Ted The Shed, Chapter 15 - Love Among The Lettuces

One day while visiting the pigs, Mandy notices that a tall, dark stranger has arrived on another plot. She hurries over to investigate. In other news, Dad finally manages to get a medical diagnosis and finds out that he has an operation to face.

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Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed.

We've reached early July 2011 and tonight's chapter is Love Among the Lettuces.

But before I begin,

Please go right on ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your bed or chair,

Relax your hands,

Release your shoulders and loosen your jaw.

You might like to just relax your gaze or even close your eyes.

That's great.

Okay,

So if you're ready,

I'll begin.

Love Among the Lettuces I spend a couple of weeks enjoying visiting our plot purely to say hello to the Lady of Shallot,

To lop the heads off one or two weeds,

Then scoot around to see the animals on the other plots.

But calling on the pigs one day,

I see that a tall dark stranger has arrived on the plot opposite them.

He has broad shoulders,

A manly chest and an unflinching gaze.

He strikes me immediately as the strong silent type,

Seeing much and saying nought.

He wears a faded denim shirt with pockets,

Suggesting practicality.

He has proper shoes.

Even more appealing,

He is modest and plays down his obvious attractions.

Despite the impressive breadth of his chest,

He keeps his sleeves rolled down and his shirt buttoned to the neck,

Even on a hot summer's day like today.

All right,

So he wears beige slacks,

But his hands compensate for that.

Instead of the usual lumpy gloves that pass for fingers around here,

He has,

Ladies and some gentlemen may want to sit down at this point,

Multicoloured windmills.

Oh,

How they whir in the stiff breeze,

How they intimidate the birds,

How they glitter as he looms threateningly over the broad beans,

His hands full of rainbows.

I make discreet inquiries of the human digging the soil behind him and discover that his name is Harry.

I hurry to our plot to tell the Lady of Shalott.

She has already noticed him,

It seems,

As she is beaming in his direction and occasionally rotating her head like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

He plays it cool,

Of course,

Staring fixedly,

If thoughtfully,

At the ground.

As anyone knows who has dealt with a man like Harry,

There is doubtless a torrent of emotion raging beneath his calm exterior.

He may look uninterested,

But he is just treating them mean to keep them keen.

Or perhaps,

While tough in matters of scaring birds,

He is shy when it comes to love and only dares sneak a look at her when her head is revolving the other way.

Things look very promising.

I head home in high spirits,

Delighted on the Lady's behalf.

But within a few days it all goes horribly wrong.

You will be wondering how.

Surely,

You will assume,

A man like Harry recognises an allotment as a long-term commitment.

Surely a man with such spectacular appendages can't be a fly-by-night.

You're right on both counts.

Harry stays,

Keeping his stolid,

Vaguely menacing vigil,

And the Lady of Shalott still grins and spins.

But the course of true love never did run smooth.

Passing Harry's plot a few days later,

I fancy that his gaze is more downcast than before.

He looks a little heartbroken even,

And then I see why.

Our immediate neighbour has erected a massive polytunnel between his plot and our plot.

I rush over to the Lady.

She is still looking over at Harry,

Trying to catch his eye,

But all she can see now is his vague shape through cloudy plastic.

I sink onto the bench.

This is a major setback.

Although in theory she could move to the front of our plot,

Where she could see him around the edge of the polytunnel,

There are no crops there to protect,

And the Lady has her pride.

I speak not from experience,

Alas,

But from the vast numbers of self-help books I read before I met Mr.

M.

S.

I suspect the Lady is made of stronger stuff than I though.

I search her face for clues.

She doesn't give much away.

I reckon she's decided to leave it up to Harry to make the next move.

She could be waiting a long time.

As July wears on,

Mr.

M.

S.

Also begins visiting the allotments regularly,

Not to help on the plot or anything,

But to watch the pigs grow fatter by the second.

One morning he watches them shove each other out of the way to get at a handful of swede peelings.

They'll eat anything,

He says admiringly.

Then he presents them with some Tesco's mushrooms that have gone slimy in the fridge and discovers they won't.

He settles for scratching their bristly heads through the gate.

He doesn't mind their stinking to high heaven,

Being plastered in mud and pestered by ceaseless flies.

That doesn't put other visitors off either.

Children swarm down the river path to poke pea pods through the fence.

Late July brings a definite diagnosis for Dad.

Heart failure.

He is alarmed but reassured by a cardiology consultant he judges to be the right age,

Not too young but not too old to be past it,

That a pacemaker can be fitted and will make all the difference.

