Just an Ordinary Day - A Fairy Tale

Joe loved his job. It wasn’t an important job, it wasn’t an exciting job, but for him, it was just right. He lived by himself and didn’t need to make much money. He was happy. Each day he woke up, ready to begin – and no day was ever exactly like the one before.

Joe had had several jobs before – but he hadn’t quite suited any of them. Each time, at the end of the probationary period, his employer had gently suggested that Joe might be happier elsewhere. Since Joe completely agreed with this suggestion, the parting was always amicable.

The job at the farm was meant to be temporary, while Marlene Dixon was on maternity leave. But from the moment that Joe began work there was no question but that this was what he had to do. And Marlene had never had any intention of returning to work anyway.

Joe’s day began with the collecting or orders for produce boxes from the farm office – at the other end of the drive from the packing shed. He soon decided that things could be done better, and the orders were always ready and on his bench by the time he turned the key in the door at 8.30.  No-one knew quite how it happened, but it did.

Joe then laid his order slips out on the long deal table, and contemplated then. He nodded his special nod – one long, two short and went off to make a cup of tea. As soon as his back was turned, the numbers jumped up, copied themselves and arranged themselves tidily on the next page in Joe’s workbook. Well, that’s what must have happened, for they were all lying there, neat as two pins, when Joe returned.

He read the list through slowly, filled his pipe, and sat down. Then he nodded, his special nod, one long, two short, and then another long one, and settled back to enjoy his cup of tea and a fig roll biscuit - his very favourite. He stood, put down his empty mug and strode to the big shed doors. Outside, carefully stacked in boxes, was the produce – creamy cauliflowers, glowing squashes and pumpkins, crisp lettuces, jewel tomatoes – and everything else that the farm produced – sprouts, spinach, cabbage, beans, peas and potatoes of every shape and hue and much, much more.

‘Good,’ said Joe, ‘Come in.’

And in they came, long lines of marching vegetables, until they stood before Joe’s long table in neat files, like children awaiting the start of school. Well, that’s what must have happened for they were all standing there, neat as two pins, when Joe turned back from closing the big doors.

Joe placed a cardboard carrier on the table, picked up the first order.

‘Mrs Johnson, Jubilee Cottages,’ he read out. ‘Head of celery, pound of tomatoes, bag of potatoes, 3 leeks, 2 turnips, 2 pounds of carrots.’ He nodded. Three short sharp nods. Then he leant under the table to pick out the next cardboard carrier. The vegetables heard their names, jumped into the box, lickety split, and arranged themselves comfortably. Well, that’s what must have happened, for they were all lying there fast asleep when Joe stood up again with the new carrier in his hand.

‘Sleep tight, my lovelies,’ he murmured, as he tucked the soft green tissue-paper coverlet over them.

Joe read out the list for the next box – Mr Hawkins, 2 Holly Lane, 5 pounds of onions, 3 bags of potatoes, 2 carrots, and nodded his three quick nods before he transferred the full one to the despatch crates by the door. The next row of vegetables heard their names, jumped into the box, lickety split, and packed themselves in tightly. There wasn’t too much room for all those onions and potatoes, but they managed it. Well, that’s what must have happened, for they were in there, although they did look a bit squashed, when Joe came back for the despatch table.

And so, one by one, the orders for the day were filled. Joe said something kind or encouraging to each boxful before they went to the despatch crates. There was never a mistake.

Then Joe picked up the last order. It had been a tiring morning, he was ready for his pipe now, and perhaps another cup of tea, and maybe another figgy biscuit.

‘Fred Timms,’ he read out. ‘Pound of potatoes, one swede.’ He looked at the meagre vegetables waiting their turn.

‘Dear me,’ he said, ’That won’t do, that won’t do at all.’

He lifted his hand. ‘Extras!’ he barked, and nodded four times, three short and one long.

Then he walked to the shed door, and there in an untidy heap was a motley selection of vegetables – battered, bruised, some a little scabby, some limp and tired. Joe gathered them up and personally chose what should be added – a couple of bruised apples, a bunch of wilting watercress, three tomatoes with tiny little slits in their sides, some peas in fading pods, a pumpkin that had much more left than right, some carrots so twisted and bent that they looked like little old men, and a little punnet of strawberries that were almost, but not quite, too ripe. Personally, he placed them tenderly into the box. Once in, they seemed fresher, sprightlier as if they knew that now they had a future.

‘Hmm,’ mused Joe, and marched off to his kitchenette.

When Fred received his parcel, with a note asking him to please help to stop their “wonky” vegetables from going to waste, he smiled. He was even more thrilled at what he found tucked beneath the potatoes and the swede.

‘I don’t understand it, Joe,’ said Fred when they met later on the village green. ‘There was a screw of tobacco in there, and half a packet of fig roll biscuits. Oh, I love fig rolls. Haven’t had them since I was a kid. How do you think they got there?’

‘No idea,’ said Joe, ‘It must have been the fairies.’

Well, that’s what must have happened, for they were in there, and nobody else had been near that box.

That’s why Joe loved his job. It was easy, but sometimes he knew that he’d made a difference.