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"Some Notes re the Potato Plot"

by Christine Genovese, St.Léger, France

14th March:

When I’d finished, I was sweating. My face was smudged with dirt, dusty soil clung to my bare arms, and all my muscles ached. I stopped the rotavator and surveyed the result. Dark, rich, soft and fluffy. I tried not to think about it, but it’s barely a year since my husband’s coffin was covered with fresh earth.

I manoeuvred the machine out onto the path. The thick blanket of soil was ready and receptive, crying out for a crop. Last year’s afflictions – bindweed, nettles, thistles, dandelions and all – had been banished from my potato plot.

Before going in to shower and change I checked on the seed potatoes. They were neatly lined up on the staging in the shed and sprouting greenly from their wrinkled skins – like so many foetuses yearning for the earth’s soft womb. I smiled at them.

Tomorrow I’ll bury them, and instead of dying, they’ll rise like phoenixes and complete another full life cycle. Plants got a far better deal there than humans. Roger died long before they let his heart stop beating. He’d surrendered to inevitable death. Allowing his heart to stop beating changed very little.

I’ll have two rows of early potatoes and four rows of desirees. Thirty plants per row; one hundred and eighty plants in all. If I get six good potatoes per plant, then that’s three potatoes a day for a whole year. I feel proud of myself. My sixtieth birthday will catch up with me before this crop goes in the jute sacks for storage, but I can still tame this plot of land. It will bear potatoes.

I’m on my own tonight, as I am most nights now. For supper I treated myself to some rösti. I fetched three good-sized potatoes from the shed. They’re still in perfect nick, the pinkness of their skins showing through the greyness as I peeled them. Once their protective armour is removed their golden goodness is revealed, glistening with rich, starch-saturated moisture.

I’m getting used to my own company. I always have a good book to read, and there’s often one of the children, or Derek, who wants a chat on the phone.

Derek has helped me through the low points of this grief-ridden year. It must be over thirty-four years since I met his wife, Nicky, at the antenatal classes. The four of us became firm friends and our children are like siblings. We went on holidays as one big family and never missed a New Year’s celebration. At least not until Nicky died in that car crash twelve years ago. Derek threw himself into his work, got promoted and moved away; - not far really, but we drifted apart a bit. The children are scattered far and wide, but they still meet up when they can.

Since Roger died Derek has been checking up on me regularly. Just friendly of course, like we always were. A hug now and then when I’m low, and always ready to help. I feel good when he’s been. Warm and satisfied, like now after I’ve eaten my comfort food rösti.

Tomorrow I’m planting the early potatoes.

5th April:

Derek was strangely absent-minded when he came to see me last weekend. He did a wonderful job changing the starter rope on the lawnmower. But half-begun sentences were left unfinished, like the too hot tea in his mug.

I’ve taken him for granted. I know that. It seemed natural he’d be concerned for me in my widowed misery. That’s what old friends are for, and we did what we could when Nicky died. The children stayed here for the whole summer. Even if Derek didn’t. Work he called it. Grief it was.

Now I realise I’ve been selfish in my grief. Clawing and clamouring for sympathy like a spoilt child. Giving nothing in return. Do I even listen when he speaks about his everyday life? Perhaps he sometimes tries to tell me about people he knows. About a dear friend in trouble. But I turn a deaf ear. My own troubles push other matters out of the way.

I made him his favourite gratin dauphinois. Tender slices of creamy and delicately garlic-flavoured potatoes, just going crispy brown on top and round the edges. We both agree that good food becomes exquisite when it’s shared in pleasant company.

I planted the four rows of desirees today.

14th April:

The early potatoes aren’t up yet and I’m beginning to fret. Shoots should be making their way to the surface, where the sun’s life-giving force will coax and caress them, and they’ll develop fully both above and below soil level. Down there, underneath that deceptively protective and nourishing topsoil, so many dangers are lurking. Predatory wireworms gnawing at unsuspecting baby shoots – destructive fungi threatening to harm them. Perhaps I planted them too early?

Derek hasn’t been in touch for a couple of weeks. Most unusual. Last time he came I’d just received a wedding invitation from a family we used to know, when all our children were young. It was accompanied by a friendly letter saying how we shouldn’t lose touch despite the passing years. Their daughter was finally getting married and surely we still remembered those wonderful summers in Italy?

