Ted The Shed, Chapter 11 - High Winds

We are entering the windy season in Yorkshire, and gales batter the Lady of Shallot, the globe artichoke plants and, much to my alarm, our next door neighbor's already cracked chimney. The wind also causes a startling event down on the plot, one that delights Dad and prompts him to write another letter to the Parish Council.

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Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to the world of Ted the Shed.

I'm going to be reading chapter 11 to you tonight,

High Winds,

And we're now in March 2011.

But before I begin,

Please go right on ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into whatever surface you're sitting or lying on,

That's great.

Maybe just try relaxing your shoulders,

Your hands.

That's lovely.

Okay,

I'll begin.

High Winds.

The lady is happy,

We're all happy.

As early spring arrives,

She continues to lend the plot that much-needed touch of glamour.

But it's windy here in our valley,

Especially at this time of year.

One night the buffeting in our attic bedroom gets so bad that it's impossible to sleep.

Prone to forecast disaster,

A family trait,

I toss and turn into the wee small hours.

I'm concerned about the lady and also about my globe artichoke plants,

Which have lots of new tender-looking stems,

Arching like splashing fountains of silver green.

More pressingly,

Next door's chimney is cracked,

And I fear it will fall through our ceiling.

Mr.

M.

S.

Is no help.

Rather than shin up onto the roof and fix it there and then,

My preferred option,

He says things like,

We had it looked at and the builders said it was fine.

Why don't you put your earplugs in?

Why don't you put your earplugs in?

Eventually,

I do.

When I wake up,

I'm delighted to find that A,

It is morning,

And B,

I'm still alive.

I go down to the plot.

The lady is beaming.

She seems to have found the wind exhilarating,

Though I have to tuck her skirt in again,

As it now leaves nothing to the imagination.

As for the globe artichokes,

Some leaves are broken,

But most are still intact.

Their edges like circular saw blades.

When I've finished fussing at ground level,

However,

Slicing the damaged leaves off at the fleshy base and putting their fleece back on,

It strikes me that there's something wrong with the sky.

I stare upwards.

It's like bumping into an old friend,

Minus glasses or beard.

It takes a few moments to figure out what's changed,

But then I see the usual tracery of branches and twigs overhead,

So reminiscent of a diagram of the human central nervous system,

Is gone.

The witch elm is down and lying prone.

I hurry over to it.

Its roots are broken on one side and torn out of the ground on the other.

Luckily,

It has fallen away from the shed.

I gaze,

Remembering the notice the parish council pinned to it last year.

Do not cut down this tree.

The wind has obviously never learnt how to read.

The tree is down now,

Whether the council likes it or not.

I can't wait to tell Dad.

But he opens the door to Mr MS and me that evening,

Beaming.

Have I got news for you,

He says.

Despite not having visited the plot all winter,

He happened to go down this morning to get the wood preservative from the shed and saw the slain giant.

I feel cheated,

Having looked forward to being the bearer of good news for once.

I've already drafted a letter to the council,

He says.

Anyway,

Come in.

Oh,

There's no need to involve the council,

Says Mr MS,

Following Dad down the hallway.

As usual,

He is innocent of the dark passions involved in his father-in-law's relationship with authority.

I'll hire a circular saw at the weekend and cut it into timber.

I stare.

If only we could use the globe artichoke leaves to cut up the tree,

I say,

Which seems every bit as likely to me as Mr MS operating a circular saw.

But Dad turns.

Don't you touch that tree,

He says,

Sounding a lot like the original notice would have done if it could speak.

Don't so much as break off a twig.

That tree belongs to the council.

It's up to them to dispose of it and that's what I've told them in no uncertain terms.

He speaks with the satisfaction of one who has lived long enough to see justice prevail,

And he doesn't want his justice interfering with.

He is indeed so satisfied that even Mr MS,

Who thinks well of everyone,

Is suspicious.

Did he poison it,

He asks on the way home in the car,

Or blow it up?

I think about the sachets of weed killer still in Dad's possession.

I think of his expertise with explosives during his career as a seismologist.

Everything adds up a little too neatly,

Including his visit to the plot following the tree's downfall,

Like a felon returning to the crime scene.

Even so,

I can't really imagine it.

Surely not,

I say.

Wouldn't he have told us if he had?

Mr MS shrugs and pulls up outside our house.

I glance up at next door's chimney.

You can't see the crack from here,

But I know it's there.

At least it isn't windy tonight,

I say.

And at least that's it now,

As far as the trees on our plot go.

There are none left standing,

So there are none to fell,

Be it by bowsaw,

Bane or boom.

Gardeners,

I'm learning,

See things differently to normal people.

An ordinary family meal is imbued with more tension than a Christmas episode of EastEnders as I watch Mr MS boil the everlasting spinach nurtured all through the winter in a fleece tunnel.

I can't eat that,

I cry.

