The Last Jar of Elderflower
The judging tent at the Nettlewick Summer Fête smelled of warm canvas, cut grass, and something sweetly floral that Mabel Critch found immediately suspicious.
Not the smell itself — elderflower cordial was perfectly respectable. What troubled Mabel was the label on the winning jar. It bore the neat, rounded handwriting of Dorothy Paige, who had taken the Preserved Goods trophy three years running. But Mabel had sat beside Dorothy at the Women’s Institute only a fortnight ago, and Dorothy had said, quite plainly, that she hadn’t managed a single batch this year. Her elderflower, she’d explained with considerable sadness, had come up sparse.
Mabel set down her teacup and looked at the golden jar more carefully.
“Wonderful result for Dorothy again,” said Reverend Finch, drifting past with a scone. “She really does have the most extraordinary touch.”
“Mm,” said Mabel.
She was seventy-one years old, had taught English grammar at Nettlewick Primary for thirty-four years, and had learned long ago that a misplaced detail was rarely accidental. She picked up the jar and turned it slowly. The label was fresh — very fresh, the ink barely a week old at most. The wax seal, however, was darker, older. Applied months ago, she would have said. In the spring, perhaps, when elderflower was actually in bloom.
Mabel replaced the jar precisely as she’d found it and went to look for Dorothy Paige.
She found her near the tombola stall, wearing her best lilac cardigan and looking considerably less pleased with herself than a three-time champion ought to.
“Congratulations,” said Mabel pleasantly. “Your elderflower took the prize again.”
Dorothy’s smile arrived a half-second too late. “Yes. Lovely.”
“I didn’t think you’d managed any preserves this year.”
A pause. Distinctly too long. “I found a few jars I’d put by from last season. At the back of the pantry.”
“How fortunate,” said Mabel. “Though it is against the rules to enter last year’s batch, isn’t it? The schedule does specify produce prepared in the current calendar year.” She said it without any edge at all, the way she used to explain grammatical rules to children — simply, clearly, and with no room for misunderstanding.
Dorothy’s composure folded like a paper fan. Her eyes went bright with something that wasn’t quite guilt, and wasn’t quite grief, but sat somewhere uncomfortably between them.
“Come and have a cup of tea,” said Mabel.
They sat at a small table outside the refreshment marquee. Dorothy held her cup in both hands and looked out at the fête with an expression of great weariness.
“It was Agnes’s jar,” she said, at last. “My sister Agnes. She made it in April, before she went into hospital. She had six jars lined up on her kitchen shelf and she said — ” Dorothy stopped. Steadied herself. “She said she hoped someone might enjoy them, but she wasn’t sure she’d be managing the fête this year.”
Mabel waited.
“She died in May,” said Dorothy. “Very quietly. At home, in the end, which was what she wanted.” She turned the teacup in its saucer. “Agnes won this competition twice, you know. Before I ever did. She taught me everything I know about elderflower. The exact moment to pick it, how long to steep, how much lemon. I’ve just been following her method all along.”
Mabel nodded slowly.
“I found the jars when I was clearing her cottage. I couldn’t — ” Dorothy exhaled. “I couldn’t bring myself to simply eat them, or give them away. I thought if I entered one, and it won, it would be like she’d won it herself. One last time.” She looked sideways at Mabel. “I know it’s against the rules. I know it’s not right.”
“No,” said Mabel thoughtfully. “It isn’t quite right.”
She was quiet for a moment. A group of children rushed past chasing a loose ribbon. The brass band in the far field launched into something cheerful and slightly imprecise.
“The difficulty,” Mabel said, “is the labelling. You put your own name on Agnes’s jar.”
“I didn’t want anyone asking questions.”
“And yet here we are,” said Mabel, not unkindly. She folded her hands on the table. “Here is what I think ought to happen. You should speak to Gerald Fitch, who runs the competition committee — he’s a reasonable man. You should explain that the jar was prepared by your late sister, entered in her memory, and labelled incorrectly. You should ask whether the prize might be recorded as being awarded to Agnes Paige, posthumously.”
Dorothy blinked. “Do you think he’d allow that?”
“I think Gerald Fitch lost his own brother last winter and has been somewhat quieter ever since. I think he will understand more than you expect.” Mabel picked up her teacup. “And I think Agnes would have preferred her name on the label to yours.”
Dorothy let out a breath that seemed to have been held for quite some time. “Yes,” she said softly. “She would have, rather.”
They sat together in companionable silence for a while. The fête moved around them — children with toffee apples, a dog inexplicably wearing a rosette, the vicar losing badly at the hook-a-duck stall.
“She really did make the most extraordinary elderflower,” Dorothy said eventually.
“The judges thought so,” said Mabel.
Dorothy smiled — a real one, this time, small and sad and warm. She set down her cup, straightened her lilac cardigan, and went to find Gerald Fitch.
Mabel watched her go, then helped herself to the last shortbread finger on the plate. She was not, she reflected, anything so dramatic as a detective. She was simply a woman who had spent a lifetime noticing when the wrong word appeared in the wrong place, and understanding that it usually had a reason.
More often than not, that reason turned out to be grief, or love, or both at once.
She brushed the crumbs from her fingers and went to see how the vicar was getting on with the hook-a-duck.
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