Ted The Shed, Chapter 31 - A Care Home Christmas

We are all (except Dg MS) invited to spend Christmas Day at the care home. We accept, and are served a very meaty lunch. Mr MS brings Dad in his tools as a Christmas treat, disguised in a wine bag. I apply to the Council for joint tenancy of the plot, and am both pleased and irritated by their reply. Dad continues to infuriate the Care Home Manager with his efforts at DIY.

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Transcript

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad and his allotment.

Thanks for joining me tonight and before I go ahead with tonight's reading which is called A Care Home Christmas and is from December 2018,

Please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down onto your chair or your bed,

Relax your hands,

Loosen your shoulders and release your jaw.

That's lovely.

Okay then,

If you're ready then I shall begin A Care Home Christmas.

The bench is mended by reinserting some screws,

Much to my relief.

The wood has only splintered on the edge,

Nothing is irrevocably damaged.

Back at the care home,

Dad too turns his attention to mending,

To getting the drawers in his bedside cabinet to run smoothly.

I wish I could get him down to the plot to mend my bench but still the drawer project keeps him going throughout December.

We are invited to the home for Christmas lunch and I think how nice it will be not to have to cook.

On the day,

Dad declines the invitation to get dressed so we wheel him pyjama clad to the little dining room where a tree is festooned in gold tinsel and tables are adorned with silver crackers and red serviettes.

It all looks very festive but there are only two other families in.

It's a cry in shame,

Says senior carer Diane,

Advancing on us with a bottle of red wine.

Her paper hat is a kimbo.

The carers are waiting on table today which strikes me as an indignity.

Just a small one,

I say.

Get away with you,

She says,

Winking and filling my glass to the very brim.

She is obviously a woman after dad's own heart.

She brings Mr MS a coke and dad a glass of sherry.

Then she brings three plates full of turkey,

Ham,

Yorkshire pudding,

Gravy,

Roast potatoes and mash.

She winks at dad.

You like your Yorkshires,

Don't you,

Ted?

Indeed,

Dad tucks in immediately.

Mr MS and I wait for a minute or two for potential carrots,

Sprouts and peas.

Then,

Feeling silly,

Dig in also.

Perhaps there aren't any vegetables,

I whisper.

I try and see what the other families are eating but we're all at different stages of the meal.

I consider going out to the kitchen to ask,

But it feels awkward and besides dad is halfway through his dinner now.

We finish our meaty platefuls.

Delicious,

Says dad,

Patting his stomach.

As dessert arrives,

We turn our attention to the crackers.

Dad dons his crown.

Unfortunately,

He gets a pair of nail clippers in his cracker and sets to work with them immediately.

A crescent of fingernail pings into Mr MS's bowl of Christmas pudding.

What do you get if you cross an elephant with a fish?

We ask dad five times at high volume.

Meal dispatched,

We wheel dad out of the dining room and a relative calls from another table.

What do you get if you cross an elephant with a fish?

We all laugh.

Back in the room,

We put the TV on,

Ready for the Queen at 3pm.

Mrs Queen,

Says dad,

His old joke,

And we all laugh again.

But during her speech,

He begins fiddling with the drawers of his bedside cabinet again and continues throughout the Wallace and Gromit film that comes next.

Dad's room is hot and small and rather pungent.

All those things I can cope with,

But continuous drawer fiddling takes things to a new level of claustrophobia.

Mr MS urges me to go out for a short walk.

The cold will help you calm down a bit,

He says.

It is certainly a relief to be outside in the chilly darkness,

But it's poignant gazing up other people's driveways into their uncurtained,

Jolly looking Christmas evenings.

On my way back to dad's room,

I sanitise my hands at the dispenser in the hall and overhear a loud conversation in the sitting room between residents Keith and Bob.

Do you want a banana?

Asks Keith.

I can't hear a word you're saying,

Says Bob.

Well,

I'm seeing a doctor on Monday,

Says Keith,

And getting my ears sorted,

Nine o'clock sharp.

Back in dad's room,

We sit with the TV and the drawer fiddling a while longer.

Sandwiches and tea arrive,

And soon after that there is a staff shift change.

Mr MS drives home to have a chat with dog MS and feed her.

To my alarm,

He comes back with dad's tools hidden inside a Christmas wine bag.

What if someone sees?

I hiss.

Don't worry,

The night staff don't know about the tool ban.

Dad,

For his part,

Is absolutely delighted.

With the correct tools,

He's able to prise the defective runners off his bedside cabinet and install another set,

Prized from his other chest of drawers.

The other chest of drawers is ruined,

But dad couldn't be happier.

He downs tools and grins.

Thank God that job's done at last,

He says.

I couldn't agree more.

Attentive listeners may remember that dad is the sole tenant of our plot,

And that years back,

My plea to the parish council to register us as joint tenants fell on deaf ears.

In the new year,

I decide it's time to have another go.

Online,

I search tenancy agreements from allotments nationwide,

Hoping to find an established protocol that I can bring to the council's attention.

I'm in luck.

Allotment regulations all the way from Barnsley to Oxford allow allotmenteers to amend their contracts to include friends and family.

I copy a few key clauses,

And boom,

A carefully worded letter is on its way to our council.

I don't have to wait long for a reply,

Though it isn't what I expect.

The council write with sincere apologies.

They changed the rules five years ago,

They say,

And are therefore now happy to accept me as a joint tenant.

I'm both relieved and annoyed.

Why didn't they tell me?

The letter and accompanying research have taken me several hours.

