Whether it’s boiled or roasted, sweetcorn is a hardy, long-lasting vegetable that you’ll enjoy having on your plate again and again and again and again. Its sweet and musky flavours, particularly when enhanced with one’s favourite spices and herbs, will have you raring to go, ready to face today and the day after, and the day after, and the day after…

  The Claypit Café and Tea Rooms, in contrast to Hungerbury’s barren Victorian-era High Street where it stood, was bustling with its usual Sunday morning crowd. Buses from across the town’s suburbs were filled up with their oldest regular passengers and gained the atmosphere of a school bus where the coolest kids sat at the front (to save their varicose veins) gossiping and nattering the entire journey. Fortunately, the extra years of stories these men and ladies had on teenagers meant there was still plenty of chatting still to be had at the cafe itself, over pots of specialty teas and pastries that their doctors really wouldn't recommend.

  Spencer Tompkins was settled into the largest and busiest table with a toasted tea cake and was applying butter with a perennially shaking hand. As he did so, he listened to the rambling words of a fellow retiree of the long-gone Staunton Brickworks, former

  secretary Deborah Planer.

  "I wonder exactly how many scones I've eaten here," she giggled lightly "because I've been having them for at least forty years. I always came here at lunchtime and waited until a fresh batch was ready."

  "Did Horace ever clock you coming back in late?" Spencer asked, recalling his old friend's position as Staunton's security officer.

  Deborah reminisced dreamily, with a slight twinkle in her eye. "Yes, but you know Horace. He was always happy to look the other way. It was all very laid back in those days." Her face soured as her mind returned to the present day. “I had their homemade strawberry jam with them back then, but that’s a thing of the past now. First they changed it for the factory made gumph, and now I can’t even have it without a dozen insulin injections. Though I might need that anyway, did I tell you what the doctor said at my last appointment? Pancreas like a withered pilchard he said…”

  As she continued her barrage of words, Spencer nodded sadly while ruminating on how the conversations at this cafe with his old friends increasingly fell into comparing uncomfortably lengthy lists of medical scares and chronic health struggles. The constant threat posed by their bodies’ growing refusal to function only grew more prominent as discussions around it inevitably superseded the pensioners’ reminiscences of the prime of their lives. Spencer’s athletic pinnacle was fifty years ago, as the speediest cycle courier on the Caribbean island of St Kitts before moving to Hungerbury and retraining as a brawny mechanic, and was dismayed by the long decline of his physical prowess, and like Deborah his only way of grappling with it was to talk it out with his peers. It did make him appreciate all the areas where his health remained. He’d eaten his homegrown corn directly from the cob the previous evening, and intended to keep doing so until his dentist intervened.

  He was about to update Deborah about his onset tendonitis, but delayed the news to say hello to Mrs Prasad, who joined the table opposite him whilst her husband placed their orders at the beige Formica counter. “A fine morning to you, Radha! Joining us for a long brunch?”

  Radha smiled but also winced. “We’re just popping in for a quick cuppa before my shift at the Rescue Trust.”

  She had caught the attention of all the charity shop browsers in the cafe, which comprised nearly everyone present.

  “Anything interesting come in?”

  “Seen any first editions in Fiction?”

  “Does the Trust sell Crimpolex dresses or has the asbestos underlayer gotten them banned there too?”

  Radha smiled feebly in the face of a wash of unwanted attention. “Leave it be, everyone. You’ll have to come down and see what we’ve got for yourselves.”

  “Yes, yes. Remember your purchases are all for a good cause.” Vikram called out for peace as he joined his wife with a tray of tea and croissants.

  Radha reached out eagerly for her customary pain au chocolat but suddenly cried out in pain. Vikram was quick to hold her arm instinctively in an attempt to comfort her.

  Radha’s table-mates aahed in sympathy before clamouring to ask about the latest medical problem to add to the collective list.

  “Is everything alright, dear?” Spencer asked more softly than the others.

  “Oh, I don’t know, this pain in my hands has just come out of nowhere.” Radha explained with a sigh of irritation. “I’m hoping it’s not arthritis, it has to be a pulled muscle or two.”

  “Ah well, we’ll be hoping for the best.” Deborah chirped in spite of the doubt in Radha’s voice.

