Jack’s mother sent him to market to sell their cow. He didn’t really want to go and was grateful for the rainstorm that gave him an excuse to break the journey and shelter beneath an oak tree. It was there he met the tall man in a padded jacket.

The man nodded politely, but did not speak until the rain had stopped and Jack was preparing to leave. “That’s a fine beast you have,” he said. “Are you taking her to market?” Jack said he was. “Then I have a proposition for you,” the man replied. He offered to buy the cow.

“It would save us both a journey,” the man explained. “Plus I’ll give you a good price.” Jack liked the sound of that. It was a long way to market and there were inspections and rules and you had to accept the going rate, which was never enough. “She won’t come cheap,” Jack said.

Jack named his price. The tall man frowned and stared hard at the cow. “I don’t have that on me right now,” he said. “But I can offer you something more valuable. I shouldn’t, but … she’s really a fine beast. I think I can trust you – we’re both Englishmen, are we not?”

Jack agreed he was an Englishman too and the tall man opened his hand to reveal what appeared to be three large butter beans, a smooth creamy pink, veined with black, like ancient shrivelled testicles. “What are they?” asked Jack, intrigued and also repelled.

“Beans,” the tall man replied. “But these aren’t just any beans, no, they’re much more than that. These are magic beans. British beans. Very powerful. They represent freedom and opportunity. With these, and a little hard work, you’ll once again be in control of your destiny.”

“How does that work?” Jack asked, desperately hoping it did. The man laughed. “If you want guarantees, go to the market. Carry on as before. But if you really believe in yourself, if you want to stand on your own two feet, trust me, these will make it happen.”

“I dunno. Seems risky,” Jack replied. “Nonsense,” the tall man assured him. He pressed the beans into Jack’s hand and, with a flourish, produced three more. “There,” he said. “That’s double the price. You drive a hard bargain.” Jack grinned. He felt more in control already.

“You fool! What have you done?” cried Jack’s mother, when he showed her the beans.

Jack thought she would be pleased. It was a good deal, he told her. It was an opportunity. She didn’t understand. “Try paying the rent with magic beans,” his mother replied. “Then you’ll see what’s a good deal and what isn’t.”

“But you’re always complaining how things were better in the old days. Now’s our chance to make things better again,” Jack countered. “With magic beans?” she cried. “How are you going to do that?” Jack wasn’t too sure. “You have to believe,” he said. “Make a wish, or something.”

“Well, I wish we had our cow back. Or our money. One or the other,” the old lady replied. Jack groaned. “Well, I’m not going back. I’m going to use the beans, if you aren’t. I’m going to make them work for me. I’m going to stand on my own two feet. You watch.”

Jack went to his favourite tree stump, laid out the magic beans and thought about what he wanted. He had a lot of ideas. He fancied a horse, a good bed with soft pillows, a roast dinner on the weekends. But most of all he wanted to be in control of his destiny.

He returned to the stump twice a day for more than two weeks. But no matter how hard he wished, nothing happened, nothing at all. He threw the useless beans into the dung heap and spat at them for good measure. That night, as she cooked dinner, his mother collapsed.

Jack fetched his neighbour; his neighbour brought the doctor who, despite her protestations, examined the old lady. She was anaemic, he said. Exhausted. He prescribed a tincture, advised complete rest, and handed Jack the bill.

But they didn’t have the money to pay the bill.

Jack knew what he had to do. The next morning, Jack dug up the magic beans, put on his Sunday suit and set off for the market in search of the tall man in the padded jacket. He barely reached halfway before the heaven’s opened and he was forced to shelter beneath an oak tree.

After a while, another traveller joined him. The man knelt to inspect his horse. “Going far?” Jack asked. “Far enough,” the man replied. “I’ve business at the market. But the horse is going lame, I fear.” “Maybe I could save you the journey,” Jack suggested.

“How so?” he asked, folding his arms. “It’s just—” Jack paused as he assembled the words. “I have this special consignment, see, and there’s some to spare—for the right price, of course.” “A special consignment?” The traveller seemed intrigued.

“Can I trust you?” Jack whispered, as he took a solitary bean from his pocket. “You must keep it to yourself.” “Of course,” the traveller agreed. He eyed the creamy pink, black-veined bean for a moment. “Is it a magic?” he asked. “Yes, it is,” said Jack. “How did you know?”

The traveller let out a sharp, derisive howl of laughter. “Ha! How did I know? It’s the oldest one in the book, lad.” Jack glared at the man. “You don’t want them then?” he mumbled. “Wait,” the man replied. “You fell for it yourself, didn’t you? Oh, you poor, naive fool. You idiot.”

Jack slapped the man. He was a stocky lad, Jack. His first blow knocked the man sideways; the ones that followed brought him to his knees, and then he unleashed every ounce of frustration and did not stop until the man was face down in the mud. Then he rifled the man’s pockets.

Jack told his mother he’d found the tall man and retrieved the money they were owed. “What a blessed relief!” she said, squeezing his hand. She felt well enough to get out of bed. “I’ve never been more proud of you, lad,” she said. “You learned your lesson and made things right.”

Jack had never been more proud of himself either. He worked around the farm with a spring in his step. Then, a few weeks later, seeing the skies darken with the threat of rain, he donned his Sunday suit, put the magic beans in his pocket, and set out to rob again.

© Richard Parkin, 2021