It's impossible for a writer to just dash a letter off,

Don't you know?

Each word,

Comma,

And full stop has to be carefully chosen.

Also,

While dad would have relished this news as recently as a year ago,

I don't think he'll understand it now.

Fond of saying each January,

Well,

I made it through another Christmas,

We've got the allotment for another year.

This year the milestone has gone unremarked.

In fact,

He doesn't appear to remember the allotment at all.

He's literally lost the plot.

Nevertheless,

I decide to tell him.

I have taken to driving dad's car,

Cheeky looks.

I wasn't expecting to like it,

But I do.

Thanks to dad jacking the driver's seat up three inches with a block of wood,

It's very comfortable for someone short-waisted like me who can barely see over the dashboard in a normal car.

The sound system is beefed up by an extra speaker wired in and attached to the steering column.

The car has got a lot of poke for a tin can,

And like dog MS can turn on a sixpence.

On the road outside the care home,

I wait a few minutes to let a dino-rod lorry out,

Then drive into the grounds and park easily in a little space into which a larger car would have struggled to fit.

On my way past the manager's office,

I'm beckoned in and offered a seat.

I anticipate trouble.

I'm not disappointed.

Dad has been taking off his leg bandages and putting them down the toilet,

Says the manager.

It's very difficult for her to get the right tone for this announcement.

The incident is no one's fault.

Still,

She has had to pay for dino-rod to come out and wants to blame someone.

I'm most terribly sorry,

I say.

I really am.

This is similar to the council's apology to me.

In other words,

Not going to help much.

If anything,

The manager's expression hardens.

Down the corridor,

Dad's door is propped open.

A good sign.

He is sitting in his chair by the window,

Wearing the green and red felt elf hat he was given before Christmas,

Which he has taken a shine to.

As I go in,

A carer pokes her head around the door.

Who's a naughty little elf then,

She chortles.

Dad,

More deaf since entering the care home,

Is unable to hear but recognises that some sort of joke is being made and gives a thumbs up.

He smiles as I come in.

Another good sign.

Sometimes,

These days,

He gazes at me dispassionately and seems to forget that I'm his daughter.

He confuses me,

Perhaps,

With Mum or with some other familiar-looking but ineffectual woman who has come into his room to badger him.

It's as if the roles he has held throughout his life have begun to fall away.

That isn't surprising,

The way the care home infantilise their inmates.

Or,

Perhaps the regression is part of ageing and the care home is just responding.

Either way,

The mystery we sometimes sense at the heart of another human being seems deeper now in Dad,

More impenetrable.

But today,

He looks pleased to see me.

Hello,

Dad,

I beam and bend over to kiss his cheek.

Fancy a cup of tea?

He can't hear but quickly grasps a mime and says,

That's a good idea,

Love.

What a comfort a cup of tea is and has been throughout my lifetime.

The boiling of the kettle,

The warming of the pot,

The making of the tea,

The waiting for it to cool,

The drinking of it,

Even the washing up of the cups.

All aspects provide a welcome ritual that takes the edge off life,

Much like the rolling and sealing of a pinch of tobacco in a cigarette paper.

I think of the allotment and my tea-making paraphernalia there that draws the process out even longer.

I once stayed in a house in Italy with no running water,

So the ritual included fetching a bucket of water from the well.

Happy days.

Here at the care home,

It merely involves leaving Dad with the paper I've bought,

Then going into the kitchen and drawing hot water down from the vast steel urn onto two tea bags in two mugs.

But even these minimal actions are consoling.

The chef,

Alan,

Tells me that Dad has eaten cottage pie for lunch and had an ice cream and we agree with much enthusiasm and certainty on both sides that this is a very good thing.

Back in the room,

Dad turns the paper's pages in a slow rhythm.

I place his tea for him and wait until he has drunk some of it before trying to speak.

Remember the allotment,

Dad?

He gazes at me,

Seemingly without comprehension.

I write the words on a piece of paper and hand it to him.

Good news,

The council have granted me joint tenancy of our allotment.

But he glances at the note without appearing to read it and lays it to one side.

His eyes drift back to his paper and he starts turning the pages again.

Perhaps he is keeping my note to read later,

Perhaps not.

I smile.

Like many other things involving Dad,

I wish I'd tried to sort the tenancy out again a few years ago.

But never mind,

At least I'll be keeping the plot for now.

To be continued.

Reviews

Thanks so much, Mandy, for reading such an entertaining story! And it’s your very own!! 🙏🏻😊📖❤️

👏👍😀Another enjoyable chapter read by the Fabulous Mandy Sutter! I especially enjoyed hearing about the details and feelings on your Christmas walk, researching and writing the allotment office and making tea.

Dad, with his constant need to make repairs, reminds me of an orchestral conductor who, no doubt, continued to wave the baton during their sleep. A ritual so enamored and ingrained that it is simply a part of their being. What a beautiful and moving chapter, Mandy. It is familiar, having been through a similar last stage with my mom. Thanks again for sharing your story(s). 🙏❤️

So many emotions going on each getting attended to then things seem to come together till they fall apart again life continues on. I see all the strength in you from your dad and MrMS is the icing on the cake arriving with solutions in the nick of time. Oh what a wonderful family ❤️I love the fact”Dad” never gave up his desire to fix or make better anything he saw in need of help. A most beautiful story of life , in my opinion. Thank you for sharing. Dog MS is great too🐕🕊️🩷

Aww, Mr MS to the rescue with the tools… thanks again for this share, Mandy ❤️🙏🏼