Hello,
Mandy here.
Welcome back to Ted the Shed,
My memoir about my dad and his allotment.
We've reached September 2018 and tonight's chapter is called A Change of Scene.
Before I go ahead,
Please make yourself really comfortable.
Settle down into your chair or your bed.
Relax your hands,
Release your shoulders and soften your jaw.
That's wonderful.
So if you're ready,
Then I shall begin.
A Change of Scene.
In early autumn,
Dad is hospitalised a further three times.
In between,
Mr MS and I keep an eye on him at his flat,
As do the district nurses.
His pills are legion and their numbers are many.
To simplify things,
The pharmacy begins to deliver them in a tablet dispenser,
Labelled with different times and different days of the week.
But Dad has begun to struggle with the concept of days and weeks.
The weekend comes along and messes the whole system up,
He complains.
Wanting a reminder that he can grasp,
When the packs arrive,
He pops all the tablets out of their blisters and lines them up on the kitchen counter or the table,
Or stows them in the pocket on his reclining chair.
One day,
Finding some in the fridge,
I begin to doubt the efficacy of his methodology and realise that Mr MS and I will have to pop in still more frequently to supervise.
Dad is currently on four lots of tablets a day.
As Mr MS and I are both still trying to hold down some kind of a job,
We work out that we can realistically only visit twice a day,
One each.
So I install a key safe and hire a local care agency to do the 8am and 10pm visits.
Their first visit is at 10pm.
It's dark and Dad's forgotten that they're coming,
So he's not best pleased.
I get a phone call.
He told me to F off and threw the tablets at me,
Says an upset sounding woman.
I'm outside the flat now,
I don't know what to do.
I realise immediately that this is a different calibre of operation from that run by the district nurses.
They are all tough as out and would never take that kind of nonsense from Dad.
I apologise profusely and ask if she's willing to try again.
His bark is worse than his bite,
I say,
Thinking of dog MS who makes a tremendous fuss about new things before settling down abruptly to accept them.
Five minutes later,
The woman calls me again.
He swallowed them down meek as a lamb.
He even thanked me for coming.
Nevertheless,
Because he threw pills,
Dad has been marked down as volatile on the file.
Carers from now on must visit in pairs,
Which is naturally double the fee.
A couple of weeks later,
A district nurse takes me on side and says Dad needs more care.
She cites the fact that he no longer gets dressed and has cut the bottom of his pyjama legs to ribbons.
I tell her it's because he wants to make bandaging easier.
Ever practical,
I think,
Ever unconcerned with looks,
But she sees it as a step down.
She mentions a lack of hygiene.
That's why his leg keeps getting reinfected.
In a care home,
They'll keep him clean.
She also says that Dad asked her to get a gun and shoot him.
I told him we couldn't do that,
She says.
I mean,
It's not what the NHS is all about.
That's one way of putting it,
I suppose.
Mr MS and I have a talk.
The district nurse has good arguments,
But knowing how much Dad,
The world's most independent man,
Would hate a care home,
We decide to hold out a little longer.
It is one of life's ironies that he finds himself in this position when Mum,
Who would always like the idea of a care home,
Some company at last,
Died suddenly from a stroke.
Towards the end of September,
A district nurse finds Dad up a stepladder in his bathroom,
Wearing just his pyjama top.
His electric drill is plugged in at the wall,
Ready to plunge into a sink full of water.
She phones me immediately.
He could have electrocuted himself.
Dad,
Furious at being prevented from carrying out his plan,
Argues that he was only having a wash.
The plug wouldn't come out.
I was drilling into it to release the airlock.
But the next day he falls asleep on his perching stool while frying bacon and eggs.
This activates the fire alarm in the care home above,
And with him being so deaf,
They can't raise him.
The police get called and barge Dad's door down.
He wakes just as they finish.
Oh,
Hello,
He says.
What can I do for you?
There is another phone call,
This time from the care home manager.
I'm afraid we must insist that your father stop cooking his own food,
She says stiffly.
This isn't her decision to make,
Of course,
But we don't want Dad burning the care home down,
However much he claims that he's at the ideal age to commit a major crime,
Since life imprisonment wouldn't amount to much.
With a heavy heart,
I begin the search for a suitable care home.
The one above Dad's flat is fiendishly expensive and doesn't have the best reputation in the world,
Nor the best report from the Care Quality Commission,
So it's not really an option.
I wish Dad and I had discussed this when he was more lucid,
But the window for two-way conversation,
Never wide open at the best of times,
Seems to have closed.
I find two care homes I like,
With no vacancies.
Then the leg flares up again,
And we realise we'll have to take what we can get if we want to avoid another hospitalisation.
A home I thought rather shabby and smelly,
Has two rooms free.
