Ted The Shed, Chapter 5 - Weed Killer

Welcome back to the allotment, where desperation makes Mandy and her Dad use weedkiller on the six foot high jungle of nettles, with unexpected results. Fences start to appear on many of the other plots, which leads to a variety of philosophical musings.

Transcript

Hello there, It's Mandy here. Welcome back to Ted the Shed, My memoir about my dad and his allotment. Tonight we're going to be looking at chapter five, Which is called Weed Killer. But before I begin, Please go right on ahead and make yourself really comfortable. That's lovely. Okay, Then I'll begin. Early July 2010, Weed Killer. One day I realise that we've had the allotment for several months without resorting to Weed Killer. Dad fondly believes that the plot only takes an hour to clear and I have a vague prejudice against chemicals and hope all the bending and stretching involved in weeding will make me lose weight. But after weeks of pulling up the same weeds from what seemed to be the same places, I'm beginning to think weight loss is overrated. Then I go to Spain for a week and while I'm away, The British weather offers perfect conditions for all the little weeds left on our plot to grow six feet high. I find this out the moment I get back. I always ring dad the minute I'm through the front door as he worries so much about me travelling. But his greeting, Though heartfelt, Is brief. That allotment has turned into a right mess while you've been away, He says. There's weeds all over the shop. What are your plans? I stare at my case still unpacked. I haven't even seen Mr Mandy Sutter yet. I feel overwhelmed, Which is probably why my mind goes immediately to one thing. Weed Killer, I say. Then I remember the allotmenteers in the new section of the site are middle class, Unlike the rest. Therefore, We approve only of chemicals that biodegrade as soon as they touch the soil. Round up, I qualify. Oh, You don't want to go spending money on that rubbish, Says dad. I've got some old stuff you can use. I don't like the sound of this. Hmm, What's it called? Oh, It hasn't got a name. It's just initials, Zs and Xs. Is it eco-friendly? You what? Is it kind to the soil? Of course it isn't kind, Says dad. It's poison. But what does that matter? I might drop dead tomorrow, For all you know. I'm beginning to realise that this is dad's way of saying whatever. And so might you, He adds, For good measure. I decide I'd better go straight round. Mr. MS is at work anyway. The stuff is in sachets inside an ancient black and red box. We go down to the plot and mix it in my pink watering cans. It's a dark cloudy grey with what looks like iron filings floating in it. There, Says dad, I knew this stuff would come in handy one day. He teeters off over the tussocky ground and sprinkles the evil potion over our plentiful clumps of weeds. Nettles are the ones I recognise, But there are other undesirables too. I force him to leave one clump of nettles, As I've been told they're a good thing in moderation. Then, As advised, We settle in for a 10-day wait. That night I toss and turn, And when I finally do sleep, I dream that weed killer has seeped into the water supply and killed all the children at the primary school across the road from the allotments. Mr. MS has to make yet another of his 3am cups of tea. I think you're taking this too seriously, He says. Anyway, He's only got six sachets. That's only enough to take out one small pupil group. I try to relax. Whatever the stuff is, It can't be that lethal. And if it is, I'll just have to lie to the other allotmenteers when all their crops die. They won't be able to pin it on us anyway, Especially as we've done it mid-week when there was no one around. As it happens, When dad and I walk to the plot when the time comes, Other people's crops look fine. I breathe a sigh of relief. Reaching our plot, Though, I gasp. It looks as though it has been torched. Where there were tall, Swaying stems with green heart-shaped leaves, There are blackened stalks with grey tatters hanging from them. I didn't know you could feel sorry for a nettle. The other weeds also look jolly poorly. The grass path looks burnt where the evil poison must have dripped from the can. My spinach and kale look okay, As do the little green sproutings that may be incipient turnips. But on the other hand, I dread to think what toxins they may have absorbed. Even dad looks shaken. Well, It's done the trick, But it's a shame about the grass. Perhaps I shouldn't have made it up double strength. Only I thought it looked a bit weak. Perhaps I shouldn't have made it up double strength. Only I thought it looked a bit weak. Later that evening, He rings. I've been thinking we won't use any more of that stuff on the plot. I am delighted, Not least because dad is for once fighting his mania for using everything up down to the last drop, No matter how aged or unsuitable. I had a bout of food poisoning last year from eating some date-expired Tesco's trifle at his flat. He goes on. You can do the weeding by hand, Can't you? Might help you lose a bit of weight. Besides, It only takes an hour to clear the plot. Not even that long, I say. Now that most of us new allotmenteers have equipped our plots with sheds, Benches, Barrows and varying amounts of vegetable seedlings, The focus on site shifts to fences. The fences that surround the site as a whole are jolly sturdy. They're made of heavy gauge wire mesh, But they do have a gap underneath which runs to six inches in places, So they don't deter rabbits. They don't deter Jack Russell terriers either, Or people outside the allotments making smart remarks. Sometimes it's a Jack Russell owner who makes the smart remark and then it's a double whammy. Our plot being next to the river path and its walkers, We cop for it regularly. One sunny day, I arrive at the plot and am delighted to see dad there, Kneeling at the back in his shirt sleeves and work trousers, Faded cream, As