Zero Per Cent. Mark Swallow

You want to take your head out the clouds, mate!”

      His stall had always struck me as magnificent and at Primary I must have painted more greengrocers than aeroplanes. But now I was staring at it with new fascination, particularly at a plump and weighty fruit I’d never seen before.

      “What are these, Nobbi?”

      “Canadian cherries – and there’s a bastard blackbird sits on the gutter over there and knows just how much they cost. He swoops at ‘em…”

      “Not the cherries. These.”

      “Mangoes, Jack. Never seen them before? Jet-fresh, these, from Mother India.”

      He whipped out a knife, slit it down the middle and rapidly criss-crossed the flesh. The first brilliant cube made me grin. This was up there with caviar. I wanted more, now.

      “Go man, go!” Nob removed the flat stone and prepared the other half.

      “How much are they?”

      “To you, 40p. You wouldn’t get a can and a frigging choccy bar from him next door for that, Jack.”

      I subtracted four tens from my dinner money. He grabbed a handful of cherries and stuffed them in with my mango, swinging the paper bag round and round till it had mouse ears.

      “Prefer you to have them than that bleeder.” He stuffed the treasures deep into my bag and we stared at the beady bird who got embarrassed and crossed to a distant satellite dish.

      

      My love affair with fresh produce had begun and I quickly established myself as the first and most significant fruit-and-vegetarian in the history of Chevy Oak School.

      By the end of the week I had an arrangement with Nobbi. I helped him set up for an hour each morning in exchange for as much produce as I could carry. It beat the paper round and provisioned me for a day of steady consumption at school.

      “What’s that you got there, Jack?”

      At first they took the piss.

      “Apple of course.”