Ted The Shed, Chapter Seven - Where There's Muck...

In this latest installment of my memoir about my Dad's allotment garden, Dad's attempt to repel rabbits by sprinkling his snow white hair clippings around our curly kale plants doesn't seem to be working. So we turn our attention to fencing. We also get involved for the first time with horse manure.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad and his allotment in Yorkshire.

We're going to be listening to chapter seven tonight,

Protection Racket.

But before I begin,

Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

That's lovely,

Then I'll begin.

Early September 2010,

Protection Racket.

To distract myself from the council's painful rules about inheritance,

I turn my attention to fighting a different sort of pest,

The rabbits.

Protecting crops on an individual basis is proving a bit hit and miss.

I bobbed in some lettuce seedlings last week and fenced them with chicken wire,

But the determined creatures bashed the whole makeshift arrangement down and gobbled the lot.

Having read that rabbits dislike human hair,

Dad has sprinkled some of his snow white clippings around the plot,

But that doesn't seem to be helping either.

Growing crops that rabbits don't like,

While successful up to a point,

The kale,

Spinach and turnips are now nibbled,

But only partially,

Has begun to seem limiting.

Other plot holders,

Fenced and unfenced alike,

Have been going for things that rattle on sticks.

The site fair bristles with Benicol,

Actimel and Yakult pots.

I've often wondered what that stuff was for.

Old CDs and DVDs are popular too,

Strung between poles.

Paul McKenna's Overcome Emotional Spending and the first series of Coast swing between broad beans and further down,

Light glances off the rim of David Attenborough's The Life of Mammals,

Meat Eaters.

On the old part of the allotments stand two scarecrows.

On one plot a stuffed character from South Park is hoisted aloft by a pole up his rear end.

The pole is sturdy so when the wind blows nothing moves.

It's hard to see how it would scare birds,

Though it does scare Mr Mandy Sutter.

Then there's the Rastafarian.

He doesn't move much either,

Just stands taking the breeze all day,

Though his fingers,

Made of plastic bags,

Stir occasionally.

Mr MS finds much in him to admire.

While Dad doubts that either of these gentlemen deters rabbits,

I'm not so sure.

The crops on their plots look pretty healthy.

On the new part of the site we're also encountering tiny beetles that turn crop leaves into doilies.

The beetles apparently were disturbed by the earthworks when the land was turned into allotments.

Word is that they will settle down next year.

Yes,

But has anyone told the beetles that?

Asked Dad,

When Mr MS and I are round at his flat for coffee one Saturday.

Mr MS nibbles at one of the Jacob's Orange Club biscuits that are endemic at Dad's flat.

The council could put up one of their strongly worded notices,

He says.

I fail to laugh.

I have some bad news for Dad.

You know the woman next door to us I manage?

The one that put her shed up on those ridiculous stilts?

Asks Dad.

Yes,

Well she's asking you for 30 quid.

She's hired a company to put a rabbit proof fence around her plot tomorrow and it'll run down one side of ours.

As I slurp my coffee my shoulders creep up to my ears ready for a loud noise.

They aren't disappointed.

Hired a company?

Explodes Dad.

That's the wrong idea entirely.

I launch into an explanation about our plot neighbour being a single woman with a full-time job.

Her dad might have helped too,

I say,

But he's in hospital.

My motives for this speech are cloudy.

It's as if I believe that fence putting up is the sole preserve of males and furthermore that they are all capable and willing to do it.

Laughable.

Dad isn't listening anyway.

Surely she has a male companion who could help?

Apparently not,

I say,

And wonder for a moment whether Dad's going to offer.

She's paying the company £240,

I add.

Good Lord!

Dad bangs his mug down.

I'm making things worse.

I'm scared he'll refuse to pay and allotment relationships will be soured.

It's ludicrous,

He says.

I could have fenced her whole plot for £30 or thereabouts.

I glance at Mr MS but he has immersed himself in his chocolate biscuit.

An idea forms.

I will pay her myself.

Why didn't I think of that before?

What an idiot!

I wouldn't even have had to mention it to Dad.

I begin to talk him down.

Don't worry about it,

Dad,

I say.

I'm sure she won't insist.

But he surprises me.

Oh,

I'll pay up,

Love.

Don't worry about that.

I just can't get over the idea of paying someone £240 to fence a blinking allotment.

A few days later,

Dad hands over the money and during the week a fence appears on our party boundary.

Dad examines it and pronounces it a load of rubbish,

Though not in our neighbour's hearing.

He seems thoughtful.

The next day he rings up.

Guess what?

I've just been out for a spin.

I found the place that manufactures the chicken wire for B&Q.

I got a great roll of it cheap.

Well,

Great.

But what for,

Dad?

What do you mean,

What for?

Our fence,

That's what for.

He goes on.

We don't need enormous fence posts.

It's only an allotment.

Reckon I've got some old batons that will do.

And we don't need a gate,

Do we?

We'll just step over the fence.

It won't be that high.

I stare out of the kitchen window at our own garden gate,

Which is painted bright yellow and is one of my favourite things about the garden.

I would have liked the excuse to paint a new gate and screw a brass number into it.

But Dad is on a roll now.

And anyway,

It's great news that we're going to have a fence.

I'm going down there now,

He says.

I'll be in touch.

Two days later,

Our fence is up.

Mr.

MS,

Dog MS and I go down so that Dad can show us his handiwork.

Chicken wire stretches all the way around our plot,

Held up at intervals by thin but firmly secured batons.

