Ted The Shed, Chapter 4 - Room To Grow

Hello,

It's Mandy here again.

Welcome back to the world of Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad and the allotment he took on when he was 87.

If you've listened to the other chapters so far,

Thank you very much.

It's lovely to have you along on the journey.

And this chapter is chapter four.

But before I begin,

Please go right on ahead and make yourself really comfortable,

Whether you're sitting or lying.

That's lovely.

Then I'll begin.

Mid-June 2010,

Room to grow.

When dad first took possession of the allotment in April,

It was too overgrown to plant anything.

By the time letters about cutting down trees are sent and replied to,

And the shed is up and customised with dozens of little shelves and tool racks,

It is past peak planting time altogether.

Neighbouring allotmenteers decided from the outset that it was too late and restricted themselves to clearance.

Others went at it like crazy and planted their plots up with vegetable seedlings.

That's not gardening,

Says dad,

That's shopping.

Our approach has ended up falling somewhere in between,

Not that we've planned it.

Some might say it's characterised by indecision and disorganisation.

I prefer the word organic.

It was obvious that we'd keep the blackcurrant bushes and some of the brambles because we like blackcurrants and blackberries.

We've ended up keeping the redcurrant bushes too.

They take up quite a lot of room.

The shed is another winner in this respect,

As is the tree,

The tree stump and the bench.

I'm planning a compost heap and a water butt,

And Mr MS thinks it's a good idea to leave a ring of weeds and grass around the bushes because it looks a bit like a path.

But that still leaves a hell of a lot of space for growing things.

Progress here is hampered by dad's and my artistic differences.

We agreed from the get-go,

Or so I thought,

That we'd restrict ourselves to clearing and weeding until we had a better idea of the space,

Then discuss what was still good for planting and where.

Or perhaps it was just me that agreed it,

And only with myself.

Dad slips down one evening with 30 seed potatoes and plants them any which way along the back fence in the area I told him was ideally suited to taller plants like Jerusalem artichokes and sunflowers.

I thought it would be good to get something in the ground,

He says,

By way of explanation.

I mean,

What have we got to lose?

I fume,

But only inwardly,

Because this is dad I'm dealing with,

And although communication can be robust on his side,

We have no history of it ever being so on mine.

I have always tended to keep quiet and vote with my feet.

I decide that if that's how it's going to be,

Then I'm going to plant some crops of my own.

Over the next week,

I dig a long bed at the side of the plot.

This involves levelling a mound the size and shape of a human grave,

Unnerving,

And pulling out miles of gnarled nettle root,

Like unravelling a vast underground yellow jumper.

The afternoon the soil is finally clear,

I realise I have to plant it up before dad riddles it with more seed potatoes.

So I stay until after dark,

Planting everlasting spinach and kale.

They are in seedling form,

Whatever dad may say about that.

I lob in a few turnip seeds for good measure.

I ring dad,

Tell him what I've done,

And express my hope that he'll share in the produce.

But he says he doesn't care much for spinach.

It all goes into a mulch,

Doesn't it?

He dislikes kale too,

Saying you can't get it out of your mouth.

I don't even mention the turnips,

As the seeds probably won't come up,

And even I consider them an acquired taste.

The next evening he rings and says he has just come back from planting 40 seed potatoes.

Home guard variety,

He elaborates.

What?

Where?

I almost shout.

Oh,

In that big area near the front.

At least he hasn't planted them in my patch.

But I know the spot he means.

I had started to create a path there,

To lead from the grass ring to a future gate.

I bet he's gone right across it.

Only a few seed potatoes left to go,

He says,

Triumphant.

I fume inwardly.

How many?

Oh,

20 thereabouts.

What seemed like too much planting space suddenly seems too little.

No matter how big the allotment seemed at first,

I begin to question whether there is room on it for two people related to each other.

I rant to Mr.

MS.

It's chaos down there,

I say,

And it's completely pointless what he's done.

It's too late to plant seed potatoes now.

Mr.

MS looks up from his book.

He has very little interest in potatoes or in the right time for planting them.

But he makes an effort.

Oh,

Well,

He says in a kindly tone.

He's always been a bit of an individualist.

What did you expect?

One of Mr.

MS's chief duties is to remind me what my dad is like and to find it quaint that knowing this,

I allow myself to go on being irritated and infuriated by him.

I decide to perform a classic relationship preservation technique to go out of the room containing Mr.

MS and into another one containing nobody.

Of course,

It's true about dad.

He never was a team player.

As a technical troubleshooter on oil rigs,

He led crews.

But when facing a particularly different problem,

He would often work through the night when the other chaps were in bed to ensure the job got done right.

His thinking was more lucid alone.

His shyness,

No doubt,

Came into it,

Too.

At mum's funeral,

I remember telling Mr.

MS that I hoped to get to know dad better now he was on his own.