I remembered. So did Derek when I showed him the letter. The drive down through France. That ridiculous song the children never tired of: ‘And they all rolled over, and one fell out, There were eight in the bed, and the little one said, Roll over …’ Tears of laughter streaming down our cheeks as we tried to sing more loudly than everybody else.

Two have fallen out of our lives since then. These people were obviously unaware of Roger’s death. I’m not even sure they knew about Nicky.

We were in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, with those memories between us, triggered off by a letter that had cut across the barrier of time. I couldn’t help myself. I cried hopelessly. Derek folded me into his big, strong bear hug and I nuzzled my face closely against his chest to get the musky smell of him. From my face and all the way down to my toes I felt something stirring, the tender shoot of some half-forgotten, urgent need. I wanted him to kiss me.

He didn’t. But before I accepted that he wouldn’t, because we are just friends, I sensed that his urge was – if possible – even stronger than mine.

18th April:

I don’t know what to make of some of the phone calls from the children. Simon, my PE teacher son, is canoeing in Wales with a group of teenagers. That usually means he’s unreachable. But he’s phoned me three evenings – probably while they’re eating, because I can hear them in the background – and the conversation always comes to a grinding halt. “Must run, Mum. I’m needed.” But yesterday he did ask if I’d heard from Derek. He cut it off in the usual way when I asked him why.

Then Janey, Derek’s librarian daughter who always takes ages to come to the point, rang me. She likes to compare the facilities where she works with those at my local library, and we often chat about my weekly reading circle. She picked at the subject from every angle, moving round in fussy circles. At last she asked me how I thought her father was coping. “With what?” I asked. “Well, generally,” she said and continued her expertly woven prevarications.

20th April:

The worst has happened. About a third of the early potatoes had pushed a few dark green, hairy leaves above ground. They looked so robust and eager to live. But the frost last night squeezed the life out of them and now they’re shrivelled and black. Will the rest of the plant be strong enough to rise up after that bitter blow? Gently I earthed up the rows, well aware that I’m powerless against the frosty nights – if they continue. They’re still far too frequent. As soon as the sun sets the temperature goes into a nosedive, and an hour or so before dawn it dips down below zero. That’s not what the eager new growths expect to find out there in the free and open air.

But the sun is more of an early riser these days; its power is on the increase.

I’ve had a couple of chats with Myriam lately. At 25 she’s the youngest of our combined brood of four, and I’m so glad I had a daughter even if she kept us all waiting. Unlike Janey she’s direct and sometimes brutally truthful. Myriam said they all thought I knew about Derek’s relationship with this woman. Guilt tripping me like only she knows how to. Why didn’t I know? Had Derek lied to me? No, of course not. It’s all my fault for not asking, and – even worse – for selfishly changing the subject whenever his personal concerns are brought up.

So for about four years Derek has been seeing a woman whose husband is in the Merchant Navy and rarely at home. When he is, they have rows. Derek thinks she’ll divorce him, but she keeps stalling. Then he starts seeing me. He tells her all about it, because I’m just an old friend, and suddenly she does want the divorce. The husband comes back on leave, they argue, she swallows some tablets. No real danger as the husband finds her in time. She drops the divorce idea, the husband goes back to sea, but she threatens to repeat the performance if Derek finishes their relationship. I think that’s more or less it.

23rd April:

Last year’s potatoes are nearly finished. I was earthing them up when Roger’s life forces were draining out of him in hospital. I drove the three prongs of the cultivator ferociously into the soil and hacked away between the rows as if my life depended on it. I shifted impossible quantities of soil with each punishing pull of the rake. The soil remained impassive under my vicious cuts and blows. In fact it benefited from my outburst of despair.

Yesterday, when I plunged my hand into the sack to get some potatoes for my meal, my fingers squished right through the skin of a rotten one. The stench made me gag. Putrefying animal corpses are nothing in comparison. I had to spread them all out and isolate the ones contaminated by the rotting liquid. I threw away two that were starting to rot. Some of the remaining ones are sprouting. Unhealthy-looking, parasitic, white spears sucking the goodness from the tubers. A few are going green. I must have left the sack open one day. Potatoes are the vampires of the vegetable world. Poisonous through and through, but they hide it well until they’re accidentally exposed to sunlight.

