Ted The Shed, Chapter Six - Watering

In the latest installment of my memoir about my Dad's allotment, the weather gets hotter and the vast distance between our plot and the allotment tap makes itself felt. Pressure is brought to bear on the Parish Council to install another tap. Digging begins, and hopes are high. Meanwhile, with the Council's contract for the plot as yet unsigned, Dad decides he'd like to challenge some of its terms and conditions.

Trigger Warning: This practice may include references to death, dying, and the departed.

Transcript

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad and his allotment in Yorkshire.

Tonight we're going to be listening to Chapter 6,

Watering.

But before we begin,

Please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable on whatever surface you happen to be sitting or lying on.

That's great.

Okay,

I'll begin.

Early August 2010.

Watering.

For a true gardener,

I'm told,

There's no such thing as bad weather.

I ponder this one weekend as Mr.

MS and I sit in a Welsh field watching water pour glutinously down the windows of our camper van.

At least the plot will get watered,

I think,

Remembering long hot hours the previous week spent carrying water to parched ground over considerable distance.

But it's hard to focus on this benefit when living at close quarters with a sodden beast,

Not to mention the dog.

We get back and I discover that in Yorkshire it has hardly rained at all.

Did I mention the distance between the allotment tap and our plot?

It's 250 yards.

That's five greenhouses,

One set of pygmy goats,

One 20-foot hedge topiarised to look like the Arc de Triomphe,

And the site of three allotmenteers on the established bit,

Watering their engorged produce with hose pipes.

The chore is made worse by being a solo job as Dad,

Now turned 88,

Can't walk easily on rough ground,

And even if he could,

Hates the watering cans I bought.

I wouldn't be seen dead with those,

Love,

He says.

Admittedly,

They are small and pink with black spouts.

As a child,

I remember Dad refusing to ask a shop assistant for the ice cream I wanted because it was called a love heart.

He bought me a choc-ice instead.

Would you rather I got shot of them,

Dad,

I ask,

And buy some green ones?

Have you got money to burn,

He snaps.

Sometimes you just can't win.

But I suppose,

Compared to a lot of other people,

I have got money to burn,

And so has he.

But as I've no doubt mentioned before,

He doesn't like spending it.

His last purchase was a spade from Poundland,

And even then he negotiated a discount because the handle was loose.

He doesn't like me spending either,

Even though I've earned it myself by the sweat of my own keyboard.

So,

We stick with the pink cans.

At least Mr Mandy Sutter is willing to do the pink run.

Annoyingly,

This has enhanced his reputation at the allotments rather than detracted from it.

Lady allotmenteers clamour to fill his can with their hoses.

But I'm not too bothered about produce this first year.

I regard our plantings as an experiment.

Apart from Dad's vast army of potato plants,

We only have spinach,

Kale and turnips.

I've popped in some globe artichoke seedlings for their architectural qualities,

But I'm not expecting to dine on them.

I've eaten some forkfuls of early spinach,

A tiny amount that became tinier still when cooked,

But I was chuffed to little mint balls.

Anything that happens from now on is a bonus.

Perhaps for once,

My and Mr Mandy Sutter's low expectations of life are a blessing.

A cup of berries?

God bless you,

Squire.

The other plot holders don't share our attitude.

The air fair bristles with a sense of middle-class entitlement.

Although I can be described as middle-class myself,

And so can Dad and Mr MS,

Because they went to university as mature students.

Mr MS studied philosophy,

And boy don't we know it.

I feel we're not from the same milieu as the other plot holders,

And they have been demanding to know when the new tap to serve our section is being installed.

And their pressure on the parish council bears fruit.

Men with metal detectors arrive and find the water main.

It is under the plot next to ours.

They dig a deep rectangular hole and put a red stick in it.

We rejoice briefly,

But the stick proves to be a red herring as well as a red stick.

When the tap appears the following week,

It's as far from us as it could be without being in the next town.

The cowboy-hatted man resorts to filling large plastic drums with water and rolling them to his plot.

Mr MS reflects on the nature of civilisation and how humankind has always endeavoured to move water away from the places they don't want it,

And towards the places they do.

And Dad,

Who would like to tell the council to stuff their tap,

And the £17.

50 a year they propose to charge for it,

Carries on researching a water pump to dredge the river running tantalisingly close to our plot.

So far,

Including generator and ground works,

The estimated project cost stands at £2,

500.

Time is getting on and we still haven't officially signed for our plot.

The council was slow sending out the contract and Dad is even slower in agreeing to sign it.

He thinks he may want to challenge some of its clauses.

At his flat one morning he lays it out on his coffee table,

A homemade item painted with yacht varnish so it shines like a conker in the leonine late summer sun,

And says,

Listen to this,

The plot passes back to the council on 1st of January in the year next,

After the death of the tenant.

I suppose that's alright,

I might stagger on till the end of the year,

On the other hand I might drop dead tomorrow.

I wait for the next part of this sentence,

He doesn't disappoint,

But then so might you.

He has reached an age where the old jokes are the best,

And improve with repetition,

If it is a joke that is.

Thing is,

He goes on,

We might end up doing a load of hard graft just for some other fella to cash in on it.

