Three and four times a day Jeannie and I inspected the land which Tommy Williams had planted with one and a half tons of seed – the small meadows he had cut out of the top of the cliff, and the upper part of the cemetery field. The sight fascinated us. We stood and stared at the dark green leaves, hypnotised by their coarse texture, greedily calculating the amount of the harvest; then we would bend down and tickle a plant, stirring the earth round it with our hands, and calling out when we found a tiny potato . . . ‘Need a nice shower,’ Tommy would say, ‘and they’ll treble in size within a week.’ Or in the lane, I would meet John who, in answer to the inevitable question: ‘How are the taties looking?’ would say gloomily, ‘Been known for a gale to come at this stage . . . blast them black and only the weight of seed been lifted.’ It was not only the size of the harvest which was at stake, but also its timing. There was a rivalry among growers as to who would be the first to draw, like jockeys at the starting gate; and the information that was circulated was as inspired as that on a racecourse.
