Ted The Shed, Chapter 32 - Sir Lazarus

It is February, and we enter the 'hungry gap,' when even the most self respecting allotmenteer is forced to go and buy vegetables from a shop. At the care home, Dad appears to be fading fast, and with a heavy heart I begin to make arrangements. But visiting, one early afternoon, I receive a shock.

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Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad and his allotment.

We've reached early 2019 and tonight's chapter is called Sir Lazarus.

But before I go ahead,

Please make yourself really comfortable snuggling down into your chair or into your bed.

Relax your hands,

Release your shoulders and soften your jaw.

That's great.

So if you're ready,

Then I shall begin.

Late winter is upon us,

The start of a time known in the gardener's world as the hungry gap.

Cabbages,

Broccoli and stored potatoes are largely polished off,

If not by humans,

Then by other creatures with various numbers of legs,

Or even no legs,

Or at least not legs as we know them.

And nothing is yet ready to reap in the spring garden.

The hungry gap brings an annual difficulty.

I need to go and buy vegetables in a shop.

As mentioned in previous chapters,

No self-respecting allotmenteer wants to do this.

And now that my annoyance with the council has worn off,

My pride at being a bona fide plot tenant makes me realise that a self-respecting allotmenteer is what I have become,

Despite everything.

This is a wonder.

But in the meantime,

Shopping must be countenanced if we want to eat stew.

Stews being my main attraction in Mr.

MS's eyes.

A bleak future,

Vegetably speaking,

Will stretch ahead of us if I can't overcome my resistance.

In the local supermarket,

I approach the carrots.

They are 10 times as orange and 20 times bigger than any carrots I have ever managed to grow,

And as clean and as pristine looking as babies.

I swallow hard,

Then transfer four of their damp,

Cool forms to my basket.

That wasn't too bad,

I think.

We haven't got the right soil for carrots,

Anyway.

Mine always come out multi-forked,

As well as small,

A phenomenon caused,

I'm told,

By our clay soil.

Nearing the onions,

My pulse quickens.

My onions,

Too,

Always come out small,

More like shallots.

I string them up in the garage and say,

Small onions are useful when you want to knock up a lunchtime soup for one.

But it's hard not to feel shame in the face of the supermarket's massive globes with their smooth,

Papery,

Pinky brown skins.

I swallow my pride and tumble a few into my basket.

So far,

So good.

A pack of shiitake mushrooms catches my eye,

And a whole coconut.

I could never grow those,

So perhaps I should buy some.

But what sort of a meal could I make with them?

I leave the question unanswered and go to stand in front of a display of dusty,

Done forms,

Piled up and fringed with fake parsley.

This is a different order of difficulty.

We grew a lot of delicious potatoes last year,

All the varieties Dad likes,

Plus some super knobbly pink fur apple salad potatoes,

Too.

A pain to peel,

But tasting sensational.

The potatoes in front of me now are described merely as white.

They won't hold a candle to our home grown ones.

But as potatoes are a key ingredient of stew,

I force myself to pick up a brown paper bag.

I put my hand on a potato,

But then at the moment I realise I can't do it.

I turn away and pluck one of those pale green bombs,

Arrested in mid-explosion,

A cauliflower,

From the shelf instead.

There,

That's something I have never tried to grow,

Yet.

I pay and exit,

Feeling both relieved and silly.

Luckily,

I have backup.

I can send Mr.

M.

S.

Out later,

Since he will go to some lengths,

Like living with me,

For example,

To get his hands on a good stew.

I may have shouted at him in the kitchen last month for buying shop potatoes,

But now I'm grateful he's not troubled by ridiculous sensitivities,

Or at least not the same ridiculous sensitivities as me.

I'm not looking forward to asking him,

But that's one of the hallmarks of a long-term relationship.

Most of the swords are double-edged and the humble pie is free.

We skip forward.

At the care home,

For the past six months,

Dad has been having good days and bad days.

But his trips to the sitting room on his Zimmer frame,

To gaze at the papers there,

Become less frequent.

And when August arrives,

He spends most of it in bed,

Complaining of stomach pains.

He barely eats and begins to look very frail.

When we visit the care home,

He barely knows we're there.