  Spencer remained concerned. “Are you sure you’ll be alright at the shop?”

  “Oh I should think so,” Radha reassured. “I’ll just be working on the till, hardly strenuous.” She winced again whilst pouring a cup of mint tea.

  “And if you do need help, I’ve got nothing planned today! Except my shed projects, but even I could use a break from trying to bring that old microwave back to life. I could always join the Rescue Trust team!” Vikram offered eagerly.

  Radha rolled her eyes and explained to the table. “Vikram’s been offering to help for ages, but I keep telling him we don’t have any vacancies.”

  “But darling, they could use my marketing prowess! If I could sell Cox Rising’s Crab Apple Brew, I can sell anything…” He conjured up an imaginary trinket in his hand. "Oh, this little treasure? It's not just a souvenir mug rack from Dungeness, madam, it's the key to the clutter-free kitchen you've been dreaming of!"

  Before Radha could pretend she didn't find her husband funny, the tiny brass bell above the cafe door rang out. Despite the noisy chatter echoing between the teapots, the bell always attracted curious looks from all the tea-sippers at the new arrival. But on this occasion, the looks had more of a shock and horror theme as a figure that was equally familiar and alien emerged.

  When Horace McGinty stepped into this establishment last Sunday, he didn't need to crouch to pass through the door frame, nor did the handle crumple under the force of his grip. But then Horace had never stood at eight feet tall, nor had his muscles, once atrophied by his old age, rapidly un-atrophied all over his body, until they were swollen to more than twice the size they were in his National Service days. Horace’s hands had expanded even more disproportionally, each the size of the cafe’s XL breakfast plates, topping off his bizarre appearance. The only reason the giant was recognizable as Horace was his scowling bald head had remained unchanged.

  The quiet tension radiating from Horace’s cafe compatriots failed to deter the cordial, but tight-lipped, smile he usually gave them by way of greeting. He declined to offer any immediate explanation and took colossal strides to the counter to place his order, all eyes still glued to his vast back, regrettably exposed from a rip in his shirt. There was a rare delay at the counter, punctuated by a lot of baritone-pitch tutting, before Horace could join the others at the head of the big table with his coffee and a hefty round of egg and cress sandwiches.

  “I don’t like to point these things out,” lied Horace, grumbling to no-one in particular, “But the service here might be dropping. Dear old Nadia was more focused on chatting with me than steaming my latte.” More silence ensued as Hungerbury’s blue-rinse brigade had finally come across a medical condition they were hesitant to discuss. For additional awkwardness, Horace’s voice was amplified in proportion with his tactlessness, thus what was likely intended as a muted conversational tone carried loudly across to Nadia’s position, hiding behind the cake fridge.

  Horace continued, impatient with everyone’s reticence. “So, what were we all talking about?”

  Spencer watched his friend search among the familiar faces for a response. He looked at Deborah, Horace’s amiable old work colleague, avoiding his gaze in an uncharacteristic display of shyness. The face of Radha, once the assistant at Horace’s old local greengrocer before what he called “the blight of Tesco” came to town, was without the broad, welcoming smile she was known to give everyone.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  It was Spencer himself who eventually responded. “We were talking about our health, as ever, how’s yours today?”

  “Do you know, I’m on top form today,” he mused, his booming voice drowning out many choked, incredulous laughs from around him. “I thought I was buzzing from taking the upstart Kastens down a peg for once,” He paused as he contemplated how to handle a coffee cup smaller than his finger tips. “but I think I’m ready to admit there’s something a bit… bigger putting the colour back in my cheeks.”

  Smiling slightly, Spencer felt the time was right to cut straight to the point. "Come on, mate, this is hardly a time for secrets, what on earth’s happened to you?"

  Horace was at a loss for words, for once. "I wish I could explain it," he said, rubbing an engorged deltoid. "I woke up perfectly normal, feeling fine as usual. Well, come to think of it, feeling fine in the morning isn’t that normal for me with my aching joints…”

  The group briefly slipped back into normalcy at the mention of a more familiar physical ailment, with a chorus of sympathetic noises.