The manager,
A kindly and straight-talking woman,
Comes to see Dad.
She catches him in a helpful mood.
He signs a form agreeing to a fortnight of respite care,
Though I'm not sure he understands what it means.
Indeed,
When the day comes for him to leave the flat,
He point-blank refuses.
We argue for an hour,
During which he accuses me of trying to drug him to get my hands on his money.
I am upset.
Mr MS sends me to the pharmacy to get Dad's tablets.
We'll talk man-to-man,
He'll come round,
You'll see.
Sometimes Mr MS amazes me.
I return,
Half an hour later,
To find Dad sitting with his jacket and cap on,
And Mr MS packing his pyjamas and sponge bag into his old leather grip.
At the home,
We go upstairs to the room I chose,
Which looks out to the other side of the valley.
Do you like it,
Dad?
I ask,
Ever hopeful.
It's adequate,
Says Dad,
But the anger has left him.
Downstairs again,
We are served tea and cake.
It is lemon drizzle,
And tastes eye-wateringly bitter,
As though the cook has tipped the whole bottle of lemon flavouring in by accident.
Dad doesn't seem to notice,
Though.
He turns towards me in the rather elegant sitting room.
A change of scene,
He says,
And smiles.
We've advised not to visit Dad too much in his first couple of weeks at the care home,
To let him settle in.
It is difficult to comply,
But then a development at the allotments provides a diversion.
A few years ago,
You may remember that we left Harry ashen-faced and coke-addled following his gender reassignment.
The Lady of Shallott was disembodied in the shed,
Dreaming of handsome hobby horse person.
Well,
On an afternoon visit to the plot,
I notice that Harry has given birth to a daughter.
At least,
I assume that's what's happened,
As a mini-Harry has appeared next to the big one on our neighbour's plot.
But there's no sign of the father.
Delightful as it is to hear the patter of tiny scarecrow feet,
Or whatever passes for them,
I'm not sure how the Lady will feel.
The loss of her entire body back in the day seriously affected her own chances of getting pregnant.
Also,
What son of a broomstick fathered Harry's daughter?
There are suspects.
First on my list is Ranking Roy,
With his rasta hat and black plastic dreads.
His relaxed demeanour is attractive,
I admit.
Second is Stan from South Park.
Stan isn't exactly a looker,
Being wider than he is tall,
But perhaps he laughed Harry into raised bed.
Before breaking the news to the Lady,
I spend a few minutes at Harry's plot,
Trying to figure things out.
He looks dowdy today,
In rubber gloves and a tired,
Teared,
Hippie skirt.
Single parenthood must be taking its toll.
Mini-Harry,
On the other hand,
Looks smart in an orange pinafore dress,
Green bow tie and bright blue hat with sunflower.
She stands next to an apple tree that bears small sweet apples,
Much beloved by pigeons.
It looks as if she is being pressed into labour,
While still only knee high to a grasshopper.
I feel mildly scandalised,
But on the other hand,
I'm sure Harry could use some help.
I wonder if Mini-Harry's outfit might point to the identity of her father.
But orange,
Green and blue aren't Ranking Roy's style at all,
And I don't think South Park's Stan would take any interest in dressing a child.
It was probably Harry who chose the clothes,
Or let Mini-Harry pick them out herself.
Reluctantly,
I decide that clothing may not be the most reliable determinant of paternity.
But before I turn to leave,
Something strikes me anew about Mini-Harry's expression.
That spooky cool,
That smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes.
Where have I seen that before?
The answer is suddenly obvious.
In Hobby Horse Person,
The lady's long-standing crush.
Oh dear,
I walk slowly back to our plot.
The lady may see this as a betrayal of some magnitude.
I wish I could have prevented it,
But how could I?
No human gardener can prevent scarecrow shenanigans.
In our presence,
They loiter and loaf,
But when we go home at night,
They are together in the dark for hours with just the moon for company.
Nothing interrupts them bar floods,
Shed break-ins and visits from the lads who steal everyone's pears and plums.
I open the shed.
Deciding that the lady has been kept in the dark for too long,
I tell her everything.
In fact,
I carry her head to the front of the plot so that she can see for herself.
I'm expecting tears,
Despair.
But much to my amazement,
The lady's smile doesn't leave her face for a second,
Even when Mini Harry is in plain view.
In fact,
Her eyes may even take on a dreamy maternal look.
As for Big Harry,
She gazes on him in what could only be termed open admiration.
I'm surprised and not a little relieved.
Perhaps she likes him even more now that he's a father.
Perhaps his brave decision to assume the role of single parent has won her approval.
Her reaction is as admirable as it is unexpected.
And as I return her head to its shelf in the shed,
I feel sure that we haven't heard the last of this Tata Damalian love affair.
To be continued.