One awful day at his bedside,

The doctor tells me he may not have long to live.

A hospital bed arrives and he's put onto end-of-life care.

I cry in the care home manager's office.

Back home,

I cancel normal life for the foreseeable future and am enthralled to vivid childhood memories.

I contact relatives and old friends.

The home advises me to appoint a funeral director,

And I do.

Their presentation pack includes two packets of forget-me-not seeds.

A nice gesture,

I think,

Though Dad would prefer King Edward potatoes as a memorial.

Mr.

M.

S.

Is a rock.

For a fortnight,

Our sleep is conditional.

Every night,

We expect to be woken in the early hours by a phone call.

We're surprised then,

On our next visit to the care home,

Alan,

The chef,

Accosts us in the corridor,

Beaming from ear to ear.

A shock,

As we've got used to the staff respectfully casting their eyes down when they see us.

He's just eaten fish and chips for lunch,

Says Alan.

What?

I stare,

Wondering if Alan is confusing Dad with someone else.

But he can't be.

It's a small care home,

And Alan knows everyone.

You mean he's out of bed,

I say.

Oh yes,

Says Alan.

He's had some apple crumble too,

With ice cream.

We hurry down the corridor to Dad's room.

We find him sitting contentedly in his chair,

Picking his teeth with a splinter from a wooden stirrer.

Ah,

Nice to see you,

He says.

I'm too shocked,

For nice it is.

You're out of bed,

I shout.

For once,

He hears me,

First time.

He shrugs,

Finding my accusation unremarkable.

But you were so poorly,

I say,

Unable to catch up with events.

You've been in bed for weeks.

This idea I have to repeat several times,

During which he gets extremely bored by my attempt at conversation.

I don't believe so,

He says.

Now,

I've just seen Alan go past.

I expect you've got something you could do with a nice cup of tea.

I learn later that the man in the room opposite Dad died in the night,

Totally out of the blue.

It is as if when the Grim Reaper came for Dad,

He turned left instead of right in the corridor.

The following day,

Dad reportedly eats eight Weetabix for breakfast.

He also makes it to the sitting room on his walking frame to read the paper,

After a month of almost complete immobility.

I take the forget-me-not seeds to the allotment.

Everything seems unreal.

I don't know whether I'm allowed to feel relieved or not.

I understand for the first time the expression,

I don't know whether I'm coming or going.

I wander around the plot until I find a shady spot.

I read the instructions on the packet.

It's too early to sow the seeds,

In more ways than one,

So I open the padlock on the shed.

The combination is the number of my paternal grandad's house in the 1960s,

A number I chose because neither Dad nor I were likely to forget it.

Inside,

I prop the seeds on one of the two triangular shelves that Dad made out of plywood to fit the back corners of the shed.

The Lady of Shallot's head grins from the other.

The seeds will stay there until the time comes.

I make a mental note to buy some King Edward's seed potatoes as well.

To be continued.

Reviews

WOW! Ted is full of surprises! Ted the Shed goes on! 😀💪😆

I’m thinking Dad is in the right care home after all. Gathering my thoughts, I like Alan as he understands your Dad ( it must be the tea) . No wonder your Dad was so proud of your writing award ( several chapters back) your capturing of life is wonderful, as a reader I feel and In vision it all playing out . Again thank you for sharing. 💝🕊️

Oh Mandy! What a ride that was!
I was so struck by your comment about the Grim Reaper! What a period of emotional whiplash that was for you!

I’m not ready for it to be the end of Ted’s story. Such a roller coaster - this episode had me anxious, relieved, sad, grateful and everything in between. You have us all forget me notting your Dad xxx

So love this… as an actual farmer, in winter I definitely buy in veg, but there are those things I just refuse to buy!😝
So love Dad’s rally! Thank you, dear!🙏🏼❤️

I’m getting sad anticipating the end of your story, I want it to keep going. (Maybe you have a sequel 😊)

Oh, Mandy! Up down up down, I’m right there with you. So beautifully articulated. Forget-Me-Not indeed. ❤️

I was so scared that this would be the end of the book where your dad dies but I had a sigh of relief moment when I found out he ended up ok. 😊🙏