The Prize Marrow

Marrowdale took its flower show seriously, which is to say it took it more seriously than the council elections, the church roof, and in one memorable year, a royal visit. Edith Pell had judged the vegetable tables for nineteen consecutive summers and could tell a cheating marrow from an honest one at thirty feet. So she was paying attention, as she always paid attention, when Gerald Thwaite stepped up to collect his ribbon for the dahlias and instead of smiling sat down very suddenly on the grass and did not get up. The marquee filled with the particular hush that comes before screaming. Edith set down her clipboard. Gerald had been the healthiest seventy-year-old in the village and he had also, as of last Thursday, been threatening to expose something about the show committee, and Edith did not believe in coincidences any more than she believed in honest marrows.