Derek rang me last night. He apologised for not having been to see me, but he’s been busy. He can’t promise anything at the moment, but he’ll try to find an opportunity to visit me soon. That was it. The line was crackling thickly with unspoken words. My questions remained unformed.

28th April:

All the rows are pushing tentatively through the surface now. I tell them it’s alright, the frost won't get them. I hoe carefully between the rows. It’s looking full of promise.

Derek came down yesterday. He told me about his relationship, but it sounded different coming from him – tame and banal. He said they planned to marry when her divorce came through, and in the meantime he wouldn’t be able to see me because she was suffering from clinical depression, and he had to help her fight it.

I prepared the Portuguese Pan dish for him. Potatoes boiled in their skins, peeled and cut into cubes, given a crisping finish in the oven with sliced onions and anchovies. Chopped hard-boiled eggs and parsley scattered on top before serving. Perfect for lunch.

But my heart wasn’t in it. These last potatoes are storing up poisonous solanine under their aging skins, in the green parts, and around the white, spearlike sprouts. They’re so innocent when they’re young. The tops brazenly advertise their kinship with the deadly nightshade, but the delicious tubers deny it. These old ones are beginning to show their true colours.

10th May:

I’m surprised the potatoes are doing so well. The earlies will be flowering soon – the very first new potatoes ready to harvest in about three weeks’ time. The weather hasn’t been particularly clement, and I feel I’ve neglected to look after them properly. But of course I’m looking forward to them. There’s nothing like them. I’m sure I’ll enjoy them when the time comes.

Adam rang yesterday. That’s Janey’s little brother, although at 31 he’s a big boy, married with two young children and a brilliant architect. He’s not good at keeping in touch, but I’d sent my four-year-old godson a birthday present, and he rang to thank me. After the general chitchat about the children, his wife who runs yoga classes, and the house they’re building, I thought he’d put the phone down. But he didn’t. He said he was worried about his father. He was a bit cagey about it, so in the end I told him to give me the picture in straight terms. She’s just using him, he said. Threatening suicide to make sure he doesn’t abandon her. Whenever the husband’s around she doesn’t need him. He’s trapped in a hopeless situation and getting seriously depressed. Couldn’t I help?

1st June:

I can’t remember when our last New Potato Bash was. Roger’s illness and death may have bonded us in an abstract, emotional way. But when did we last get together for pleasure? It is time. I’ve decided. There’ll be eleven of us; including the two children, and Harriet, Derek’s lady friend. I’ve rushed around over the last two weeks to prepare everything. Misery and neglect encourage the onset of dilapidation. I nearly gave up when I saw the state of the barbecue, the croquet set and the table tennis. But it’s all set out ready in the garden now, and I won’t let on how much scrubbing and wire wool it took to reverse the effects of mould, rust and disuse.

Derek and Harriet will leave in the evening, as will Adam and Yvonne with their two children. Myriam, Janey, Simon and Becky, his girlfriend of many years, will stay the night.

2nd June:

It started off fine. I’ll give Harriet credit for trying to join in despite our long-established eccentricities. She followed behind our procession to the potato plot. Me in front with the garden fork held up vertically before me. Myriam behind me with the plastic bowl. Then the rest of them with their deadpan serious faces, chanting the mumbo-jumbo prayer – mainly the word ‘potato’ repeated rhythmically – raising and lowering their arms. I dug out four plants and Janey yelled out ‘sixteen’ having counted the first yield. Three eager counters sifted through the others, hoping to beat Janey.

We slipped so easily into our former ways. The boys at the barbecue, the girls in the kitchen. Harriet helped set the table on the terrace, and the meal went on forever because we were too busy talking to eat.

The potatoes were a treat. The transparent skins slid off as I scrubbed them, and they were deliciously firm and earthy to eat. I served melted butter thick with chopped chives to accompany them. Unnecessary really. They have a regal quality that needs no dressing up.

Harriet couldn’t play table tennis, and didn’t seem to mind being excluded from our tournament. She was better at croquet; at least until she experienced our sanguine roqueting rules and Yvonne sent her ball hurtling off. But Derek sorted that out.

