The Blackberry Jam

When Helen’s shirt became tangled and ripped by the blackberry vines, it wasn’t her mother’s wrath she feared but that of Mrs. M., who despite her flowered shirt and orthopaedic shoes, was more terrifying than bogey monsters, clowns, and snakes combined. The children of the blocks south of Wilbur Street had for years, used a complicated and treacherous path of alleyways to get home from school. There were holes in fences to be climbed through and fallen trees to scale. But the most spinetingling leg of the journey was past the Doberman whose chain allowed him to run across the alley, meaning a short-legged human had to run quickly into Mrs. M’s yard, lest be mauled by the sad and angry creature. Just on the edge of Mrs M’s yard was a garden full of thorny rosebushes and a scratchy web of blackberry vines. The children usually ended up precariously stuck between frothing canine jaws and prickly foliage. While waiting for the animal to get bored and trot back to his spot in the shade next to his owner’s house, they sampled a few berries and looked nervously at the windows of Mrs. M’s house. Eventually, she exploded out the door, wooden spoon in hand, shouting “Bugger off, ye nasty devils!”. The only positive outcome when this happened was that the dog ran away too though not with a purple-smeared face.

The year Helen entered 4^th grade, her mother decided the best way to soften her rebellious and sullen child was to make her join the local Junior Girl Scout troupe. Having read a pamphlet about it from the library, she was sold on the laws of “A Girl Scout obeys rules” and “A Girl Scout is cheerful.” Helen suffered through the meetings in her scratchy uniform, humming through the songs and trying to become invisible. Soon it was cookie-selling season and everyone was in a frenzy to sell the most boxes to win the coveted prize of a Miami Miss BMX bike.

Helen allowed herself to be dragged door to door by her mother, knocking softly and mumbling a “Excuse me, Ma’am would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies,” in a small voice, eyes downcast. Her mother usually mouthed the request again, pointing at the order form and shrugging as if to say, “What can I do with this one?”

When one woman answered the door, Helen turned to flee, smacking right into her mother whose face turned bright red. It was none other than Mrs. M, looming taller and meaner close up. Having never seen the front of her house, Helen didn’t realise where she was. When Mrs. M invited them in, Helen thought she sounded a bit like Mary Poppins and the Wicked Witch mixed together.

As they sat at a table in a sunny room, Helen felt sure they would never be allowed to escape. Something was stabbing in her stomach trying to get out and a lump was forming in her throat.

“These are scones dear, what you probably call a biscuit. Try it with some blackberry jam. I made it myself.” Her mother tore open the lopsided round bread and spread some jam on it and smiled tightly as she gave it to her. Her look told Helen to eat or else. Helen took a bite, forcing the sweet, bready bite down past the lump and found that it was much better than the toast and grape jelly she was used to.

Mrs. M told her mom that her husband had brought the vines all the way from a tiny village south of Birmingham in England, which confused Helen as she thought villages were places like she saw in National Geographic where women didn’t wear any shirts. She wondered if Mrs. M took off her cardigan and flowered blouse when no one was around. When Helen’s mother asked, “What does your husband do?” Mrs. M voice got a bit shaky and she said he died of cancer a few years ago. She looked at Helen for a long time before adding, “I like to think he’s out there watching over the roses and berries for me.”

A few weeks later it was time to make the cookie deliveries. The money had long ago been turned over and the bicycle awarded to Christy Malone, who everyone called “a ray of sunshine” and “a lovely young lady”. Helen’s mom decided to wait in the car, hoping that Helen might be forced to have more confidence when dealing with her customers. Luckily, she wasn’t there to witness the “Here” as she thrust boxes into hands, before turning and running down the porch steps.

At Mrs. M’s house, as Helen turned to escape, the woman told her to “wait right there” and she came back, holding a bag, eyes blazing above a tight smile.

“I made this jar especially for you, Dear. You needn’t share it with anybody. All right?”

Skin burning with adrenaline and heart racing, Helen tried to say, “Ok” but nothing came out. She’d had the same sensation in a nightmare where someone was chasing her and she couldn’t scream. She tried several times to open the car door before scrambling inside. She wouldn’t move, so her mother delivered the rest of the cookies.

The next morning when she came downstairs, a piece of toast was waiting for her.

“I don’t want it!”

“What’s the matter with you? You eat toast every day.”

“What’s the purple stuff?”

“Jam. From Mrs. McGuire. Somehow it ended up in the trash, but we’re not going to waste it.”

“No! It’s poison!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere until you eat that toast.”

Several hours later, Helen had a realisation. She’d been a brat and a troublemaker her entire life. She’d tried to control herself but the bad kid always won. Bad kids deserve punishment and this was hers.

Sighing with profound regret and remorse, she lifted the toast to her lips and took a bite.