  “Yes, correction, I felt uncommonly fit and healthy at breakfast and as I went about my morning I felt fitter and fitter. Stronger and stronger, even. But it all felt so natural I wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t have to crick my neck to look at anything” Horace grumbled and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Still, I can’t see a reason to make a fuss and grumble about not feeling in poor health for the first time in years. How’s everyone else’s week been?” He started to casually lean his towering frame back in his chair, before a harsh splintering sound put an end to that.

  There was a half-hearted attempt to get the banal Sunday chatter going again but Spencer suspected many people preferred to make excuses to drink up and leave rather than acknowledge the impossible colossus Horace had become. Radha began the exodus when she jumped up and realised she was late to her shift. By the withered look of her hands, the worsening pain was more of a distraction than she was willing to admit.

  With a face full of concern, Vikram hurriedly attempted to rise from the table to follow his wife out, leaning carelessly on the cutlery he had waiting for his quiche. The instant Vikram did so, a freak flash of lighting erupted from the fork prongs. The sight of lightning arcing across the table was extraordinary enough in the Claypit Cafe, but the deafening booming sound it made ultimately turned more heads than Horace’s arrival.

  The sound of indoor thunder was ringing in Spencer’s ears, drowning out his train of thought. He had been torn between leaving with the others and heading back to his flat or staying with Horace for their scheduled Sunday constitutional. Spencer severely doubted he could keep up with his friend’s towering stride, but there was something in Horace’s face that favoured the latter option. The face on the hulking behemoth was set and stony with determination, as per usual. But facing a crowd of people avoiding his eyes in discomfort he carried on chewing his sandwiches and doggedly manipulating a cup and saucer with seven-inch long fingers, Horace’s face also held a hint of melancholy. Clearly this was a man in desperate need of his normal routine and Spencer was curious enough to indulge him.

  Oblivious to this train of thought, Horace turned towards Spencer with an expectant look “You might find this hard to believe, but I think I’ll fork out for a second round of sandwiches! I’ll get them and bring them on our walk.”

  Spencer nodded, privately in awe at Horace’s commitment to normalcy. “Sure, mate, let me order them for you.” He offered in response to his friend struggling to lift himself out of his chair without crushing any nearby furniture beneath his palms.

  “No, no, no, I’m perfectly fine to pay for my own lunch, I just need to remember that moving doesn’t take as much effort as usual, I don’t need any help.” Horace stomped over to the counter once more and after another reluctant transaction on Nadia’s part, he moved briskly to the door.

  Spencer was left staring at the burnt fractal pattern that Vikram left on the upcycled pine table, when a buzzing stirred in his pocket. For a moment, Spencer thought this was another reaction to Horace’s new look, but then his mind clicked and pulled out his phone. But before he could read the new message, his attention was diverted again by an awful banging sound ahead of him. Horace’s shoulders had collided with the doorframe, despite fitting comfortably an hour ago, and dislodged a significant quantity of plaster dust from the ceiling.

  "Heavens, do you need help? We can't have you getting stuck."

  "I just told you I'm fine, don't make a fuss on my account" Horace hissed through gritted teeth as he scraped his back through the threshold.

  Spencer sighed, disappointed in himself for forgetting Horace's greatest fear was making a scene over anything that wasn't actionable by a planning officer or a local government ombudsman. As he awaited the conclusion of the contortionist act at the door, Spencer read what had just been posted in the Viceroy Allotment WhatsApp group by the Roscoff sisters; a pair of middle aged, middle class jet-setters, Rita the eldest wrote under the belief she was a hip teenager.

  Rita Roscoff: HIIII Gang! [Smile Emoji] I hope you’re all enjoying a lazy Sunday [Bed Emoji], Josie and I are catching up on our plants after our trip to Wales [Dragon Emoji] and she says her magazine is interested in running a story about the health and community benefits of having an allotment [Sun Emoji][Shovel Emoji]. Anyone interested in being interviewed [Microphone Emoji] about their plots should swing by the allotment site today and speak to Josie!

  “Come on, Spence! Get off your phone and shake a leg! I’m not going for a walk with a teenager, you know.” Horace had to kneel down to stick his head through the cafe door and call his friend over.

  Spencer just had time to read a hasty message from Josie herself before hurrying to join Horace.

