Prologue: A thing about small towns.
Ronnie ‘Spud’ Stevens had produced many a prize winner, just like his parents and his grandparents had. As far back as he could remember he was amongst the vegetables; as soon as he was mobile he’d been crawling around in the potato patch and that’s where the name came from: “We’ll just call him Spud”. His dad claimed it and his grandfather, too. It was never settled who came up with the name, but it stuck, and nobody called him anything else.
And never was a more apt nickname bestowed upon a person, because he too had the gift, the green fingers, and had taken to it like nothing else. At the age of 7 he won his first competition with a fine crop of new potatoes, appropriately, and from then on was a frequent winner of prizes for great and unusual vegetables. He was fortunate in that he grew up in a home with a large garden in the back; a good-sized lawn and enough room for growing, plus a nice greenhouse his dad built. His grandparents had a big allotment on the far side of town and if he wasn’t busy at one it would be the other, honing his skills and preparing for the next show. Some thought it strange that he showed little interest in much else, but as he was one of their own, they let him get on with it.
‘One of their own’, now there was a telling phrase. For a small town, somewhat geographically isolated, or forgotten, some bitter locals might say and knowing very well the devastation of unemployment, neglect, the death of major industries, it was almost a land within a land. If you were from there you could do okay, if you acted right, but any outsiders, anything a little different, was not easily tolerated.
Spud Stevens was tolerated because, although he was a little different, he tried to fit in. He’d even taken part in their sporting activities for a couple of seasons – he’d hated most of it – but he’d given it a go. Except for boxing, he did more than give that a go and was a good amateur middleweight, winning all nineteen of his bouts until he abruptly walked away from it. His friends were keen on their sports, they were always at it, Spud thought they would probably still be playing aged 60…or trying to. But he could hang out with them; drink the beer and listen to the talk, hear the stories – again. And cringe at some of the vile prejudice for as long as he could stand it. He’d tried to filter in some different views in a doomed attempt to make people more accepting and was met with resistance and mild ridicule. The reality was he tolerated them, because crippling self-doubt and fear of what else might be out there in the bigger world, kept him from leaving.
The most recent topic during mid week drinks and ‘8 ball’ games was an unprovoked attack on two young ladies who were holding hands on an evening walk; not bothering anyone, not causing a problem, just a young couple who were keeping to themselves and were set upon by a man who didn’t like what he saw. Maybe the sight of two happy people took the edge off his amphetamine and alcohol buzz, so he had to kick them around for a while!?
“So what? They shouldn’t have been doing that!” said Ricky McGlennon, the person who just last year had been fornicating on the main street in town at 1 o’ clock in the morning. Fornication/rape…depends on who you ask, either way she was persuaded to drop the charges.
“Yeah, but them botters are worse…any man who puts it there should have it cut off!” another voice of reason, Gerard Beck, a man who claims his wife loves to be on the receiving end of that very act… “But it’s different with a woman.”
“Yeah, as long as she wants it.” Max “Shagger” Slocombe reckoned.
“Even if she doesn’t!” That’s what Ricky reckoned.
Well, some folks can be very tolerant…of their own group behaviour, but anyone else, any outsiders, anyone whose skin is too much darker than their own, anyone who has a different name for God than the one they use, anybody who likes something or someone they shouldn’t, they better look out!
And that was the kind of talk you could expect to hear in some circles. Once or twice a week was all Spud could deal with. He was 26 years old, and his patience was thinner than it had been. Besides, he had work to do; those prize-winning vegetables and fruits don’t grow themselves, so he spent more and more time at ‘The Victory Garden’, his retreat. He loved being there. It wasn’t unknown for him to spend the night there.
