Though harvest time is commonly associated with September, the great variety of fruits and vegetables a humble allotment can yield each has a unique timeline for sowing, growth and harvesting. This means that the diligent gardener can, with proper care and attention, reap a choice selection of produce that brings excitement and surprise to the dining table as early as June & July!

  Three months after the passing of WWU-Epsilon was dismissed as a damp squib, Viceroy Gardens was the same bustling hive of activity it was every summer. Every green-fingered enthusiast in Hungerbury, of those with the stickability to stay on a 8-month waiting list to secure one of Viceroy’s 45 plots, were now applying such dedication to the world of agriculture. This morning, the first harvest of the year was underway.

  For the older and more experienced tenants, the yearly harvest cycle was merely an expected chore, unworthy of ceremony. This was the reason Horace McGinty, the oldest Viceroy tenant at 72, was pacing purposefully along the circular path that snaked through the plots before he even looked at the cornucopic crop of squashes and onions on his own turf. With demand for allotments at an all-time high, Hungerbury Valley Council had recently tightened up the standards of activities and appearances that must be maintained if tenants wish to keep their plots next year. These high stakes, coupled with his disappointment in the effectiveness of the council’s community wardens, compelled Horace to take up the mantle of enforcing these standards with a firm but even hand.

  His short, scrawny stature cutting an underwhelming figure as he made his rounds, Horace knew when beginning this self-appointed crusade that he would be making himself unpopular. He was reminded of this when locking his squinting eyes with Spencer Tompkins. The fact that this tall, lanky pensioner was Horace’s oldest friend, the friend who inspired him to take up gardening, no less, couldn’t change the fact that the weeds Spencer had left unchecked whilst occupied with a finicky crop of callaloo were encroaching on Lady Thorne’s plot next door. Horace took no pleasure in reporting such a violation immediately.

  At the time, Spencer said he wouldn’t let a formal warning from the council hinder their decades-long camaraderie. Yet the greeting given to his patrolling friend was involuntarily taciturn, distracted as he was digging stones out of the ground before he could drive in an installation of beanpoles. He watched Horace peer around the seemingly abandoned plot opposite Spencer’s flourishing crops, with Lady Astrid Thorne quickly joining in his observation.

  "Well I must say, Spence, I'm surprised to see neither the council nor our dutiful watchman has done anything about that Mr. Lane. I haven’t seen him once since Operation Killjoy was launched and his plot’s just an absolute wasteland now!”

  Spencer turned to the haughty and pale lady. “Oh, he came close. Horace was about to send one of his infamous sternly-worded letters, citing that rule about losing your plot after 6 months of neglect. But then, out of nowhere, Mr Lane dug that massive hole in the middle there, I guess to get around him on a technicality. Now all he can do is keep inspecting the weeds and mark the days off on the calendar.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, on a physical calendar no less.” Spencer sighed. “Honestly, I’m worried the only one at risk of losing the plot is Horace.”

  Lady Thorne gave an exuberant laugh whilst extending a collapsible basket. “Well, if Lane's only going to follow the letter of the law, it'll only encourage him further. Some people just love playing around with the rules."

  Spencer didn't respond, partly because he had begun hacking at the stalks of his first ever cobs of sweetcorn, another of his experimental crops from his westward homeland, which required all the energy in his weathered body. But his silence mainly stemmed from the common knowledge of Lady Thorne's inexplicable rise to the top of the allotment waiting list, right after she and her husband, Lord Mortimer Thorne of Bagshot, had their fancies tickled by a late night The Good Life binge on iPlayer last year. It was hardly a secret, as neither lord nor lady shied from referencing their friends in high places to everyone who’d listen, usually in loud voices and occasionally using a police-issue bullhorn if one’s available. But Lady Thorne would still act deeply offended if anyone pointed out any connection between the local government figures in her friendship circle and the miraculously easy paths she could take to pursue her leisurely interests.

  Nevertheless, no-one could dispute the level of passion the Lady put into her gardening hobby, even if she slightly overlooked the part of her inspiration where the Goods sacrificed materialism and pursuit of wealth to invest in a simple, agrarian lifestyle. A premium waiting time was only her first major purchase for the plot. Lord Thorne's tomato cuttings flourished in a hothouse with NASA grade temperature control; the neighbouring cucumber frames had glass tubes installed to ensure a uniform size of each vegetable; and Lady Thorne directed it all from a deluxe cabin of Norwegian pine, with a circular sowers calendar carved into the front like some apocalyptic Mayan calendar stone.