He hands me a faded looking letter,

Typed on his ancient computer and printed off on an even more ancient dot matrix printer.

In it he says all of the above,

More politely and therefore in a lot more words,

To the parish council.

He also claims that his health has deteriorated during the exceptionally long wait for a plot,

And asks whether his daughter may sign the agreement instead of him,

Or if we can sign it jointly.

This is a shock for all sorts of reasons,

But primarily because I didn't know that his health had deteriorated.

Are you feeling unwell dad?

I ask.

No,

He says,

But those devils don't have to know that.

I'm unhappy about him tempting fate,

But I hand him the letter back to sign.

Of course my other reservation is that I'm not sure I want joint tenancy,

But then when did dad ever consult me about anything?

He's certainly not about to start now.

A week later a letter comes back.

Dad produces it over fish and chips.

The council is saying no.

A strict rule forbids inheriting plots.

The unlawful felling of the ash tree is fresh in the council's mind,

So they throw in another ticking off about that too.

I'm surprised at how nettled I feel,

Considering that only a couple of paragraphs ago I wasn't sure I wanted joint tenancy.

How mean,

I say,

Chip laden fork descending.

Dad shrugs and munches on battered haddock.

He seems unfazed.

If I'm on my deathbed anytime soon,

He says,

I'll try and hang on till the 2nd of January.

At least that'll give you another year.

Mr.

MS sips his tea.

Or we could have you embalmed,

He says,

And prop you up inside the shed.

No one would know.

Dad sprays chewed fish all over the table.

Sometimes Mr.

MS goes too far.

But as far as dad is concerned,

The matter is closed.

It's his daughter who can't let it lie.

Transferring the agreement at the outset,

She thinks,

Can't be described as inheriting.

It's a technicality.

If dad had known the rule beforehand,

He would have applied for the plot in joint names.

She decides to tackle the council herself.

The council offices are opposite the station in our little town in an imposing grit stone building.

Their motto,

Translated from the Latin,

Is through health,

Wealth.

It harks back to the Victorian era when we were a spa town.

In modern days,

It could relate to all the alternative health clinics and gyms here.

It could certainly incorporate vegetable growing.

I enter the parish clerk's office prepared,

Having memorised my points and abandoned my normal work-at-home outfit of stained tracksuit bottoms and toweling dressing gown in favour of a skirt and jacket.

The equally smartly dressed woman before me doesn't answer any of my points,

However,

But uses the broken record technique,

Repeating the phrases,

Long waiting list and can't make an exception,

Ad infinitum.

All I can suggest,

She says at one point,

Is that you place your own name on the waiting list for another plot.

Hard as nails,

Dad would say.

Although there's something admirable about her firmness,

My eyes fill with tears.

It's just the thought of Dad dying and my having to give up the allotment so soon afterwards,

I say,

My voice wobbling,

And his shed that he's put up and customised with lots of little shelves and things.

It is only as I speak these words that I realise their truth.

To my surprise,

Her face softens.

She says,

What I will tell you is this,

We have to act on the information we're given.

The name on the rent check doesn't always tally with the name of the tenant.

We know discrepancies,

But we don't always have time to follow them up.

I am taken aback.

You mean?

She stands up to indicate that our meeting is over.

I thank her and leave,

Unsure whether I've understood or not.

When I get home,

Mr.

MS is standing at the cooker making his signature dish,

I.

E.

The only one he can make,

Of spaghetti bolognese.

I relay a garbled version of the conversation.

He is clear.

She's told you how it's done.

When people pop their clogs,

No one tells the council.

But I don't want to lie,

I bleat.

He shrugs.

So,

You'll have to enjoy the allotment for what it is now,

Then let it go.

As I may have mentioned before,

Mr.

MS is a big fan of reality and of explaining it to me.

I pull a face.

Well,

He says,

It's that,

All the embalming fluid.

I go off to lay the table.

I suppose he has a point,

But my feelings have surprised me.

Passion about the whole thing must have crept up on me,

Unawares,

While I was digging out miles of nettle root.

I don't like the proposed solution.

There's nothing I can do,

Though,

But accept it.

For now.

Reviews

I’m a bit under the weather and this story is a wonderful companion. The pink watering can’s commentary on each of it’s users is delightful! Thank you Mandy💞🌟

Wonderful! This is my second or third time listening, and it's delightful every time. Thank you so much!

I hear your acceptance of your Dad. He was so fortunate to have you as his daughter! ❤️

Well, this has taken a turn no one saw coming (right)! I’ll just leave that there. Loving this chapter!

The dry senses of humor always get me and I find myself chuckling, which helps my breathing and thus my sleep. Thank you so much Mandy ❤️

Many many partial listens as you set me to sleep over and over, and now I’ve just listened again and again because your turn of phrase is so delightfully deadpan, I giggle almost straight through!
Very sweet, my dear, with that reality of mortality creeping in. Love you and your Dad… and Mr MS! Thanks for sharing!

I look forward to listening to this one again since I fell asleep within the first 3 minutes!! That’s a record! Thanks again Mandy for continuing to do these delightful readings!!