An overabundance of fruit in the allotment leads to a failure of restraint

Illustration by Clara Dupré

But I’d been away last weekend. On the allotment, they might be giving away windfalls! Offering unwanted stonefruit! Ever hopeful, I packed a couple of spare bags and set off.

It was a scene of panic.

The harbinger was P: a handsome octogenarian. “Want some apples?” he asked, already shaking branches. “Or Victorias? I’ve too many to pick.” As I left, too gleeful about my full carrierbag to worry that he was, uncharacteristically, sitting down, I met L: chatty, barely 90. Today he looked rather worn.

“Your raspberries,” I said, kindly, “look amazing.”

“Please, take some. I have made so much jam,” L murmured, “but they won’t stop.”

I adore raspberries. The survivors were tiny but delicious, concentrated by sun and neglect. Then L introduced me to F who immediately offered more plums; when she mentioned they weren’t quite ripe, I felt oddly relieved. I glanced at another tree, thickly covered as a child’s drawing. She noticed. “Want some apples?”

Eventually, rucksack laden, I approached my own allotment. It’s a two-mile walk each way. With full-time writing and a family, there’s no chance of daily visits, or adequate watering. But even my barren plum tree was going for broke this year – they must be ripe. Oh, the crumbles I’d make. I’d be giving them away!

Every plum was gone. Birds, possibly monkeys, had neatly arranged a few stones beneath as a keepsake. No blackcurrants. Last month, I’d over-excitedly gathered every one, although some were as sour as those sweets called Toxic Effluvia or Bubonic Pineapple. I didn’t care, it was Baby’s First Glut. Who needs the lining of one’s mouth intact?

I’m not saying it was disappointing, up on the old homestead. I found four raspberries, a handful of Sungold tomatoes, a thicket of cabbage-fly-infested kale, spindly beetroot seedlings with microscopic roots, two chilli-length courgettes, bolting rocket. I was gathering two normal people’s dinner, or one Charlotte’s worth, of mixed beans, when I noticed my neighbour’s mystery tree had suddenly revealed itself to be a Mirabelle plum and had celebrated by dropping all its fruit over my leek bed. I rushed to gather them in my T-shirt pouch, fell over, regathered them. It was already two o’clock, the sun was ferocious. My knee was bleeding. It’s so hard to stop, let alone tend to oneself when gardening, but it was time for lunch. Or was it?

I wasn’t hungry. This seemed sinister and completely unconnected to having munched my way, like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, through 73 apples, 24 plums, a hundredweight of dried raspberries, both courgettes. Then I remembered that my friend B had offered his blackberries “any time”. If I forced down my Unusual Salad I could use my metal lunchbox, the takeaway tub I’d meant to recycle as a slug trap now contained pollution-drenched wild blackberries, laboriously gathered on the way. Blackberries have almost as many anthocyanins as blueberries and writers can’t be choosers – these were free.

However, B’s is Oregon: a superior berry. He’d gone for the day. His blackberries were mine.

Or were they? If someone says “Help yourself,” what are the parameters? Do they mean “Take a couple?” Or “Strip the bushes bare”? Is it a standing offer, or temporary, like a one-off voucher code? Could I enter B’s allotment (like a vampire, one must be invited in) or grab only what I can reach from his path, and what about the redcurrants dangling at shin height? Were they included?

B is a good man. His Oregon, which I checked out of simple neighbourliness, bore many moderate beauties and a few vast jammy monsters. I developed mild heatstroke. Every container was now bursting and my bag weighed 400st. It was time to leave this massive pick-your-own farm before...

Oh no. Now my friend N, daunted by her redwood-sized blueberry bushes was offering me a plastic cupful. At least I’d have to eat these just to get them home. I’d almost escaped, when D by the gate called me back to offer Japanese plums from a bucket. “And want any apples?”

I’ve always feared appearing on the allotment WhatsApp sidegroups as a scrounger. Not this year. These people are desperate to offload. It was an act of charity. The only issue is how to spare their embarrassment. I’ve found the solution. A simple compliment works wonders. I’m definitely going to praise A’s cucumbers. Next time I see V I’ll say “Your runner beans look good,” then stand back. Oh, your apples are overwhelming you? Let me help. What charming redcurrants. Nice plums.