  Having consulted this chart, Lady Astrid was confident that today was the optimal cucumber harvesting day. She plucked each perfectly formed, two-foot-long vegetable with pride, a pointless achievement given they were soon to be sliced up for sandwiches, and eyed the allotment path for someone to brag about them to. Unfortunately for her, the first person to pass by was too preoccupied speaking obscenities into their phone to coo over some beautiful cucumbers. Lin Marygold had her own world of chaotic order and structure to uphold. As part of that endless struggle, she was formulating a battle plan with her husband Benjamin.

  “Oh, for the love of the Queen’s non-existent balls,” she cursed wearily. “I thought a weekend meeting was evil enough, now they’re extending the torture?!”

  Ben’s attempt at a carefree laugh came from Lin’s phone. “I warned you this would be a regular thing now. The Prime Minister looked through the wrong end of her binoculars to look at that meteor, and now Editorial wants to make that our one and only joke! If I don't argue against that in person God knows what will happen.”

  Ben's career as a political cartoonist usually allowed him to work from his state of the art home office/drawing studio, hampered only by the fact it was actually the garage and sometimes the Yaris was parked too close to his desk. But since Ben made the leap to national syndication last year, he had to make increasingly frequent trips up to London for content optimisation discussions, which were exactly as fun as they sounded.

  Lin paused in front of her field. "Alright, sugar. Keep fighting the good fight for creativity and good taste. I'll do dinner tonight."

  "Then the battle for good taste is lost.” Ben retorted. “I won’t be that late, love, we can work on it together." Ben reassured.

  "Ha ha haaa. I was going to keep it simple this time. Drew says he can still smell the cremated spectre of the cheesy moussaka in the kitchen. Besides, we’re going to have lots of fresh veg today, so suck it!"

  "Alright, I'll be home by 7.30 at the latest."

  "Okay," Lin said cagily. "The kids will have to eat early though? Gina's going over to Rhonda's house tonight."

  "I’ll try to get away earlier, go ahead with your nefarious plans for the kitchen if I’m not back by seven. I'm the one being awkward."

  "It's not you being awkward, it's the bloody Prime Minister being awkward. I'll see you tonight. Love you."

  Lin hung up and inspected her pea pods eagerly. Her dream of making the Marygold family self-sufficient in fruits and vegetables was unwavering, even if she had the same level of culinary acumen of her gardening fork. Ben was the house chef, a position that paired well with his home-based career while Lin worked as a professional translator from an office block in nearby Reading. Their two teenage kids, Drew and Gina, might not always appreciate the effort but it was a labour of love from both Chef Dad and Farmer Mum.

  As Lin entered the supposedly therapeutic retreat from work and home that was her plot, she noticed her neighbours Mr. and Mrs. Prasad. She silently suppressed her envy at their rows of sprouting crops totalling double her own. It was important for Lin’s reflexively competitive self-worth to keep in mind that unlike her, the Prasads were retired and could work down here practically any day of the week.

  Vikram retired from a glorious career at the local Cox Rising cider brewery three years ago, where he worked first as an electrical technician for the newly mechanized factory before transitioning to the advertising team in his later years. With Radha also retiring from running a grocer’s, and since all three of their children had grown up and moved on out of Hungerbury, the smiley, matured couple tilled their land together. They would even get openly flirty during the sowing season as Vikram would assist Radha’s digging by grabbing her spade in the manner of a famous potter’s wheel. Then by the end of spring when there was little to do besides watering, Radha brought lawn chairs so she and her husband could hang about and enjoy the communal buzz at Viceroy rather than sitting the hours away in an empty terraced house.

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  Whilst Radha examined her okra plants for aphids, Vikram was imparting a busload of valuable fertiliser recommendations onto the allotments’ latest newcomer, Isaac Ansah. A career office boy who moved in from Bristol to pursue a career that made use of his degree in Accounting, the muddy world of micro-farming was in a different galaxy to Isaac’s comfort zone. Fortunately for him, with Vikram’s eldest son, Ranvir, now living up north, Mr Prasad had to find a new outlet for his unsolicited gardening advice.

