In a few short moments he would have to walk away. But oh, she had been so full of life! The thought of leaving her was a savage pain in his heart. He supposed these last few moments together were a kind of mercy. People around them stayed at a polite distance, fearing to intrude. Jim could see them out of the edge of his eye, blurred in his grief. Their movements were slow, as if they were swimming through his tears. She could not know, she had no way of knowing, how much it would cost him to lose her. She had been given his every waking moment, right from that cold spring day when she came fresh and new into his world a lifetime ago. Now he couldn’t imagine life without her. He had held her, nurtured her; fed her, kept her safe. Towards the end he had even talked to her, though he did it quietly for fear of mockery. He knew they would insist that she couldn’t understand. He knew she did. But then the wind changed to the east. The summer ended. Finally, resentfully, he had faced the fact that her time in the sun was done. Now she lay still and peaceful on a crisp white sheet that made a halo around her. There was a gentle touch on his shoulder. It felt like a blow. “Mr Kent? You have to leave. The vicar is here.” Jim’s hand stilled, as if he were trying to remember the feel of her skin for ever. The woman pointed to the door. “This way. I’ll show you where you can get some tea.” He straightened his back. He was determined not to weep. “Thank you,” he said with dignity, and left. He could not bear to look back. The vicar watched sympathetically. “Poor fellow,” he said. “I wish there was something I could say to make him feel better.” “He’ll get over it.” “My dear!” She spoke impatiently. “Sorry, but these silly old men get so attached…” “It means a lot to them,” the vicar corrected her gently. He glanced at his watch. “Shall we?” They went over to the table and looked at Jim’s darling. She was a vast, gleaming, swollen beauty. She would feed a dozen at the harvest supper. From outside came a tannoy announcement. “And in a few moments,” it blared, “We’ll know the results of the annual marrow-growing competition. Will Jim Kent keep his title for the fifth year running?” The vicar smiled. “Looks like it,” he said. | 
