Mavis Green
Digging for Victory
Mr Stannith’s house was cool rectangles
of beige and fawn,
his wife a whisper behind the hatch,
a shadow sharpening a corridor.
Squat and strong, he’d wait for me,
high-waisted trousers shining dark,
a little V cut in the back,
braces looped over his biceps.
He’d lift them to his shoulders one by one,
straighten his thick striped shirt;
wordless we’d go to the garden.
He’d stop, identify my every find,
nip up grey-backs, centipedes,
let me feel the leatherjackets
quicken in my palm.
On hot days she’d come out, silent,
in a dull pinny
and hand us warm blackcurrant pie.
They’d stand together, smiling,
while I hid in his blue lupins,
sucked the softening pastry,
glistening juice,
jostled sweet fat berries
on the roof of my mouth.
Page(s) 50
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