Of course,

That's exactly what's happening now,

And it's not quite what I imagined.

Sitting on the sofa,

Working my way to the bottom of a tub of rum and raisin ice cream,

I admit to myself more honestly that I was hoping he might start to view me more as an adult,

Less as a child.

Mind you,

Given his opinion of most adults,

That might not amount to much.

You can count the people he respects on the fingers of one hand,

Not including the thumb.

Spooning down mouthfuls of cold sweetness,

I realised that I'd also hoped,

Without any evidence,

That he might adhere more to the softer,

Sociable side of his nature,

Without the frequent ding-dongs he and mum engaged in.

It strikes me now that this was wishful thinking,

And that in fact mum probably had a civilising effect on him.

Without her,

He's free to go his own sweet way and answer to nobody,

Especially not his daughter.

Rum and raisin ice cream dispatched,

I sigh,

And turn on the TV for a rerun of Inspector Morse.

I'm struck anew by the awkward relationship between Morse and his subordinate,

Lewis.

Practical,

Full of platitudes,

And playing it relentlessly by the book,

Lewis continually annoys his scornful,

Cultured,

Hunch-driven boss.

Their approaches couldn't be more different.

They do,

However,

Manage to solve one or two crimes.

I wonder if there's some relevance here for dad and myself.

I resolve to think on't,

Though I have to admit I don't really know how to think about such things.

What I do instead is wake up in the middle of the night and ruminate unhelpfully,

Getting myself into such a state that I wake Mr Mandy Sutter up too,

And he offers to make me a cup of tea.

One thing,

Though,

If all dad's seed potatoes come up,

We're going to have one hell of a harvest later in the year.

With things at the plot feeling chaotic,

Mr MS and I do what couples often do when life feels unsettled,

And we decide to become proud parents again.

Not by getting another dog,

But by purchasing a wheelbarrow that we hope will be safely delivered next week.

It is a big step to take at the combined age of 105,

But we're optimistic.

There was,

However,

Some confusion when I rang the local hardware shop to order it.

What's it made of?

I asked the bloke there.

Green plastic,

He said,

With a pneumatic wheel.

A what?

You know,

A pumpy up jobby.

Oh,

I said,

Surprised.

Does the barrow come with a pump?

No,

It comes with a wheel.

Mr MS,

Standing beside me,

Looked puzzled.

Is it an inflatable wheelbarrow?

He asked as I came off the phone.

I've never heard of that before.

Nor have I,

I said,

Unsteadily.

But all is well.

When the Bronco Bull Barrow arrives,

It is made of tough,

Forest green plastic.

The wheels are smart red metal with a black tyre.

Many of the other barrows on the allotment site look a bit past it.

Some of them look as though they've spent years upside down.

They have rusty holes and wonky wheels.

This makes me feel extra proud of our new barrow,

Which carts things about a treat,

Barrelling jauntily along on its pumpy up wheel.

One of its greatest qualities is its ability to stand totally still.

It reminds me of Dog MS,

One minute alive in every sinew,

The next comatose.

Before this,

My only contact with wheelbarrows was when a friend persuaded me to take revenge on an ex.

We put his phone number in the local paper,

Offering a free red wheelbarrow,

Excellent runner,

To the first person who called.

We also offered his new cream sofa and a cockatiel,

Complete with cage and accessories.

But I digress.

I now have only one worry,

What Dad will think of the wheelbarrow.

Dad,

You see,

Got rid of all his garden paraphernalia when he and Mum moved up north,

As the flat had no garden.

He is prone to saying things like,

That was a lovely wheelbarrow I had at the old place,

I should never have got shot of it.

What a waste!

Of course,

I had no idea then that I'd be getting an allotment.

The delight of the second thought goes some way towards cancelling the sadness of the first,

But not all the way.

So out of respect,

I have been trying not to use the word wheelbarrow in front of him,

Let alone talk about buying one,

Let alone admit that I have actually bought one.

At his flat for weekly fish and chips though,

I finally work up the nerve to tell him.

He looks stricken.

I suppose the day had to come,

He says.

Where did you get it?

Knowing that I'm making things worse,

I name our local and rather expensive hardware store.

His chip-laden fork stops halfway to his mouth.

A bit pricey then,

He says with narrowed eyes.

Oh,

It's only a plastic one,

I say,

My voice sounding insubstantial,

And it was reduced.

This is true,

It had £10 knocked off.

It was still £41.

99 though.

I stuff my mouth with fish.

All right,

How much was it?

Asks Dad.

I take a big slug of wine.

£31.

99,

I say.

I feel bad.

Giving a specific wrong figure is surely a sin of commission,

Not omission.

But Dad mishears me.

In that case,

Is it still a lie?

I resolve to ask Mr.

MS later.

But in the meantime,

Dad is jubilant.

£21.

99 for a plastic wheelbarrow,

He jeers.

They saw you coming.

To be continued.