Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Welcome back to Ted the Shed,
My memoir about my dad's allotment.
We've reached October 2010 now with a chapter entitled The Chain of Command.
But before I begin,
Please go right on ahead and make yourself really comfortable.
That's great.
If you're sitting comfortably,
I'll begin.
October 2010,
The Chain of Command.
As autumn gets into chilly swing,
It's still unclear who is in charge down at the plot.
It certainly isn't Mr Mandy Sutter,
Who has restricted himself solely to following orders.
He has held off from any major practical contribution too,
Though surely making a substantial philosophical one,
Having worked out that if he helps once a month,
He can stave off any major criticism.
Unfortunately,
The self-assembly bench he put up six months ago proves suspect.
Dad and I are down at the plot one Saturday,
Planting overwintering broad beans and giving the manured beds another digging over,
Me,
And erecting a compost bin out of old pallets,
Dad.
He's had another go at digging his potatoes,
But like last month and the month before,
There's little to show for his legions of plants and he has decided to leave them in to germinate again the following year.
The plot has a wintry feel and damp clay clings to the spade.
When we sit on the bench,
There's a loud crack and we drop a few inches,
Though not completely to the ground.
Dad is surprisingly calm.
Well,
What do you expect when you buy a bench for 35 quid?
He sets to work immediately with the screws,
Tools and small Toblerone-shaped pieces of wood that are his stock in trade.
The bench is rescued.
Brilliant job,
Dad,
I say.
It's adequate,
He snaps,
No more than that.
Praise grates on him at the best of times and I suppose I sound gushing,
But to me,
It is brilliant to be able to mend a broken bench so quickly and thoroughly.
I say no more and content myself with sitting on the bench again and enjoying a feeling of security.
Then I go back to my digging and save my hurt feelings to take out on Mr Mandy Sutter later.
The opportunity comes more or less immediately.
Home and caked in mud,
I find him lying on the chaise long reading the Saturday papers.
Your bench snapped in half,
I say,
By way of greeting.
Dad had to mend it.
Are you going to put preservative on it?
Mr MS,
A driving instructor in his spare time,
Reacts to danger by slowing down.
He makes languorous hand movements.
It's on the list.
I know the list for the passive-aggressive tool that it is,
But I realise I don't really want an argument.
I want a bath.
I settle for the last word.
Well,
It needs doing soon,
What with the bad weather on the way.
Later,
Mr MS,
Ever the tactician,
Says that actually the job had been on his mind and he intends putting in an hour on it tomorrow.
I am mollified and make sausage and mash for tea.
After tea,
I ring Dad and tell him our plans for the bench.
He is dismissive.
He is dismissive.
Doesn't need treating.
It's made of hardwood.
Should go a nice silvery grey in time.
Oh,
I say.
Okay.
At least it means I can put Mr MS's proffered hour to better use.
But the next morning,
Dad rings back.
Don't know why I was laying down the law about preservative.
After all,
It is your bench.
Anyway,
Treating it will make it the same colour as the shed and that's no bad thing.
I take this for an apology and am touched.
Dad seems fine,
Whatever we do,
I say to Mr MS.
So,
If it's up to me,
I'd assume you dug up some brambles.
Okay,
Foreman,
He says.
It's his pet name for me.
He sets off in his wellies.
But 20 minutes later,
Just as I am making myself a well-earned cuppa,
He rings.
Now,
Don't get arsey with me,
He says,
But I'm going to have to go off and do a driving lesson.
I got my timings mixed up.
His voice is tinny on the mobile phone.
I squish my tea bag hard against the side of the cup.
You don't have to be Freud to work out that little slip,
I say.
No,
He concedes,
But there is some good news.
What?
I bellow,
Holding the tea bag on the teaspoon.
I did really enjoy those 20 minutes.
So,
You'll be going down there again soon then?
Oh,
I,
I glare at the phone,
Hoping he'll sense that he's one step away from a written warning.
I lob the tea bag into the bin.
I suppose I could pop down tomorrow afternoon,
He says.
Good,
I say,
And hang up.
The next time Dad arrives at the plot on a drizzly afternoon and sees the bench,
He shakes his head,
Incredulous.
I don't understand why he hasn't painted that preservative on.
What was he thinking about,
Leaving it untreated?
I don't know.
I don't know what he was thinking about.
What was he thinking about,
Leaving it untreated?
I talk about brambles and priorities.
Yes,
Yes,
He says,
Dismissive,
And I realise he isn't listening to me at all,
Not even making a pretense of listening to me.
I also realise that his phone call before wasn't so much an apology as a change of instructions.
Suddenly,
I am furious.
I don't mind him having a go at me,
But having a go at Mr Mandy Sutter is different.
He doesn't have to help us,
You know,
I say,
Heated.
He does have a full-time job.
Dad stares at me,
Open-mouthed.
It is very unusual for me to talk back,
Even as a teenager,
I rarely did.
He puts a lot of effort in,
Considering it's something he's not in the least bit interested in,
I go on.
I wave my hand at the shed.
If you want the bench painting,
You know where the preservative is,
And the brushes.
I stalk over to the other side of the allotment and lock the heads off some sopping wet nettles,
Then throw them onto the compost heap,
Stinging my hands.
I am alive with anger,
And with the unusual sensation of having been honest.
When I finally go back over to the shed,
Dad seems unmoved,
And we talk about trivialities.
I am desperate to apologise,
But I manage to stop myself.
Later that evening,
There's a phone call.
I answer,
And Mr MS hears from the kitchen my sharply indrawn breath,
Followed by a sob.
I love you too,
Dad,
I wail.
I wail.
We talk a bit longer,
Then I hang up and go into the kitchen,
And straight into Mr MS's arms.
He's never said that to me before,
I sob.
He waited until I was 53.
Better late than never,
Says Mr MS.
I nod.
It's hard to speak.
It's not every day your world shifts on its axis.
I've always known that Dad loved me,
But to hear him say it is something else entirely.
