The Bucket of Damsons

Short Story By Jackie Brewster

The presence of a muddy bike abandoned on the grass verge made Marion suspect that the creature perched high in the branches of her damson tree was no bird.

“You’d better not be scrumping,” Marion said, wrapping her pashmina tightly around her shoulders, “I’ll be having a word with your mother.”

“You don’t know her.” A girl, no older than twelve, peered down through the foliage. She’d come prepared. A large bucket swung from her juice-­stained hand.

“You’re trespassing,” Marion said with annoyance. “That tree borders my property. All the fruit belongs to me.”

“You can’t own a tree,” the girl said, “it’s a living thing.”

“What utter nonsense,” Marion said crossly. “Of course you can.”
The girl looked dubious.

“Last year all the plums just fell into the lane and got ruined,” the girl said. “That’s a waste, and we’re taught not to waste food.”

Marion felt a twinge of guilt. Last year she had intended to pick the damsons, but it meant getting the step ladder out of the garage and she’d never got round to it.
“They’re not plums,” she said firmly, “they’re damsons.”

“They taste like plums,” the girl replied tartly.

“So you’ve been eating them as well?” Marion asked.

“Just the one,” the girl grinned. “It was juicy.”

“Why don’t you climb down with your bucket?” Marion said cunningly, “And I will take my share from what you’ve picked. The rest you can keep as a picker’s fee.” The girl considered this for a moment.

“How about,” she replied, “I take my share from the bucket and you get what’s left instead?”

“Certainly not,” said Marion. This child really had some cheek.

“Don’t forget those are my damsons and you are a thief.”

“If you cared about them you’d have picked them already,” the girl said. “I’m the one who’s taken all the risks.”

“But you didn’t ask permission,” Marion said, outraged.

There was a steely look in the girl’s eye. Then she smiled.

“How about we play a game?” she said. “I tip this bucket and whatever you catch you keep, and whatever falls on the ground I keep.”

“But I’ve got nothing to catch them in,” Marion said, annoyed. She didn’t much like games.

“Then nip into your house for a bowl.” The girl smiled sweetly.

“As big as you like.”

“I don’t trust you,” Marion said, “the minute I’m gone you’ll be off with the lot.” The girl looked offended.

“Brownie’s honour I would not,” she said. “Alright then, why not catch them in your scarf?”

“It’s not a scarf, it’s a pashmina,” Marion said, then realised what a good idea that was. The girl clearly wasn’t aware just how big her pashmina was. If she held it taut she could catch every damson, and the annoying child would end up with none at all.

“Alright then,” Marion agreed, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” She unfolded the length of fabric.

“Not fair!” the girl cried. “It’s massive.”

“You can’t back out now,” Marion said, pleased that the balance of power had been redressed.

“Alright,” the girl conceded reluctantly, “get ready then.”

Marion squinted up into the branches of the tree with the pashmina outstretched like a fireman’s net. The girl wedged herself against a branch and held up the bucket. Slowly it began to tip. Marion braced herself.

First there was a strange rattling sound, then a slurry of wet damson stones rained down upon her.

“You know how I said I’d only eaten one?” the girl laughed, swinging nimbly down with her empty bucket. “Well, I might have been lying.”

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