I Even the Score
It took
me a whole year to get even with Wilson.
One of
the sad things of progress is that we tear down our old
buildings and in the process throw away our heritage. Once gone
it can never be recovered. In my boyhood days, Wilson, when he
was the Bobby, lived in a wee house, an almost exact duplicate
of the old house that I was born in. Alas, in the name of
progress Wilson's house was demolished, A stone cottage with a doorway in the middle and a window
on either side. Fairly steep pitched red pan tile roof, crow
step gables on either end and a chimney. No doubt, when it
became the venue of the local constabulary, the tiny jail with
it's iron barred inner cell was attached and added on behind the
house. In all probability the house's origin was the home of
a family who made their living by fishing then at a later date
became home to a family of Ferry weavers. It was very old,
several hundreds of years old, but still in good condition.
It was in the bend of the half circular road called The Rotten
Row. Behind the house was a large garden that extended all the
way to Cavel Place on the golf course. When not shepherding his
flock Wilson had two passions. One was fishing the lochs, the
rivers and the burns and the other was gardening. His large
garden to the rear of his house was a botanic wonderment.
Almost half of it was devoted to growing a great variety of
vegetables and in the other half he created the most beautiful
floral display of roses, dahlias, gaillardias, sweet peas and
many other beautiful flowers. When flower show competitions
were held Wilson invariably got the award for the Best in Show
exhibit. Apart from his height he was a veritable Mr. Ballard as
in the movie Mrs.
Miniver. (one of the greatest movies of all time)
Wilson's
house faced south and almost abutted the roadway except for a two foot
wide strip of garden ground in front that ran the length of the house. Here each year
on each side of his front door he
planted a great display of annuals.
The
maritime, 56 degrees north latitude climate of Earlsferry where
it never gets hot in the Summertime, is great for growing
apples, pears, plums, plants and shrubs but not for growing tomatoes. These could
only be grown under glass. But ah-ha. Wilson had a relative
who lived in Alaska who sent him a packet of tomato seeds that
were guaranteed to grow in the far North. Wilson was going to
do a first. He bragged to all around that he was going to do
the impossible. No annuals out in front this year. Very early
in the season he planted his Alaska tomato seeds all along the
front of his house. With an early start, the backdrop of the
stone front of his house to collect and reflect heat on to his
plants and the direct sun he was going to do it. In short order
the plants broke through the ground. All summer long Wilson
could be seen watering, staking, fertilising and pampering the
heck out of his tomato plants. As the days wore on tiny green marbles appeared
that slowly got
bigger and bigger. As the days of Summer started to
noticeably shorten his green tomatoes first turned pink then
became pale
red. Wilson's tomatoes were the talk and the wonderment of the
village. But would he make it? Would his tomatoes
fully ripen before
the days started cooling off? Now I saw my opportunity. I kept
a close eye on the reddest of his crop. Finally the day came
that I thought he couldn't wait any longer to make a picking.
As it got dark that evening and the street gas lamps were lit,
I saw Wilson at the far end of the village. I dashed to his
house, saw the coast was clear, pulled a bag out of my pocket
and stripped the lot. For a week I laid low and never ventured
out of the house. I imagine when he surveyed his pride and joy
and saw that his tomatoes had vanished that he must have almost
burst the buttons off his tunic or had an apoplectic fit.
Any day I expected a loud knock on the door but it never
happened. Later at our famous get-together dinner, he laughed
as he told me he knew I had to be the culprit. Yet, when
it happened, Wilson never
said a word. For a cop Wilson was the greatest.
Wilson
knew I
had evened the score.