It sounds promising but I find it impossible not to worry about him.

As a distraction,

The day before he goes in for his op,

I go and visit the pigs.

But on their plot I can find no sign of their itchy pink bodies.

I peer around the place trying to see inside their doorless shed,

Refusing to believe the obvious.

But they are gone and that can mean only one thing.

I walk slowly to our plot and chuck the now redundant pea pods onto the compost heap.

I imagine the visiting children's disappointment and the pathetic age-appropriate explanations given by accompanying adults.

As for me,

I am not good with death despite years of meditation.

I am soppy even about weak seedlings.

Chuck them out,

Says every gardening guru under the sun.

But I prefer to waste valuable time and windowsill space trying to nurture the half-dead back to life.

Perhaps it's the mothering instinct gone rogue.

I should have had children.

Then again,

There must be thousands of childless women in the world who aren't watering spindly brussel sprout seedlings out of a specially made bottle every morning.

My saviour complex explains my adoption of the neurotic dog M.

S.

Astray in an earlier life.

On my choice of the men in my life,

Before Mr.

M.

S.

Naturally,

I remain silent.

But back to the pigs.

And when I burst through the back door wailing,

Mr.

M.

S.

Is at the cooker making a bacon sandwich.

Oh well,

He says on hearing my sorry tale.

We've all got to go sometime.

I shoot him a look.

I mean the pigs,

Not your dad,

He says quickly.

I forgive any insensitivity.

I know he views the op as routine and unlike me,

Isn't one to dwell on all the things that might go wrong.

We spend the evening with dad.

I am subdued and dad,

Sombre,

Rejects all Mr.

M.

S.

's attempts at humour.

It's a serious thing this operation,

You know,

He snaps.

He doesn't muster a smile all night,

Even through three rising damp reruns.

It is good to find him calm the following morning when we pick him up at 6 a.

M.

He comments on the fields and the dry stone walls that go by outside the car window.

The near ones pass quickly,

The distant ones slowly,

As if we're travelling on the rim of a giant wheel.

When we arrive at the small hospital,

Dad insists on going in alone.

I watch him cross the car park in his old padded anorak and tweed cap,

Carrying his overnight bag.

As he's swallowed by the big glass double doors,

I remember how when I was a student going back up north after Christmas,

He used to drive me to King's Cross station and watch me all the way onto the train.

Mr.

M.

S.

Squeezes my shoulder.

He'll be fine,

Don't you worry.

Yes,

But you never do worry,

Do you?

I snap.

It is nasty and on the way home I apologise and say I'll make bangers,

Mash and beans for tea.

Later there's a welcome phone call saying that the operation has been a success and the following morning when Mr.

M.

S.

Is at work,

I drive over to the hospital in the camper van to pick dad up.

It is a lovely sunny morning.

He is in his room preparing to leave.

Hello love,

He says,

Relief written all over his face.

How do you feel?

I ask him.

Right as rain,

He says.

On the way off the ward,

He thanks everyone profusely and chooses the stairs over the lift to go down to the ground floor.

He doesn't even let me carry his overnight bag.

On the drive back in the camper van,

He regales me with a description of his operation in tremendous detail as he was allowed to watch it on the screen above the operating table.

The only thing I don't like,

He says,

Is the fact that the pacemaker is battery operated.

I mean,

What if the battery is a dud like the one that garage once sold me?

It's a fair point,

But luckily he doesn't dwell on it.

He goes back to the gory details of the op again.

I'm grateful for the rattle and creak of the camper van which drown at least some of his account out.

I hope I can get him home before I pass out at the wheel.

To be continued.

Reviews

I enjoyed hearing about the tall, dark and handsome man catching the eye of your dear lady. Poignant juxtaposition of your dad’s operation and the pigs. Thank you Mandy💜🌟

Love the love story and that your Dad made it through! I’m savoring each chapter… listening more than once to drink in the humor and the details 👍😀👏

Oh Mandy, how you capture the whimsy and vagaries of life… thank you for sharing!❤️🙏🏼

Love your stories about your dad! (σ´∀`)σ They out me right to sleep! 🩵💜💙💛

Just bought myself a copy of your book so I can enjoy the adventures over and over again! Thanks Mandy!

Heeheehee!!! I giggled many times with this one, visualizing Harry and the Lady. 😊And grateful your dad’s operation was successful. 🙏🏻😊❤️