When Janey and Simon started squabbling over a point my eyes misted over. It was like going back twenty years. Derek put his hand round my shoulder for a sympathetic squeeze. But he dropped me instantly like a hot potato, and a quick glance in Harriet’s direction told me why.

After tea and the usual game of tiddly-winks, we got the rope ready for the tug-of-war. Of course we’d felt the drops, but we never let rain ruin our fun. By the end of the first round it was bucketing. Yet I felt so replete with warmth and happiness, getting drenched and falling over on the slippery grass in a heap of giggling bodies.

Harriet had disappeared when we finished. Derek eventually found her in his car. He made his excuses. It was late – they’d better go back. She didn’t say goodbye.

19th June:

I’ll be sixty soon. Derek has been to see me once since the New Potato Bash. He tried to explain something, but it failed to make sense, so we talked about the children, and he left.

That’s quite a while ago.

Just the desirees left now. The last new potatoes were disappointing. Once the effect of the family’s magic chanting wears off they lose their superior taste.

I read a lot and go to my reading circle every week.

The children phone regularly. They’re up to something. Their conversations are charged with undercurrents. I can tell the jungle drums have been busy. I’d rather not have a birthday party. But nobody asks me what I want.

Derek just rang. The secret is out and I’m all fluttery. Two weeks in a farmhouse in Italy that sleeps ten. That’s what they want to book for my birthday. We’ll all go, including the little ones, – but without Harriet. Her husband has taken early retirement from the Merchant Navy.

Derek’s coming down tomorrow to show me the brochure. If I’m interested, he said. They make wonderful gnocchi in the area. I’ll be back in plenty of time to lift and store the desirees. And I’llmake gnocchi for us this winter.

JUDGES' COMMENTS:

Lucy McCarraher: "I loved the Potato Plot - for me it was close to the perfect short story. An ordinary subject treated with originality and subtlety, through a very clever metaphor which was used to introduce all sorts of emotional elements and character study that was rarely directly stated. The writing was deceptively simple and the structure excellent. It also lacked all sentimentality, despite the content and provided exactly the right amount of space for the reader's imagination to fill."

Jo Holloway: "This story captivated me from the first moment, for all the reasons Lucy has laid out above. It had so many nuances and depths to it, stated in such a matter-of-fact way. The story led you on, with even a touch of intrigue regarding her husband's death - while in the end avoiding the cliché most other stories opt for! The writing style, grammar and punctuation were excellent, the piece was beautifully polished and a lot of thought and care had been taken over the whole work, including structure, character and presentation. A richly deserving winner."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Christine Genovese: "The one skill I couldn’t wait to master as a child was reading. I remember reading books at breakneck speed, skipping all the long and hard words, as they didn’t seem to interfere with the storyline.
    I’m a more careful reader now, but I still love a good book. The trouble with good literature, however, is that it’s so awe-inspiring. I saw myself as an admirer rather than a creator of literature.
    Looking idly through the local evening classes on offer one winter, wondering whether to try cookery or Spanish, I spotted the creative writing course that changed everything. I joined with trepidation, expecting a group of pros who’d freeze me and my clumsy beginner’s efforts out with disdain.
    I stayed for two seasons and joined another, smaller group as well. Their enthusiasm was contagious and the discussions friendly and helpful.
    That’s now over fifteen years ago. Since then I’ve moved to France where I’ve taught English as a foreign language. My writing output has been modest, but I’ve kept it up and a few articles and short stories have made it to publication. I’ve also joined an e-mail group of writers and I find it stimulating to be ‘surrounded’ by people who share my interest in writing. I shall need their encouragement to embark on ‘that novel’.
    I enjoy writing stories with an angle. I prefer to write about ordinary people and the problems of everyday life. And I like to link this to a theme. When I read about the Sunpenny Publishing competition I had a feeling that my writing was somehow in line with their way of thinking. So I entered my story, and I’m glad I did.
    The countryside around here has plenty of material for articles, and I like researching interesting topics, especially about the old way of life. Unfortunately my digital camera had an accident and I need a new one to be able to illustrate my articles. With my prize money from winning the Sunpenny Publishing short story competition I can now treat myself to this important piece of equipment."

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