When we were growing up in Erdington, on the edge of Birmingham, we knew all about blackberries, and we knew neither to pick nor eat any berries that had not been given a parental seal of approval. George Borrow (b 1803) was a little boy during the Napoleonic Wars, and followed his father around England in connection with his military duties. Once the family were based in Kent at blackberry time.
My brother and myself were disporting ourselves in certain fields near the good town of Canterbury. A female servant had attended us, in order to take care that we came to no mischief: she, however, it seems, had matters of her own to attend to, and, allowing us to go where we listed, remained in one corner of a field, in earnest conversation with a red-coated dragoon.
Now it chanced to be blackberry time, and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of their degree. We did not find much of it, however, and were soon separated in the pursuit. All at once I stood still, and could scarcely believe my eyes. I had come to a spot where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of what seemed fruit—deliciously-tempting fruit—something resembling grapes of various colours, green, red, and purple. Dear me, thought I, how fortunate! yet have I a right to gather it? is it mine? for the observance of the law of meum and tuum had early been impressed upon my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender age, the utmost horror for theft; so I stood staring at the variegated clusters, in doubt as to what I should do.
I know not how I argued the matter in my mind; the temptation, however, was at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth my hand and ate. I remember, perfectly well, that the taste of this strange fruit was by no means so pleasant as the appearance; but the idea of eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously.
How long I continued eating I scarcely know. One thing is certain, that I never left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, whilst the regimental surgeon, with a candle in his hand, stood nigh, the light feebly reflected on the whitewashed walls of the barrack-room.
From Lavengro by George Borrow.
These berries, known as ‘lords and ladies, look delicious, but we once had to stop a friend’s daughter from eating them. She had just arrived in England from Belize, and aged 3, did not know the local flora. At her sort of age, we had been much impressed by a gravestone at Erdington Abbey, an angel weeping over a child who died from eating poisonous berries, a contemporary of our mother’s. I think Borrow may have been eating nightshade, but lords and ladies would have been a shock to the system as well.
This is more likely what the young Borrow made himself ill with: nightshade, growing through the railway fence, possibly very close to the spot where the incident took place. That was before the railway came to the ‘Good town of Canterbury’; this would have been among the fields.
(Photograph 23 October 2020)
Will Turnstone 