If Jerome Corbel needed inspiration, and lately he’d needed a lot his allotment was his go to happy place. But Donald McJohn was a persistent little bugger and when he said, ‘Walk with me’, even suggesting you were worried that your cabbages weren’t red enough didn’t cut it as an excuse.
Indeed, Jerome thought, just mentioning his allotment these febrile days seemed to put Donald on edge. Take yesterday. All he’d said was he needed to check on how the leeks were faring and Donald had gone all Gulag on him.
And now this walk.
Donald strode ahead, chuntering about tea and conspiracies while Jerome took in the isolation, the chilly air, the sense of something big in the offing. This place was magical. Was Donald going to make some startling revelation? Had he found the genie they were after? He’d lost himself in enough bottles so you’d think he’d find one occupied by a wish-fulfilling spirit.
Donald was a short man, prone to wear a suit even out here. He stopped abruptly and pointed. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know.’
‘The money. There is an answer.’
Jerome looked up, expecting to see the sky filled with pies.
‘No there.’ Donald pointed at a Christmas tree.
‘Is that the money tree you promised?’
‘Better. It’s a gem fir. Just shake it and you’ll have enough precious stones to buy everything we’ve ever wanted.’
‘That’s probably a bit extreme, though….’ Jerome tapped his teeth, which felt more rabbit than was entirely comfortable. ‘… it does mean I was right all along. With my slogan.’
‘How’s that?’ Donald took a quick sip of refined capitalist from his hip flask.
Jerome stepped forward and tapped the pine, ducking as rubies cascaded around his feet. ‘As I keep saying, if only you’d listen. For the money, knock the yew.’
this somewhat British offering is in response to both the latest #writephoto prompt and the General Election