All stories

I hunched over my pint, watching as he continued to pester the women at the next table. His technique was less charismatic flourish, more slaverous grind, like a dog trying to wear through bone to get at the marrow inside.

For all my money he’d blown it at the introduction, presenting himself as Larry ‘as in, Lairy…’ complete with a chimp-like strut, the choreographic equivalent of yelling ‘Oi oi, saveloy!’. He’d topped off the dance by gesturing open-palmed towards his own mouldering wurst, just to make sure his message was fully deployed.

His name was Pete, he pushed spreadsheets around a business park outside Driffield and, for some reason, he was still being tolerated more than twenty minutes in.

I sucked on my beer and made a wearied expression towards whichever of the women might happen to look in my direction. I told myself I was trying to offer sympathy, and maybe soften the impact of his assault in some way. In truth, I was hoping to trick one of them into thinking I was… something, so they might find me interesting instead.

It’s was ten o’clock on Saturday night and it was the same as it was every week in The Queens Hotel. The kids had washed in and out as a tide, headed away into the dark to find somewhere playing music from this century. The couples and families had started retreating towards bottles and beds, no longer needing the company of others for what was to come in their night. So this is what was left: the drunk, the desperate, the divorced, and the few tourists who’d been unfortunate or inert enough to wind up in these walls for the death of their evening.

Next, the night vendors would appear. There’d be a couple selling rubber wristbands - a certain colour for a certain cause - proudly displaying charity I.D. they’d printed at home. Then we’d get the ‘rose for a rose’ guy - a mock-Spaniard, greased up and ripe with market-stall aftershave - touting polyester posies as skeleton keys for stubborn knickers; Larry would buy at least one. Finally, one side of last-orders, we’d get the fish man - resplendent in stained smock - carrying on old theatre intermission tray filled with pots of various vinegared seafood; I’d probably invest in a mixed pot, seeing as the smell of my breath was unlikely to be a concern in the immediate future.

One of the women turned her head towards me and smiled. I responded by tipping my glass before it reached my mouth and pouring four ounces of bitter down my shirt while I gazed back at her with all the prowess of a windy infant. She turned back to the Larry show and pulled on her G&T, managing to successfully deliver all liquid to her mouth, like a normal human being.

I was contemplating an early dismount when a ripple ran through the women. There was a flurry of patted arms and drained drinks before shoe straps were straightened, bags hung from shoulders and, like a skulk of spooked foxes, they scurried away, leaving Larry bemused and alone at the table where they’d once been.

I watched his shoulders drop as he exhaled a sigh and took himself to a vacant spot at the end of the bar. I finished what remained unspilled of my pint, moved to the stool beside him, and ordered us a fresh one each.

The morning sun sparkled down over the village of Little Otterton. The postman was beginning his rounds, birds chirruped happily in the hedgerows and there was a palpable air of excitement hanging over everything, like the village itself was holding its breath.

Today was the day of the midsummer fair.

Crisp, bright bunting danced in colourful ribbons through the air around the Green, and striped tents waited anxiously around the edge. The centre of the Green, as always, was reserved for the displays of the prize vegetables, the highlight of the day. The broad tables stood bare and expectant, ringed with Mrs Boverly-Robinson’s exquisitely crocheted flowers.

Larry was possibly the most excited man in the village today. He padded out to the greenhouse to look at his triumph. His day had finally come. There was no way Mr Boverly-Robinson could top this beast, Larry was certain his would be the biggest marrow - no, the biggest vegetable at the show.

It had taken him and Jacob, his eldest, to lift it into the wheelbarrow and the two of them had battled the uneven roads and lumpy grass to install it anonymously in pride of place on the table. No-one had seen them and with a grin of satisfaction, Larry slipped away to await the judging at home.

Midday and the green was awash with pretty dresses and rolled up shirt sleeves, sticky-faced children and courting couples. The air rang with the clack of balls hitting coconuts and the ring of the high striker. Larry strode confidently to stand with the others and hear the verdict.

A thrill of delight coursed through him when the judge pinned a bright red ‘1st’ ribbon onto his marrow, but before he could stand to claim his prize, he realised that someone else was standing up there already. They were shaking the judge’s hands and smiling for the photographer from the paper.

It was Mr Boverly-Robinson! Taking credit for his marrow!

“Oi!” Larry shouted “That’s not your marrow, it’s my marrow!”

Mr B-R turned a nonchalant gaze on Larry that oozed wealth and sophistication.

“Dreadfully sorry old chap, but I don’t think so. Brought it here myself this morning and dashed heavy it was too.”

A ripple of laughter.

The audacity. The outrageousness of it! Larry was so angry he didn’t hear the whisper at his side

“Larry, he does it every year - that’s why he always…”

But Larry was up. He marched forward, picked up a smallish pumpkin and brought it down smartly over Mr B-R’s smug head.

A shocked silence rippled around the crowd. Then Larry picked up tomatoes and one by one pelted them at the pumpkin-covered man’s face.

Pulp and juice flew everywhere and in a moment - nobody could quite remember how or when - the crowd suddenly found itself flinging giant vegetables at one another, smearing, splattering, wiping, mashing - an orgiastic explosion of vegetables in the middle of the Green.

