Ted The Shed, Chapter 22 - Projects

Fast forward a couple of years, and we are all beginning to notice the effects of aging, especially in Dad. He is still driving at 93 and takes me for a trip in his car to the supermarket in the next town. It is very memorable - for all the wrong reasons.

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Appearing soon on Premium is The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad's allotment.

Thanks for joining me tonight.

We've reached July 2016,

But before I go ahead,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your chair or your bed.

Relax your hands.

Drop your shoulders.

And just loosen your jaw.

That's great.

So if you're comfy,

Then I shall begin.

Projects.

Two years pass.

Fish and chip nights carry on,

As do regular coffees and visits to the plot,

Sometimes with dad,

Sometimes without.

Mr.

MS remains the only one of us who can visit the allotment for pleasure and not with a task in mind.

He achieves this by keeping himself in a state of ignorance and therefore bliss about what needs doing.

He will do as he is told,

But over the past years has resisted absorbing information permanently.

It is like dealing with a goldfish.

Even dog MS takes more responsibility,

Making sure always to guard the back fence and bark at the wheelbarrow.

In 2016,

I am in the running for a literary award.

When I make the long list,

Dad is beside himself.

He spends a frustrating hour with the photocopier in the local library,

Trying to copy newspaper mentions to send to family,

Friends and relatives.

When I'm shortlisted,

He decides to invest in a colour printer.

He spends hours fiddling with different sorts of paper,

And every time I go round for coffee,

He has new versions of the coverage.

What do you think about this one,

He urges.

The colours are a bit muted on your picture,

But the wording is easier to read.

When I am named the winner at the ceremony,

As soon as I decently can,

I dash outside to ring him.

He is ecstatic.

You won,

He keeps saying.

You actually won.

An email in capital letters goes straight out to family,

Friends and relatives.

She won.

I am delighted to win the award,

Of course,

But I am also delighted by dad's delight.

When,

A month later,

He suffers a DVT and develops a leg ulcer and cellulitis,

To do,

We gather,

With poor circulation and his elderly heart.

I am glad we had such an exultant summer.

Walking becomes even more difficult for him than before,

Especially on uneven ground.

His leg falls to the care of the district nurses,

Who visit him regularly to bandage it.

I buy him a rollator,

Which in theory he could pop into the boot of Cheeky Looks,

Yes,

At 93,

He is still driving,

And take to the allotment gates,

As he hasn't visited the plot in ages.

He gives it a brief try,

But pronounces it too fast.

Did you use the brakes,

I ask.

I didn't realise it had brakes,

He says.

I perk up,

Thinking this new information will encourage him to try afresh,

But somehow the rollator's moment never comes again.

He also refuses to use a stick.

With his disabled parking badge,

He can park next to the trolleys at Tesco's,

And from there hang on to one all the way around the store.

Unlike the rollator,

I note,

Trolleys have no brakes,

But this doesn't seem to worry him.

Sometimes he whizzes around in their motorised chopper.

In his flat,

He works his way around by steadying himself on occasional tables.

One morning,

Finding the rollator dumped near his wheelie bin,

I realise it was a mistake to interfere.

That's primarily because,

While Dad's loss of mobility gets him down,

It has also become his new project.

He's happy to leave my projects,

Like writing,

Up to me.

By the same token,

He's not keen on me sticking my oar into his.

He prefers to steer by his own lights.

I will do well to remember that.

Later in the year,

Something happens that casts doubt on Dad's driving.

I accept a lift from him to a town about 10 miles away,

Which has the Sainsbury's.

He says their navel oranges are thinner skinned and juicier than Tesco's,

And they also have orange club biscuits on offer for £1.

It being the right time of year for buying bulbs and overwintering onion sets,

I am happy to go along.

I might even buy something for tea.

I think it will be nice to drive with Dad for the first time in years,

But I've got another think coming.

For starters,

Dad drives with his seat unnervingly far forward,

So that his chest almost touches the steering wheel.

This cuts down his side vision,

And even his forward vision is questionable.

He peers through the windscreen as if through torrential rain.

He is also given to unpredictable,

And as far as I can see,

Unnecessary,

Braking.

I bite my tongue,

Quite literally.

By the time we arrive at Sainsbury's,

My mouth is full of blood.

Feeling queasy,

I rush to the ladies.

When I come out,

My tongue tender and lumpy,

I can see Dad,

Unmistakable,

With his red face,

Tweed cap,

And anorak,

Having a ding-dong with a shop assistant at the store entrance.

His legendary up-and-downers are becoming more common.

In a sort of panic,

I duck back into the ladies to wash my hands again,

Soaping right up to the wrists.

I dry my hands elaborately on dozens of paper towels,

Then anoint my lips several times with lip salve.

By the time I emerge,

There's thankfully no sign of Dad.

