The Tomato King

This was the year, Mr Rattley thought as he churned the earth, for more than a decade he had been striving for greatness. To him these were the perfect specimens, exquisite even. Nobody could deny that this was his year to shine. Handling the cascade of fine fruit with care, he could see that they would ripen perfectly in time for the annual produce show.

The village of Henleywood was immersed in a flurry of activity, the yearly vegetable competition being its biggest event, old rivalries were resurfacing and new competitors were out to test their mettle, the gardening gloves were off. It became quite the draw for visitors, but the highlight for locals was, of course, the tomato competition, judged not only on taste but texture, uniformity and vibrancy, little Henleywood must produce some of the best tomatoes in the country. With no prizes this friendly competition was for the esteem and respect of the village, since the scandal it was imperative he win.

The English once feared the tomato as deadly, while the French called them ‘the apple of love’. This variety he christened Brandywine, his love, his pride and joy, a deep, luscious red. Brandywine, so divine.

If it wasn’t for Gordon Harris he would have won already, and people would remember him for that, over all else he would be Mr Rattley the tomato man, no, the king of tomatoes, emperor even, he would decide on the title later, after his victory. The insolent moustache had won the last four consecutive years, with that kind of social clout he could have anything he wanted. This year, however, Mr Rattley had a secret weapon. His wife, Brandy Rattley had gardening in her blood, in her bones, she was worshipped for growing the best vegetables in the village, for fifteen years she dominated, a full glass case displaying her honour, in pride of place were the ribbons for best tomato, the red silk would go wonderfully with his new waistcoat. Four years ago she graciously stepped down, retiring to give others a chance. That was when the moustache swooped in, like a falcon from a fence post, unwelcome intruder, pervasive invader, Gordon.

Domesticated by the Aztecs, tomato plants were used as a powerful and dangerous hallucinogenic. Part of the Solanum Nightshade family, named after the sun, Mr Rattley thought them truly the fruit of the gods. Brandywine, vine sunshine.

The rumours had started last spring. If you catch more flies with honey this was a sweet and tasty morsel indeed, the buzz was raucous. Mr Rattley had thought his green fingered goddess beyond reproach, but she had been weak and easily swayed by the charms of that moustachioed scoundrel. After time apart, the tomatoes were sour, the garden churned up and Mr Rattley miserable. But if she could help him win this year, maybe he would be magnanimous enough to forgive her.

While pruning his prized plant something glinted, catching his eye. One of the tomatoes had grown strangely, strangled in the middle, bloated at each end. On closer inspection it was Brandy’s wedding ring, she had thrown it at him before storming off, shrieking that he had spent more time with the tomatoes than her, paid them more attention, loved them more. She just couldn’t seem to understand, it wasn't about the tomatoes, it was about getting the respect that he deserved. Because of her he had become a laughing stock, he couldn’t stand idly by while his name was dragged through the allotments.

But at least he could laugh about it, now that it was almost over. He wasn’t too proud to return the ring, but only after the competition, if he dug her up now the tomatoes would be ruined and it would all be for nothing. Gardening was in her blood, in her bones and now they were feeding his redemption tomatoes, death by Nightshade was a fitting end for a poisonous woman, he thought biting into the deformed tomato. Brandywine tastes sublime.