Ted The Shed, Chapter 18 - Top Plot

Much to my amazement, October brings an unexpected phone call from Dad, telling me that we have won the top prize for Best Allotment. I have no idea what we have done to deserve the honor, but Dad and I go off determined to enjoy the celebration tea and prize giving. Later in the month, following severe wind, the romance between Harry and the Lady of Shallot suffers a serious setback

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Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to the world of Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad's allotment.

We've reached chapter 18 now,

Which is set in mid-October 2011 and it's called Top Plot.

But before we begin,

Please go right ahead,

Make yourself really comfortable,

Settling down into your chair or your bed.

Relax your hands,

Release your shoulders and soften your jaw.

That's lovely.

So if you're ready,

Then I'll begin.

Top Plot.

I have always loved autumn,

But I love it more than ever in this second year of allotmenteering.

I live with the promise of a long,

Brutal winter to come that freezes the ground and makes digging impossible.

But in October,

Dad rings with strange news.

You'll never guess what,

We've been awarded a prize.

A prize?

Who by?

I ask.

Oh,

I don't know,

Some idiot or other.

But who cares?

The point is,

We've won Best Allotment.

What?

I say,

Wondering if he has got hold of the wrong end of some sort of stick.

It seems so unlikely.

But he goes on,

Giving a convincing level of detail.

We're invited to a presentation tea this Saturday.

We can wedge up on cucumber sarnies and cream scones.

The tea is being held at a local pottery.

Other plot holders have raised far better crops than us this year.

I suppose our allotment is laid out more prettily than some,

With its central grass ring enclosing fruit bushes.

But that's the only thing to distinguish it.

I decide it must be a mercy prize.

Oh,

Well,

That'll be lovely,

I say,

Belatedly.

I put the phone down.

Tea out with dad,

I say to Dog MS.

God help me.

For dad retains a schoolboy scorn for occasions,

Or indeed any event,

Where one is expected to behave politely.

He finds it all ridiculous.

And after a few red wines,

He has been known to jeer from the back.

Once,

When Mr MS and I took him to a local jazz event,

He waited for a quiet bit,

Then shouted,

This isn't jazz,

This is a ruddy racket.

There won't be music at the prize giving,

But I imagine there will be plenty of other things to object to,

Including speeches,

Which he loathes.

He has also recently jettisoned his £2,

000 hearing aid,

Because the batteries are too expensive,

Five pence each,

And taken to shouting,

Eh,

When he can't hear.

He seems to have given up on his teeth completely,

Homemade ones or otherwise.

He is therefore no oil painting.

This would matter less if he refrained from commenting unkindly on other people's weight,

Height,

Nose,

Ears,

Teeth or lack of them,

And hair or lack of it,

In the exceptionally loud voice common to those who refuse to wear hearing aids.

I wish,

Disloyally,

That I could take a different family member to the tea,

One who has excelled at digging this year,

And eaten all the produce no one else wanted,

Like windfall apples,

Wormy potatoes and stringy runner beans.

But the invitation says dogs aren't allowed.

I ring the organisers and ask if we can bring an extra human.

If that fails,

I'll come,

Says Mr.

M.

S.

But the organisers say no.

Oh,

Never mind,

Says Mr.

M.

S.

,

Too quickly,

Pleased that his Saturday afternoon session in front of Match of the Day remains unthreatened.

He's your dad.

Take him.

It'll be a lovely trip out.

I remember our last lovely trip out.

We went to the garden centre soon after Dad's pacemaker was fitted.

I thought a bit of gentle trolley pushing would be good exercise,

But Dad himself was anything but gentle.

When the woman in front of him hesitated in the pansy aisle,

He drove his hard into hers,

Muttering,

Get on out of it.

She gave a startled cry and dropped her handbag.

He,

Of course,

Pretended it was an accident.

He gets quite leery these days,

I say.

I'm sorry,

Says Mr.

M.

S.

,

But if you think your dad qualifies as leery,

You've led a sheltered life.

All right,

I say quickly,

Before he can start talking about his drinking buddies back in the day.

Point taken.

He is right.

I'm being uncharitable.

I resolve to worry less what other people think and enjoy an afternoon out with my dad.

And in the event,

None of the things I worried about happen.

Dad keeps his thoughts about other people's appearance to himself.

He can't actually hear the speeches,

So he talks over them,

But it doesn't matter because the speakers have microphones and he doesn't.

He keeps saying loudly that tea is all very well,

But where is the real drink?

But even a wuss like me can cope with that.

He is presented with a silvery plaque and will be its custodian for a year.

Cheap looking thing,

Isn't it?

He says loudly.

While I wonder whether,

Having won the prize and tasted the high life,

I'll now be driven to try and win it every year.

But as we leave the hotel,

Something happens that I'm not expecting.

Dad loses his footing and falls down two stone steps to land flat on his face at the bottom.

Time stands still and for several seconds I can't move to help him,

Like in a nightmare.

Then I rush forwards,

Anticipating at least a dozen broken bones.

But I'm all right,

He says again and again.

I'm all right.

But his face is puce.

Getting him back onto his feet takes enormous effort on both our parts.