It is flimsy compared to other fences which have thick fence posts,

Some set in concrete and gates with latches.

I have a dodgy knee at the moment and feel nervous about having to climb over the fence onto uneven ground.

But I can hardly complain about that to an 88 year old man.

And the fence is certainly serviceable.

38 quid all in,

He says.

You can't beat that,

Can you?

You certainly can't,

Says Mr.

MS,

Helping me over the fence.

Dog MS clears the fence like a gazelle and we all sit down on the bench and a folding chair to enjoy the safety of our new secure domain.

I gaze about me.

There are no scarecrows yet on the new part of the site.

So while it's true that I can't beat Dad's fence,

I may be able to complement it in my own way.

The knights will soon be drawing in.

Off-site tasks will have to be contemplated and it's high time the allotments had a female scarecrow.

And who cares whether she scares any pests away.

The point is she'll look fantastic.

One mellow early autumn day,

A chap with Mr.

Muck painted on his van delivers a gently steaming pile to a common area on the old part of the allotments.

I make inquiries.

Ah,

Manure belongs to Bloke in Blue Pickup,

Says a chap with a tartan thermos flask.

He'll likely let you have something out.

This sounds excellent,

But it's tricky trying to pin down specific people,

Especially now it's autumn.

People don't spend as much time there.

Even if they do,

Seem not to know anyone else's name or plot number.

Or perhaps they do and won't tell us till we've been there 50 years.

Him that puts up all fences is all you get about one man,

While another is described as the goat man.

I wonder what names Dad,

Mr.

M.

S.

And I go by.

Dad could be Old Gimmerint Flatcap,

Though then again that describes half the allotment population.

I have heard Mr.

M.

S.

Referred to as that chatty lad,

Even though he is nearly 60.

I don't suppose I'll ever find out what they call me,

Unless it's that reet belter with flowing brown locks.

Anyway,

I visit the allotment every day for a week,

But never see a man in a blue pickup.

I imagine him though,

Stripped to the waist and wearing tight denims,

Roll up drooping casually from his bottom lip.

I could just text some at Mook without asking,

But I'm wary of annoying anyone in the old section of the allotment.

As an incomer,

A woman and clueless,

I'm three points down already.

Plus us newbies have things to prove and I don't want to let the side down.

I decide to explore other avenues.

I've seen a lamppost in a nearby village that says bagged muck available,

F.

O.

C.

So I ring the number and the woman who answers says,

Mook will be out later.

I'm to turn right at the lamppost and drive down a ginnel between a stone wall and the house to find it behind the red van.

Another instance of no name,

No pack drill.

I thank her profusely in my suddenly ludicrously middle class voice.

That evening,

I drive down a pitch dark alleyway and identify some bags of something by an old van that may or may not be red.

The bags stand open and as I left the first one into the car,

I realised they are filthy and incredibly heavy and that I should have worn flat shoes and dirty old trousers.

I load most of them,

Cracking my head on the boot of my hatchback and getting black stuff on my hob's jacket.

A four by four towing a caravan arrives behind me from which a man dismounts and silently hoists the last bag into my boot.

I begin to thank him,

But he holds up his hand to stop me and disappears into the house.

On the passenger seat of my car are the cans of lager I'd brought,

A note taped to them saying thank you.

It seems all wrong to leave them now though,

So I decide against it,

The main thing being to avoid scraping the caravan as I reverse past it in the inky darkness.

The amazing thing is that the manure doesn't smell.

I leave it in my car for a week before I take it to the plot.

During that time,

I drive a friend all the way to the next town and back without her suspecting a thing.

As designated filth man in our house,

Mr MS deals with the bins,

Dog MS's rear,

The gunk that collects in plug holes and fishing things out of the toilet while I stand in the corner retching.

So it's only fitting that he should help me with the horse poo.

On a damp but sunny day,

I drive him to the allotments.

He hefts the bags from my car to our new wheelbarrow and pushes it to the plot in a couple of loads.

I think he's going to knock off with some spurious excuse,

But to my amazement he stays and we upend the first bag onto the soil.

We peer at it.

It doesn't look very well rotted does it?

I say.

It looks like turds mixed with straw,

He says.

But it's too late now.

We spread it around the fruit bushes.

Later when he hears what we've done,

Dad will say,

I shan't be eating any blackcurrants this year then.

We dig the rest of it into the beds.

Mr MS's blue handled fork is a blur.

When we finish,

The soil looks gorgeous like broken up chocolate cake.

We lean on our forks.

I survey our crops.

The kale plants look very healthy despite having been nibbled by the rabbits before the fence went up.

The turnip plants look as though they have now formed little turnips.

I'm happy in a lovely uncomplicated way.

You can keep your romantic dinners,

I say to Mr MS.

This is my idea of a date.

He laughs.

He thinks I'm joking.

But who needs the man in the blue pickup?

Reviews

💜🌟💖I never knew there could be such a multitude of rabbit deterrents! Thank you Mandy

This is so endearing. I happily listen again and again.

Thank you Mandy for being my bedtime companion tonight ! 😀

So great… can’t believe the fresh manure didn’t smell!😂😂 thank you, Mandy!

It’s brilliant relating to similar experiences now with my 90 y/o Dad

Another lovely chapter, thank you for sharing. I’m enjoying getting to know you and your dad. I’m also learning I would be useless on an allotment!

With each chapter we become more fond of your dad. His quirks are matched only by his soft side that he tries to hide and yet, there it is. Such fun to meet Dog MS ! Thank you Mandy!