You've turned it into mush.

Mr MS is a wily creature.

I'll eat it tomorrow.

I like cold mush.

As he well knows,

I'm out tomorrow visiting a stately home with a friend,

So whether he eats it or chucks it in the bin,

I'll never know.

But I keep quiet.

At least he's said something that saves face on both sides.

At the stately home,

The slant view of the gardener resurfaces.

Despite the fascinating history of the place,

Its Yorkshire rose windows and carved stone head of Charles I,

My friends and my interest is at best polite.

When we get to the gardens though,

Emotions run high.

The leaf shoots on the apple and pear trees look impossibly vivid and delicate against the damp,

Dark bark.

Oh,

Oh,

Cries my friend.

It's no good.

I'll have to move house.

I must have an orchard.

What arouses my passion is the compost heaps.

There are four,

Four,

All at different stages of decay.

We only have one built last year by Dad out of old pallets.

Next to the heaps is a chicken wire drum of dead leaves.

I've heard tell of leaf mould and its soil enhancing properties and this drum with its darkening coppery strata is a vision.

I long for beauty like this on our plot.

That night I hardly sleep.

Yes,

Sad I know.

But the leaf drum easily installed the next day with wire and bamboo canes is magnificent.

There's something else I long for.

In Cormac McCarthy's post-apocalyptic tale,

The Road,

Father and son walk a blasted anonymous landscape armed with little more than a tarpaulin to sleep under.

Having listened to the audiobook over the winter,

I heard the tarp mentioned so often that I became mesmerised by it.

Never mind the searing insight into human's capacity for good and evil that McCarthy offers.

What I took from the book was the desire for a tarp.

It would keep my compost heap warm.

Dad and I take our monthly trip to the local garden centre.

In the plastic greenhouse section,

Dad fingers a tarp and then sings his signature tune.

$14.

99 for a sheet of ruddy plastic?

You've got to be joking.

He enjoys complaining,

I'm beginning to realise.

And anyway,

In his defence,

He hasn't read the book nor is he likely to.

The garden centre has a camping section,

So we go there to see if the price of the ground sheets is more acceptable.

It isn't.

Let's go for a coffee,

I say.

I can always come back another day.

If I want to,

That is.

I half agree with dad.

But on the way out of the camping shop,

I notice something interesting in a waste bin.

I fish it out.

It's a large piece of thick plastic that has obviously been used to wrap something big.

Look at this,

Dad,

I say.

He grins.

That's more like it.

We go back up to the sales desk.

Can we have this,

Please?

We've already told the chap there about the allotment and my plans for the compost heap.

That's £48,

Please,

He says.

How much?

Dad's mouth falls open.

Go on,

Tech it,

Says the chap.

We deliver a shocked laugh and a thank you,

Then scarper with our plucky prize before he changes his mind.

In the coffee shop,

We take a window table.

Wasn't it nice of him to let us have it for nothing,

I say.

My gratitude is genuine,

But I realise too late that yet again I'm trying to manipulate dad into showing warmth towards his fellow human.

Dad,

In his turn,

Is always trying to temper my gullibility.

He pulls a face,

Makes you realise how much money they must be making on the ones they sell for £14.

99.

I sigh.

I'll go and get the coffees,

Shall I?

Hang on a minute,

Love,

Says dad.

We'd better have some lunch.

He extracts a roll of notes from his trouser pocket and peels off two twenties.

Mine's of fish and chips with garden peas.

Have whatever you fancy.

After all,

We've saved ourselves £14.

99,

Haven't we?

Thanks,

Dad,

I say,

Feeling suddenly teary.

I think of him as stingy,

But he's not stingy about everything.

Far from it.

He bought Mr.

MS and me a top-notch DVD player for Christmas.

Quality is worth paying for,

He said.

I join the queue at the counter.

Lunch and a tarp,

I think.

It doesn't get much better than that.

What's more,

We'll be all right when the apocalypse comes.

To be continued.

Reviews

Was right out again, so must go back to find out more of the musings of March! I love this photo of the lady: she is indeed quite beautiful, and makes one smile brightly. Many thanks Mandy💖🫖

It’s great to see a picture of your Lady! She is gorgeous! 👍👏😀
And, I had to listen to this chapter twice to make sure I got all the humor 😀😀😀

You are seriously hilarious, best deadpan storytelling ever. In these grim times, I appreciate you greatly!🙏🏼❤️

Mandy, this story does not disappoint! I eagerly await more. Thanks for sharing this story with us.

We can get really strong wind and rain here in Northern California like just a week ago where many trees toppled and there was flooding. Our electricity was off for over 48 hours. Which means no internet 😔and therefore no Insight Timer 😢Thank you for this story, Mandy. I especially appreciate that you wrote yourself!

Frugal and smart. Nothing wrong with that!

I love your dad more and more with each chapter!