Later on Mr B-R, still covered in pumpkin and tomato and a few other vegetables besides stood everyone a pint of cider, including Larry, and thus the Little Otterton Vegetable Flinging tradition was born

It was almost two years Larry had been back home, but only now had he finally managed to get his hands on an allotment. Like hen’s teeth, they were. It was a lovely spot, five minutes’ walk from his house, and even better, you could get your car in and up close to your spot. The bylaws even allowed permission for a small shed. It would have been perfect, if not for Jack. They had been in school together, and wouldn’t you know it, the guy was chairman of the allotment association. He was stood waiting for Larry. He gave him a gurning smile, shook his hand, and said, in his best foghorn bellow, ‘Lairy, my man. How has it been, all these years?’

Larry tried his best, but hard as he squeezed his hand, he couldn’t make any impression against the full force of John’s handshake.

Larry said, ‘Erm, actually, just Larry’s fine.’

Jack snorted. ‘For old mates, like us? You will always be Lairy. Lairy Larry, me old mate. Now come and meet some of your new pals.’

A couple of other old duffers were waiting with a gift box of seeds and natural fertilisers. Jack’s booming voice introduced them: Shorty and Tiny. Following much hearty back slapping, Jack begged away – Very Important Allotment Business was calling, and he wasn’t known as Allotment Jack for nothing.

Larry accepted the welcome box. The other chaps looked to be a friendly enough pair, both of them with the look of quiet, self-effacing types.

‘Just call me Larry. Lairy’s some stupid nickname, from school.’

Shorty shook his head gloomily. ‘Don’t try and fight it. Look at me. I got caught short one time, and now I’m Shorty, forever.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Larry said. ‘Paisley shirt. ONE TIME. And I’ve been Lairy Larry ever since.’

Tiny scowled, and stomped away, muttering.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Shorty said. ‘He’s got it the worst of all. He used to raise miniature Cornish game hens.’

Tiny stopped and turned to face them. In a taut, low voice, he said, ‘The male bird was proportional to the size of the females! But that bastard, Jack…’ Tiny turned and resumed his indignant stomping.

‘Poor guy,’ Shorty said. ‘But you own one tiny cockerel and let slip to Jack…’

‘We should come up with a nickname for him,’ Larry said. ‘Something humiliating.’

Shorty chuckled. ‘Way ahead of you, Larry. We don’t call him Allotment Jack because he’s bullied his way to the head of all the committes. It’s actually short, for A Lot On Meant Jack wasn’t at home much, so Shorty and Tiny and Mrs Jack had a threesome. That wife of his, hooo-eeee. She has a thing for giant marrows, and put that together with old cheapskate Jack and his love of fake flowers…’

Shorty put his arm around Larry’s shoulders.

‘Now come along with me. There’s some marrow seeds in that box, and some specially formulated fertiliser…’

Bone marrow must taste good, judging by how much time zombies spend attempting to eat it. It’s not like they just rip off your flesh. No. Those bastards are like hyenas: they go for the bones.

After I went pee, the three of us checked out the view from the second story deck of Crab Bay Restaurant. It looked out into the waters of Clear Lake as they filtered under the Kemah bridge and out into the Gulf of Mexico. The channel is roughly the length of a football field, with swift currents that are deep enough for sail boats.

And pirate ships.

I rubbed my eyes, something I never do, because what else should you do when you see a freaking pirate ship?

“Hello, Govna’. That boats a lairy thingy,” I said in my best British accent. I watch a lot of British television with my mom. It’s my thing.

“Who the fuck is Larry and for the last time-You. Are. Not. British!” Evelina squeezed the sentence out of her mouth with disgust.

“Where did that pirate ship come from and how do I get on it?” Christina said, ignoring our British blood feud that had lasted damn near a decade.

The pirate ship really was a thing of beauty; a hundred feet long, gleaming in the shining sun, its deck slick wood, a giant black skull and bones flag flying proudly on a towering mast. But just like fake flowers, looks can be deceiving.

Aboard the ship were the most miserable looking pirates I’d ever seen. Not that I’d ever seen pirates. But if I had, these guys were no Johnny Depp.

Rotting flesh, missing limbs, bumbling about on deck like.... well, like zombie pirates. Sorry, I’m not always the best with my analogies. It’s my American public education. We’re kind of fucked over here, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Anyway. Back to my story.

A stupid seagull had flown its fat, miserable body too close to one of the scurvy undead and he grabbed it out of the sky-cat like reflexes that brought a gasp from all three of us. The pirate bit down into the poor bird's belly, a single squawk filled the air, and just like that the bird’s miserable life came to a miserable end.

“Faster than I thought they’d be,” Evelina said. She was always calculating, always looking for an advantage against her foe.

“Evelina, get us on that ship,” Christina said, humor no longer in her voice. She brushed her blonde, cork screw hair out of her face. I checked myself. Now was not the time to be in my feelings. I’d always had a thing for Christina but never acted on it.

“Why on earth do you want on that ship?” I asked, adjusting my eyes away from Christina’s lock of hair.

She looked me dead in the eye and my palms began to sweat. Jesus this girl killed me sometimes.

“Because I want that motherfucking flag,” she said, her eyes red hot with determination.

“Ok I give up. Take me now,” I belted out, grabbing Christina’s hand. She flinched, laughed in embarrassment, and Evelina smirked at me.

“Bout time you two flew your freak flag together. Now shut up and let me think about how we’re getting on that ship.” Leave it to Evelina to keep us on task!