Forgetting whatever it was I wanted to buy,

I sit behind the checkout and wait for him.

When he appears ten minutes later,

I wave,

But he doesn't see me.

As he checks his few items through the till,

A lump comes to my throat.

He looks every bit as frail and bent and shuffly as one might expect,

But more poignantly,

He seems locked inside an inner world that doesn't look much fun.

I wonder if this trip is proving too much for him.

I feel guilty and resolve to be extra helpful for the rest of the day.

My resolve crumbles almost immediately,

Not during our uneventful walk back to the car,

But during what comes after it.

Dad,

Not mentioning his argument in Sainsbury's,

Announces that he'd like to fill up Cheeky Looks at Morrison's Garage.

He has checked out the prices and their petrol is the cheapest for 20 miles around.

Good idea,

I say,

Bracing myself for another stint of terrifying passengerhood.

We manage the short drive to the garage without incident and pull up at a front pump.

I'll do this,

Dad,

I say,

Jumping out of the car before he has a chance to object.

I fill Cheeky up and go into the shop to pay.

When I come back,

The woman at the pump behind us is finishing up and crossing the forecourt to the shop.

We agreed beforehand,

Dad and I,

On a visit to a cafe I know and like,

But now he pulls a face at the idea.

I think we'll just go home,

Love,

Shall we?

We can have a cuppa there and a nice chocolate biscuit and it'll be free.

I'm surprised at how morose I suddenly feel at being denied my cappuccino.

I'm not sure whether it's Dad's increasing frailty talking or his lifelong habit of getting his own way.

Either way,

There's only one possible course of action.

Whatever you like,

I say,

Letting the comforting thought of a coffee plus crisp mini butter shortbread float away.

He nods,

Switches on the ignition and puts Cheeky into gear.

But instead of going forwards,

We kangaroo violently back.

There is one hell of a bang and we stall.

I realise we've hit the car behind.

Waiting for people to stream across the forecourt shouting,

Especially the woman whose car it is,

I turn to Dad.

Dad,

I think you've.

.

.

But he is starting the car again and putting it in gear.

Stop,

I say,

You've hit that car.

He pulls away from the petrol pump with a loud squeal of tyres.

Dad,

Didn't you feel it?

I say,

We can't just.

.

.

But it's too late.

We're already turning back onto the main road,

Causing a car to break suddenly to avoid us.

I glance back at the garage.

The woman is out from the shop now,

Approaching her car.

Dad is locked again into his grim world.

And in the reenactment of the Sainsbury's scene,

While we speed past the garage,

I find myself trying to escape,

Sliding down in my seat and hunching my shoulders as if it really was possible to make myself invisible.

To be continued.

Reviews

Thank you Mandy for sharing this wonderful story with us. Your father reminds me so much of mine. My father was a farmer, very strong and independent, and very very tight with money. I'm enjoying hearing about your father's allotment. I'm just up to the chapter where he has hit another car and made a runner. How wonderful in a funny but terrible way. I'm looking forward to hearing the rest of the book. I've been enjoying some of your other narrations recently. I loved The Enchanted April as you may remember from my review. I am recovering from surgery and cannot read at the moment and need to rest so I am especially thankful at this time to have your wonderful stories to listen to while I am in bed early each night recuperating. Thanks again ♥️

👍👏😀Congratulations Mandy on your literary award! I will look it up! I could feel the horror of the car ride, car accident and getaway! Not easy 😔😩

What a roller coaster chapter! Congratulations on your award - there is no surprise you won, your writing is so heartfelt and delightful - and your dads excitement made my heart so happy. I just know he continues to be so proud of you. My heart sank at the end - what a cliff hanger - the conversation that must have followed would have been a tough one. Looking forward to the next chapter as always xx

I am touched by your story, and delivery. Your writing gift along with all the hard work resulting in a loving, real life experience (with emotions) being shared. The character of your father is something I’ve seen in my childhood but not so much today. Your love and pain along with patience comes across wonderfully, I see your father adjusting to the new world he’s in too. Thinking about the world he grew up in. Much blessings your way. I listen and have tears knowing your family and stories you share. Big thanks 😊 🍆🍎🐕

Oh dear! Time to take the car keys away! Always a tough decision. We just had to do it with my 82 year old brother. He was not happy! But necessary for everyone’s safety. ,,, but I love how Mr MS has figured out how to enjoy the allotment on his own terms. 🙏🏻😊📖❤️

Uplifting … Congratulations!… and heartbreaking … oh, Dad! Thank you, Mandy, I felt as tho I was right there with both of you. 🙏 ❤️

Oh Mandy… heartbreaking to read, but still so full of love. Well told and well felt… thank you 🙏🏼❤️

I love Dad's sweet excitement over the writing award, a nice counterbalance to his driving.