  “So, in conclusion, All-Purpose isn’t really all-purpose. I’m sorry to disappoint you, I don’t know why they’re allowed to call it that. If you want juicy tomatoes, and who doesn’t? Radha and I use them every day in salads, sandwiches and yes, curries as well, you need special, high phosphorous stuff. We used liquid concentrate on these little jewels.” Vikram leaned down on his handmade heat box filled with fruits. “We used to get phosphoric soil in grow bags but we couldn’t find them this year! What we should do is take you down to Homebase and we can help you pick out the best brands, how about it?”

  Isaac seized the rare opportunity to get a word in edgeways. “That’s a really kind offer, but it’ll have to wait till next year. I’ve done my planting for this year now”

  Vikram was unperturbed. “Oh of course, I’ll get the 2019 calendar and we’ll hash out a date, yeah?” he laughed, cluing Isaac in that it was indeed a joke.

  “Vik, will you let Mr Ansah get on with his day and help me uncover the butternut patch?” Radha called after setting down a trub of okra.

  Isaac was left alone to walk to his plot at the end of the path. As dull as it was to listen to Mr Prasad ramble on gardening tips he already knew, it was preferable to the black hole of awkwardness that awaited in the plot next to his.

  “Isaac! Ol’ Hacky-saac! I was starting to think you’d given up! I never saw you here after work this week, gotta keep up the pace if you want a top crop! Thinking about all the lovely spoils’ what gets me motivated, even when I’m coming here after pottery class.”

  Isaac didn’t say anything, and let the classic rock playing on Brian Ingham’s solar-powered radio cut the tension between Isaac and his line manager at Vantage Property Development’s actuary department. When Brian recommended Isaac get an allotment as a hobby when the latter mentioned feeling like he didn’t have much of a life in this new town outside of work. Neither of them could have guessed the council would assign Isaac a space right next to his boss. But since it did, the junior accounts assistant was now in a situation where he was hypothetically free to cut loose with the charismatic and athletic Brian, except not really because the threat of generating an embarrassing faux pas that would continually shadow their professional relationship weighed too heavily on Isaac’s mind. Not helping his nerves was Brian acting incredibly friendly, as though this social quagmire didn’t bother him at all.

  “Say, ‘Saac, do you like spicy food?” Brian asked as Isaac grabbed his fork from a locker pretending to be a shed.

  “Oh, I do, yes.” replied the skittish subordinate. "Well, at uni I had a reputation for ordering the hottest chilli or curry on the menu whenever me and the mates went out. Every time I thought I could handle it… I really thought I could." Isaac recounted the memory as though the intense immolation of his taste buds, and other parts, was as harrowing as losing a relative.

  "Okay, then you are going to love this." Brian held up a generously sized pot plant bearing intriguing, deep purple fruits. "Zimbabwe Black peppers! Spicier than a jalapeno, and a really trendy ingredient I understand. My sister insists they're going to be the new sriracha."

  Isaac examined the plant curiously before starting work on his potato yield. "They're awesome, I didn't know you could grow stuff like this in our climate!"

  "It's not so much about warmth, but soil type. We get really good drainage on this side of the field, you were lucky to get an allotment down here with me! Anyway, a spice fiend like you has got to have a cutting." Brian held out the plant as an offering.

  Isaac wouldn't dare to turn down his gift. "Alright, thanks! I’ve certainly never had a gift like this before!." He grabbed the exotic plant and paused, suddenly realizing he was now in Brian's debt. "Uh, once I've dug them up, you can have some spuds."

  “Sure, that’d be great. I could use some for roasties tomorrow.”

  Isaac smiled then thrust his fork into the ground, spearing a Maris Piper straight through the middle. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was still indebted to his boss.

  “By the way, Brian. I got the costings report for the Downey Duff redevelopment done, but I didn’t have time to send-”

  “No no no no, mate.” Brian waved his arm breezily. “Save all that for Monday, we don’t need to ruin a good weekend with shop talk.”

