled my warm mouth. Oranges of all shapes and sizes, they lure you with their brightly-covered coating and the promise of a healthy sweet snack, by the time you penetrate that illuminous coating, pith and peel, chewy and tough. There must be an easier way of getting my vitamin C?
Rows upon rows, of the finest fruit, vegetables, salads and more. All our meals, always home cooked, consisted of produce freshly bought from the markets that morning. There isn’t a cabbage that I haven’t tried, no type of apple I haven’t bitten into, too many potatoes that I can honestly recall. A prohibition on Jersey Royals when they first came into season as they were far too expensive for my youthful palate. My phobia of mushrooms, where I couldn’t even touch one without collapsing into a heap of unnecessary revulsion. The battle of the sprouts every Christmas time.
As the residuum of summer would melt into autumn, Halloween brought pumpkins galore, on the shelves and on the floor, tough and heavy, a dirty orange, but what made Halloween extra special was the home-made toffee apples made by my mother. It was her secret recipe that she took to her grave, but never again have I tasted anything quite so delicious. The colour was fresh, a bright shiny brown. The toffee a gooey honey like liquid stimulated with a sweet and buttery taste, oh how that toffee melted on my warm tongue. Every batch that my mother would prepare, the last one was always saved for me. The caramel never quite covering the Golden Delicious lurking beneath, but the toffee was thick, delicious and filled me with delight.
All too soon the nights grew longer, the days shorter. Customers seeking refuge from the driving, freezing rain, together they would huddle around the Calor Gas heater, strategically placed, munching on hot mince pies and drinking mulled wine. The shop adorned with festive attire, swinging and swaying against the draft from the door. Clementines, Cranberries, Sprouts and Walnuts. Christmas trees lining the walls. Plentiful orders for families festivities. Each one prepared lovingly by my mother’s fair hands, little extras for the less fortunate households, collected or delivered by Christmas Eve.
My childhood is amass with poignant memories, of a mother who worked tirelessly to raise her family and run a successful business. The years rolled by. Seasons came and went. All too soon the menace of the Superstore emerged and the traditional fruit and veg store could survive no more. Times were hard, the price of potatoes went through the roof. We had to branch out, introduce groceries, fresh bread and cakes. Homemade sandwiches, salad boxes and sweets. It was a tough time but my mother survived, the business survived, my home survived.
The resilience of my mother was unwavering, over the tough times she fought assiduously to keep her business, her legacy, alive and she triumphed, so that many years later my children could also enjoy a childhood I had once relished. ‘Nanny Shop’ she became lovingly known as, and just as I had done way back when, her grandchildren laughed and they played, cramming their faces with delicious delights, until such time as my mother turned sixty five and hung up her greengrocer gloves for good.
Forever in our memories, forever in our hearts.
“In loving memory of my mother Carole 1942-2015”