We limp to a nearby bench and sit down.

Strangely,

From the moment he falls to the moment we finally get up to leave,

Which must be half an hour,

No one emerges from the hotel or passes by on the pavement.

The whole incident goes oddly unwitnessed.

He doesn't want doctors involved,

So when his face is a better colour,

I drive him home.

I don't sleep a wink all night and ring as soon as decently possible in the morning.

Me?

I'm right as rain,

Love,

He says cheerily.

Oh,

Apart from a small round bruise on my right thigh.

Oh?

My mind spins wildly in search of an explanation.

Could that be the sign of a stroke?

An embolism?

Probably caused by the pound coin in my trouser pocket,

He says.

I breathe out.

His lack of broken bones,

Wounds or serious bruises is even more miraculous than us winning the best allotment prize.

The following week,

We hear that the hotel is going bust.

Perhaps it was sued by someone who fell down its unmarked stone steps.

Earlier in the year,

You may remember that a romance at the allotments suffered a setback.

The blossoming affair between Harry and the Lady of Shalott was stymied by an unfortunate erection.

A polytunnel appearing on the plot next door to ours broke the all-important sight line between them.

Since then,

The Lady has stuck firmly to her decision not to move.

Being an old-fashioned girl,

1833,

She has decided it's up to rainbow-fingered Harry to make the next move.

Mr.

M.

S.

,

Who seems to know how Harry's mind works,

Has advised me not to hold my breath.

Incurable romantic that I am,

Though,

I find it hard to stop hoping.

But the allotments get another blast of gale-force wind,

And when I pop down to plant some overwintering broad beans and garlic,

I see something that tests my optimism to the full.

Harry is stationed on a corner.

Dog,

M.

S.

,

And I always pass him on the way to our plot.

For months,

I have searched his face for clues as to how things stand between him and the Lady,

In vain,

Because,

As noted before,

Harry is master of the poker face.

Even so,

When,

As usual,

I try to catch his eye in passing,

I'm shocked to see that he has taken his stubborn unresponsiveness to a new level.

His face is now completely missing.

I peer into his plot,

Wondering if he is merely saving face,

And it is hidden nearby,

Safe and sound.

But it's nowhere to be seen.

He has obviously become so afraid of losing face that he has,

Well,

Lost his face.

My fears are all for the Lady,

And how she might be feeling,

Assuming she's able to see what's happened through the murky plastic of the polytunnel.

I hurry to our plot,

Nearly slipping on the path,

Turned to mud by the rain.

If the state of affairs on Harry's plot made me blink,

The Lady's plight makes me gasp aloud.

She has seen only too well.

She waited so patiently for things to improve,

But now the twists and turns of this fated love affair have taken their toll.

She has lost her head.

It lies a little distance from her body,

Grinning up at the merciless grey sky.

With another shock,

I see she has splintered at the waist.

It is no exaggeration to describe her as a broken woman.

It is hard to know what to do,

So I run around lamenting.

Dog MS,

Keen to contribute,

Starts chewing the Lady's head.

I shoo her away and give her a turnip to chew on instead.

I crouch down by the Lady.

She has taken off her baker foil ring,

Symbol of Harry's devotion,

And thrown it onto the compost heap,

But who can blame her?

Words are inadequate in the face of such disappointment.

Cliches are all I can summon.

He couldn't face real life.

Don't worry,

When one shed door closes,

Another opens,

And you'll come out of this better and stronger.

I'll find a thicker broomstick for your body.

Cold comfort when one's heart is broken,

I know.

But I carry her head tenderly into the shed and lodge it on one of Dad's little triangular corner shelves.

At least she's back in her bower,

And at least she still has eyes and can see out of the window.

I retrieve the baker foil ring.

It is rather tinny.

Vulgar,

My mum would have called it.

But I decide that we'll keep it,

And I pop it onto the shelf next to her head.

Who knows?

It may yet be called for.

This romance may yet get its legs back,

Even if it is only one leg each.

To be continued.

Reviews

How amazing to have won the prize and even more so that your dad was unscathed! The Lady of S is so enchanting: here’s hoping she recovers! Many thanks and many blessings Mandy💖🌟

Did your Dad know my Dad? 🤣 They sure acted the same! "Get on out of it!" is my new favorite phrase! So well written, Mandy. I honestly listened to this over 10 times, and finally got to hear the end tonight! Bravo!

Your Dad is such a character… and you are so patient!!! It’s amazing he was ok after the fall. I love your optimism with the allotment romance ❤️

Oh Mandy my stomach flipped hearing about the fall. That must have been so worrying. ❤️I love how each chapter is a perfect mix of humour and realness. Your writing makes my heart full. Thank you for sharing your life with us xx

OH my goddess, maybe the funniest one yet!! (Except for the one unfunny part that turned out ok) I bookmarked for days when I really really need a laugh… you are the best😅😅🔥🙏🏼❤️

Thank you for sharing your story with your dad; makes me wince sometimes hearing what he puts you through. Good thing you’re a good sport. You have obviously survived it all in good spirits to tell the tale!

Poor lady, she must have been heartbroken 😔💔 (also Henry is a savage and the lady is out of his league 💔)