  “Right, sorry, holdover from the uni days.” Isaac was referring to his life just a year ago, when his entire week was dedicated to all kinds of laborious coursework, rendering weekends indiscernible, and his conversations entirely work-oriented. With this talk kindly but firmly shut down, Brian steered the conversation for the rest of the morning, confiding his gym routine and the possibility of training for a triathlon. Isaac was left combing his short, tight curls to dissuade the feelings of inadequacy that came with comparing Brian’s impressive regime with the hero movie marathon he daren’t mention he had planned for the evening.

  All throughout the morning the labours continued. Vegetables of all sorts were picked and carted away, while new crops were planted for the autumn. All the while, chatter and gossip circulated around Viceroy’s circle of plots between the strangers-turned-acquaintances. In no time at all, the hottest part of the day arrived by half past one. This heat was the starting gun for everyone to begin winding things up and leaving.

  Horace McGinty was last to leave, carting a mammoth haul of root veg in a tartan trolley. He had delayed his departure, as Horace naturally put the responsibility for locking up the Viceroy site on his own shoulders. With an intense amount of physical effort, he dragged the wrought iron gate closed, sealing the lone gap in the chain link fence protecting the ever-prized allotments. While he caught his breath, Horace lovingly admired the large pink roses that twined with the fence.

  After a morning of unsparingly appraising his peers with a stern demeanour, he was finally ready to speak softness. "Such a beautiful crowd out today. Don't spend too long in the sun or you'll singe your lovely petals."

  Horace's cooings were interrupted by sudden motion down the lane. He turned, startled, expecting to see an agitated rabbit emerge from the undergrowth. Instead, he saw nothing except what may have been a human figure turning a corner at a more leisurely pace. The old gentleman was oddly transfixed by the mundane sight, and was almost compelled to follow them.

  When Horace turned back towards the roses, a shadow was now falling on the blooms. He turned to see a tall, bearded man in a shirt and black tie.

  "Excuse me, sir. Before you lock up, could we have a look inside?"

  Horace narrowed his eyes "And which property developer are you from?"

  The man blinked. "Well, none sir. My name is Dr Marius Hoxton, I'm an astrophysicist with the Newton Institute in Oxford. Our calculations indicate an object of deep-space origin has landed in this area…"

  "Of course, of course," Horace talked straight over him. "And instead of checking the huge swathes of open farmland nearby, you instead come to the allotment site next to the up-and-coming residential space with good public transport links. Pull the other one." he spat.

  "Oh, I believe you were the one my colleague spoke to the other day. Dr Sharpewell described you very accurately. She said she showed you our credentials."

  "Oh yes, I did let her in, once I properly examined the hologram on her ID card. Helped herself to the early blackberries in the meanwhile."

  Dr Hoxton chuckled and leaned over the berries that entwined the roses. "Those do look delicious." He brazenly pocketed a few plump specimens in full view of the seething septuagenarian.

  Horace cleared his throat and continued. "But it’s interesting how you say she described me, or perhaps complained is the word you're looking for, in such detail yet not tell you she found nothing whatsoever here."

  "Well with the time since the meteorite’s landfall reaching three months, we are now making repeat searches. You might not be interested in the implications or scientific value of a deep space object, but it is vital for our research that the specimen be retrieved as soon as possible, to minimize human contamination."

  Horace was now impatiently applying an iron chain to the gate. "After three months I wouldn't fancy your chances. Never mind contamination, some lad off the estate's clearly gone off with it."

  Dr Hoxton was growing increasingly unamused. "Alright, I guess we'll come back when someone less small-minded is about. Good. Bye."

  An equally surly Horace snapped the padlock on the gate and spat back. "Don't get stroppy with me just because I have my head in the real world instead of staring at the sky." But the young scientist wasn't listening, and was halfway back to his sleek vehicle where inside Horace reckoned he could spot the other doctor, Sharpewell.

  As he and his veg headed the opposite direction to the bus stop, Horace surreptitiously mopped his brow. Although he had a reputation for being argumentative and forthright, the five-foot-six, 71-year old was acutely aware a heated confrontation with almost anyone could head down a physical path Horace hadn't been equipped for since Crossroads went off the air. And even if violence doesn't come into the equation, arguing with everyone who thinks they can treat Hungerbury and the Viceroy allotments like they were nothing was always exhausting. But if he didn't keep standing up to them, Horace knew no-one would.