Shorts: A Collection

7. Jean's Jams (Short story)

JEAN Porters folded her arms across her lilac-bloused chest and surveyed with bitterness the scene around her.

Happiness and smiling families; people enjoying themselves; young people laughing and older people conversing: yes, it was a most contemptible affair.

For in the village of Hetfield a village fete or community event was the lifeblood of the locale. The residents loved nothing more than setting up stalls and stands with striped tarpaulins over the top to accommodate whatever the English weather would do. A summer fayre; a vintage car rally; the local primary school's new sports equipment- it was all a welcome opportunity for a gathering.

Today's event was the July Family Day, which was always the first Saturday after the kids broke up for the summer. All the locals who got involved spread their wares for everyone to see. Homebaked scones and biscuits sat alongside quiches and cakes, which were opposite knitted cushions covers and cat ornaments. The face painting tent opened up onto a pick-n-mix stall and this juxtaposed the book stand and raffle table.

And there was Jean, of course, selling her jams, preserves and chutneys. They were pretty good, too, having won Best Jam in 2010 for her rhubarb and apple variety and Runner Up in 2011 for thick-cut marmalade.

But last year was a disgrace. Jean was humiliated by the plotting of that red-headed, Victoria Sponge-baking bitch, Helen Hayes.

Oh yes, Jean knew exactly what Helen did to become Chairman of the Hetfield Welfare Committee and let's just say Mayor Bowmer's wife wouldn't be happy about it. Helen had upset half of the Committee, what with refusing Jenny Magora's knitting stall; moving Alan Harrison's glass-bowing event to some outside area which got rained off; stopping the McCutcheon twins from singing because she'd booked a DJ and banning old Bill Henderson from selling his homemade wine because he didn't have an alcohol license.

She glared at Helen walking around with her floaty yellow sun dress and clipboard checking out the stalls and smiling at people.

"'Oh yes, I'm happy to see you council estate kids'," Jean mimicked savagely under her breath as Helen started laughing with a family. "'Heehee, yes that's right, my breasts are pushed up as far as they'll go, thanks for noticing!'"

Jean narrowed her harsh, brown eyes and a stony expression hardened over her thin, wrinkled face. She looked every inch her sixty-four years and those thirty years in the middle smoking cigarettes didn't help the creases etched into her severe mouth and sharp eyes. Her hair, once blonde, now was a peachy-white and closely cropped. She was very slim and had slight loose folds of skin as the ageing process reduced the elasticity.

"Morning, Jean!" came a voice which cut through her mutterings.

"Hello, Margaret," Jean said politely. "Not doing the Vegetable Show judging yet?"

Margaret's plump face dropped momentarily.

"Ahm, I'm not doing it this year," she said awkwardly. Jean looked shocked.

"But you've done it every year since Barry died!" she exclaimed.

Margaret wrung her podgy hands and fiddled with the plain gold wedding band stuck on her finger. Her pale blue eyes looked distressed.

"I know, it was a last minute decision," she mumbled uncomfortably. "Helen thought it best someone from the Farmer's Association was involved."

Blood thundered through Jean's ears. Three years in the village and Helen was upsetting almost everyone she could. Who did she think she was disrupting the natural order?

Her fury must have shown on her face because as Jean turned back to her visitor Margaret was looking slightly scared.

"It's fine, honestly," she insisted quickly, "I've got the harvest festival in autumn and then the spring judging. Plenty to keep me busy!"