by Jo Horsman

Ron's found bruised pears in the supermarket again.

He's here, swaying, exasperation throwing him off balance, because in his day he nicked smooth, perfect pears straight off the tree with Cyril and Dickie. Lovely.

Here comes the manager again.

"Here, Mr Dargon, take these and please leave the other shoppers in peace."

But Ron's so miserable. People think he's street theatre. Look at that funny man; isn't he amazing? Really in character there, missing his mates and his Mrs.

His hands hold that shape like he's having a bit of a squeeze of, y'know, but he's not. Pears. Always and only pears.

When he gets home he puts his pears on the side. He stands with his face in his hands.

When Mabel went, he drew her name on the dusty door and ate French Fancies. He made dripping sandwiches in time for Songs of Praise and waited for his grand-daughter to come round. She made his roll-ups and he never took his eyes off the screen; he knew every word.

Ron had a plan; just a little one for fun. His grand-daughter could hold the ladder...

They went through the back garden, past the burial tree. Just short of the barbed wire fence, they saw the farmer. Ron broke into a silent run.

"I see, so we're trespassing and stealing now, are we Grandad? I don't think we should be doing this...?"

"Bugger off 'ome, then," said Ron.

The ladder was lobbed over and Ron pushed down the top row of barbs.

"Over you go, girl."

She did the same for him but when he took his leg over, he stopped.

"Grandad! What're you doing?"

Everything in his head had stopped. All that was left was a picture of him, Cyril, Dickie, eight again. Mabel was there on the other side of the fence; he missed her so much. Then they were gone, like the lights had gone out. Church bells and a motorbike revving took over.

He found the few trees that were still fruiting.

"Put that ladder up against that one, girl," he said, pointing to a bright tree with a rusty bird-feeder grown into a branch.

Ron shook the branches and down came the pears. As they rained past he closed his eyes. He picked up a few, took them for a crumble. The rest went in a scruffy cloth bag. His grand daughter folded and carried the ladder.

"Shops then?" he asked.

"Shops then." she replied.

They walked straight to the supermarket. A nervous looking manager geared himself up for the usual exchange. It always got to him when Ron came in.

Ron took his bag of pears and tipped them quietly on top of the others. He guided them with his worked hands, gentle and sure, and stepped back. Those pears looked right; there was no shine, no measured dreary perfection.

As they turned for home, they watched a young, quiet family put four pears in their basket. Misshapen ones, sweet smelling.

Perfect.

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