old as the hills and as familiar to me as anything. He is applying chicken wire to the bottom of the external fence to close the gap and has gone halfway along already. But when he stands up, I can see he's in a bad mood. I've not been able to get on at all this morning, He grumbles. The number of people who've stood there gassing on the other side of the fence, I had to tell one of them to go away. I tense, Being the sort of person who worries excessively about falling out with others. But the comments can annoy. Rather you than me is a common one. They also like to talk with relish about the flooding and the rabbits. They don't need to tell us about the rabbits, Who we're all beginning to recognise as a real pest, Emerging nightly from their vast warren of underground chambers on the Yorkshire water site next door to feast on people's pea plants. My spinach, Kale and little turnip shoots are surviving, Being foods that rabbits apparently don't like. But some cabbage seedlings I put in vanished overnight, Like a conjuring trick. As for the flooding, A winter phenomenon, We'll have to wait and see. I put my bag down on the bench. Dad chunters on. Of course they're all idiots, They can't see when a fellow's got a job to do. He unrolls chicken wire. His snow white comb over flops into his eyes and he pushes it aside. I'm not sure what he's doing, But he's trying to hide. They're the sort who probably wear gloves to garden in. I delay extracting my own gardening gloves from my bag. Oh well, I say. I'm sure they mean well. I'm sure they're just being friendly. I often say things like this to Dad, Like some sort of promoter for the general public. I sicken myself. I sicken Dad too. Oh you're sure of that are you, He snaps, Attacking the wire with his cutters. But after a few minutes of silence he relents. It's not all bad I suppose, He says. One of them was a decent enough chap, Had an allotment here way back when, Seemed to know what he was talking about. Said the floods don't do the soil any harm, Might even do it some good, What with the river silt. If you want to talk to people, Garden, He adds. I nod. Before the allotment, Dad had sometimes gone for days not speaking to a soul and had complained that he was forgetting how to talk. I glance around the site. Fences have been going up everywhere. Trenches have been dug around plots and chicken mesh stapled to thick posts. Dad has vetoed the idea of fencing our plot. He thinks we should just put chicken wire around individual crops. Too expensive otherwise. I mean you don't want to start forking out serious money, That's not the idea is it? A plot neighbour who always wears a leather cowboy hat comes over for a chat. He agrees with Dad about avoiding expenditure and tells us he has decided only to grow things that rabbits dislike. Rhubarb, He says, Broad beans. Courgettes, I reply. We have obviously both been doing our homework. The man adds that he's written to the parish council suggesting that they supply a rabbit proof fence around the whole site. Good luck with that, Says Dad rather vehemently and goes back to his task. As if to prove that at least one of us is friendly, I go on chatting to the cowboy-hatted man for a lot longer than I want to. I discover that he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, Let alone a rabbit. At home later, Mr MS says he thinks fences are a good idea. He quotes sociologist Richard Sennett saying that barriers help strangers stay cordial. But I realise that I stand with the American poet Robert Frost who says, Something there is that doesn't love a wall. And it doesn't take long for Mr Frost to be proved right against Mr Sennett. The following week one allotmenteer leans over his new fence to strim away some edge vegetation on his neighbour's plot that he regards as weeds. The neighbour is furious saying that the first man has trespassed and that these are wild flowers taken from his late aunt's garden. I was only trying to help, The first man says. But the row escalates with the neighbour threatening to set light to the other man's shed, Then saying that the whole allotment thing has been ruined for him now. Would this have happened if the boundary between plots was softer? I doubt it. Such passion says Mr MS when I tell him about it. Of course he can't imagine anyone getting worked up about vegetation of whatever kind. Once when a driver fell asleep at her wheel and ploughed into our front garden taking half our hedge with her, His first thought was not, Oh no our hedge and the amelanchier has been mown down too. But is anyone hurt? Incredible. Also he would never fall out with anyone at the allotments as his belief in courtesy dictates that he treat everyone with equal friendliness and stop for a longish chat wherever possible, Especially when sent back to the car to fetch a spade that means he'll have to do some digging. As for dad, Everyone at the allotments thinks he's marvellous so he can probably get away with being as friendly or as unfriendly as he likes. It all gets put down to character. How is your father, People ask continually, Fancy getting an allotment at age 87? They don't make them like that anymore. I can only agree, They don't.

Reviews

Went to sleep worrying how I would tell you to never use herbicide or pesticides - especially Roundup! Really Bad stuff!!
But your story continues to otherwise delight. Thank you Mandy.

Oh Mandy, you are hilarious! Please share more of your writing— and Dad is a gem— again, thank you for sharing him with us…🙏🏼❤️

Man y, this story is so delightful. I eagerly check for next installments. I hope writing this has healed your ❤️.

Confession: I bought the book because I've been enjoying these chapters so much. Yes, I read every word and loved it, but am still listening to each installment. It's great fun to hear Mandy read the chapters. Highly recommend this book to anyone, especially those of us helping our aging parents. It's a treasure.