  Josie Roscoff: everyone, don’t feel to pressured if you’re busy today it’ll be awhile before the Gazette has room in its schedule for this

  Horace was already tutting gutterally at teenagers on their phones nearby when Spencer arrived on the street. Watching the steadfast, never-changing Horace continue to be steadfast and never-changing in spite of extreme body alteration was unnerving enough to put the Roscoffs’ messages to the back of Spencer’s mind. It didn’t seem to be the best time to discuss healthy lifestyles when accompanied by an abnormality of nature, even one that claimed to be hale and hearty.

  Spencer struggled to keep up with Horace’s footstes down Cornmarket Avenue, only succeeding when the grumpy giant halted outside Boltix, a flashy chain hardware store.

  “40% off floor tiles, and they’re still twice as costly as the ones I bought for my kitchen back in the day!” Horace tapped the sign in the window he spoke of, and chipped the glass with a thick digit. “What are home-owners today meant to do, eh?”

  The teens and twenty-somethings mooching past the shopfront were too deep in fearful thought to explain how few homeowners there were in 2018. Spencer noticed one passerby battle their own shaking hands to take a photo of Horace. This raised a prickle of alarm in Spencer, knowing his friend’s preference for privacy. It was time for a frank discussion before Horace suffered whatever happens when you go ‘viral’.

  “So are we ready to talk about your little situation?”

  “What more do you want to know?” Horace answered with a scoff.

  “Well for starters, maybe why you don’t care in the slightest about being the size of an elephant?”

  “Well, it’s so obvious what’s the use in continually bringing it up? You know I’ve no time for people who can’t do more than state the obvious.”

  Spencer coughed in recognition of the veiled criticism. “I know you really hate going to the doctor, but I would be curious enough to see them before strolling up to the Claypit if I was you.”

  Horace let another grumble echo in his cavernous throat. “Doctors are who you go to when you're feeling ill. I feel the exact opposite, they wouldn't know what to do with me.”

  Spencer tried again. “You may feel that way mate, but it would be worth double checking whether there’s a nasty reason to your body swelling up like this. It reminds me of what happened to Deborah’s sister, she talked about it for ages. Her legs went all large and puffy and the doctors said it was trapped fluid, caused by a kidney disease.”

  Horace considered this, then twisted a nearby parking signpost into a knot with his hands in response. “It’s definitely muscle, not Edema. Look Spence, I’ve been swapping medical stories with the town’s greatest generation just as long as you have. If someone mentioned something like this I’d have taken notice, especially after I missed the arthritis warning signs. Those quacks won't know what to do about this, and they can never admit they don't have all the answers and bluster their way around, just like they did when…”

  Spencer cringed as the tragedy of Horace’s beloved Jessie surfaced unbidden in conversation. Discussing such a loss was tough at the best of times and racing down the high street to keep up with a bereaved, towering juggernaut was not the best of times.

  Fortunately Horace seemed to agree and changed the subject, once he had carefully straightened the signpost back to normal. “There we go, I won’t be seen leaving public property vandalized. Let's swing by the allotment, we can say hello to Rita and Josie before our walk.”

  Spencer was taken aback. “How do you know they're there?” Horace had been very vocal about not joining any WhatsApp group, not for a million pounds.

  “What do you mean? You mentioned it in the cafe of course!” Horace flashed a look of annoyance at the question that left Spencer questioning his memory.

  Adding to the chaos was another message alert from Spencer’s phone. As Horace turned onto Thames Street to habitually mourn the loss of the last non-Wetherspoons pub in the town centre, Spencer read in an urgent missive from Rita.

  Rita: Hi again everyone Josie is being super humble [shining eyes emoji] but she would appreciate your support [heart emoji] Lady T is already here to take over my sisters project [rolling eyes emoji] so if literally anyone else can contribute please do

  Knowing she was angling deep for a reply, Spencer began to type as he walked. Ideas on how to excuse himself and his friend in light of their bizarre emergency occupied his mind instead of keeping an eye on the road he was crossing.

  “SPENCE, LOOK OUT FOR THE ROAD” Horace's bellow was the last thing he heard before the car ploughed into him from behind.