Years ago, when I was a nipper, my dad decided to get an allotment, or a plot as we used to call them in those days.
They were about a quarter of a mile from home and I was a bit exited about this, because we only ever had a tiny garden. As the older brother, I was immediately roped in to help with all the heavy work, clearing the weeds, digging the sod, double digging the sod and all of the dogsbody jobs that need doing for such a major enterprise.
It was fantastic. I was only eight or nine, but for the first time I was being treated like a real and valued person, I was listened to and even given my own patch where I planted radishes, carrots and onions.
I let the younger brother have a bit of my land, where he planted radishes, in return for watering my patch, it was a sort of feudal arrangement in miniature. He showed me his maggoty radishes, and I showed him how to nibble around the maggots then spit them out, they were great days.
Over our back garden lived Mr C. He had an office job, so he was relatively well off and he and his snobby wife really looked down his nose at the likes of us. They were the first with a telly, first with a car and first to own their house. It was never a problem, until we got the allotment, because Mr C. was on 'The Comittee'. This gave him Carte Blanche to come around and stick his nose in, even where and when it wasn't wanted.
That first year, I learned a lot. An awful lot. It was hard-earned knowledge, an aching back, calloused hands, and, worst of all, the cane in school when I arrived late at the end of lunch-break, which was ninety minutes in those days. But I can speak with authority to this day about growing spuds, and I can explain why our carrot crop always failed. If anybody ever asked. Which they dont. Anyways, that first year we had a bumper crop of potatoes, and my dad explained about seed potatoes, where to get them from, and the blight in Ireland, the causes and the ways around it, so I got a bit of history thrown in as well.
The second year was the problem. Mr C. made a great play about his prize tomatoes and cucumbers, which he cultivated in his greenhouse. He came over boasting about his prizes and his rosettes and making some comments about spuds and 'bog-hoppers' , greenhouses and sheds. It was true, we were too poor to even have a shed. Every night we had to ship everything home in the wheelbarrow, tools and veggies alike.
In the Spring of the third year my dad pulled me aside and told me the news, he had saved up over Christmas and he had bought a greenhouse. It would be delivered in parts and we would have to assemble it ourselves. He asked me if I was strong enough to help. Of course dad. So it duly arrived, frame, glass, foundation bricks, instructions, and we started. Mr C. came over and had a bit of a sneer, but he never offered to help.
It took us all weekend to put it up. The last job was to put the glass in, with linseed putty. Now you are supposed to put panel pins in, as well , to hold the glass, but after a broken pane, dad decided not to bother with panel pins in the roof panes.
Next lunch time, I ran all the way from school, opened the big padlock, ran to the plot, I could not believe my eyes. There was broken glass everywhere. Half the panes in the roof were smashed to bits all over the ground. I was thunderstruck. Dad couldnt believe it when I told him, and we ran up to the plot. He pointed something out that I had missed. Most of the putty was gone. Mr C. came along with a massive grin on his face, 'ah that will be the birds. They love the linseed putty. You need arsenic putty for that job' my dad asked him why he hadnt said anything the day before. Apparently everyone knows that birds eat linseed putty. As he walked away laughing I could see that my dad had tears in his eyes, shame or anger, I dont know.
So dad saved up again, bought some replacement glass, bought some poisoned putty and did the job again. This time the birds stayed away. Then he sprung his next surprise. 'I have a cargo arriving at the weekend, you have five days to dig a three foot trench around three sides of the greenhouse, in addition get some clotches going with tomato seeds in small pots. I will build the tables and worktop for the greenhouse, can you do that?' Of course dad.
I must have been about twelve by now and I had no trouble digging the trench, althogh the greenhouse looked a bit flakey with its foundations exposed on the inside. I wondered what he was going to put in the trench. Then it arrived, a lorry load of pig sh 1t. Dad had bought tons and tons of pig poo, he got it cheap because nobody else would use it. Mr. C. came over to see what the smell was all about. 'No, you need horse sh 1t for a job like that'
but he wasnt laughing any more.
So we shovelled it in, put a few inches of soil on top, brought the tomato seedlings in, then went back to double digging the spuds.
The tomatoes went into the ground, the bamboo canes went in, and I settled into a routine, each plant got two gallons a day. Each plant got half a teaspoon of phostrogen every other day. It was a glorious summer.
Water and heat, water and heat, thats what they need.
We had a bumper crop of massive tomatoes.
Dad Stopped at the comittee shed one day and their eyes were like saucers as they looked into our wheelbarrow. The tomatoes and cucumbers were enormous, clearly prize winners, but there was dad, nonchalantly saying, 'oh yeah, we only take the small ones home during the week'
Mr C. was caught a few weeks later, jammed into the small window at the back of our greenhouse. He had gotten himself stuck, stealing our tomatoes, and had to shout for help to get released. He disappeared shortly after down to London, I believe, and has never been seen since, although I heard the police were on his trail for something or other.
They were about a quarter of a mile from home and I was a bit exited about this, because we only ever had a tiny garden. As the older brother, I was immediately roped in to help with all the heavy work, clearing the weeds, digging the sod, double digging the sod and all of the dogsbody jobs that need doing for such a major enterprise.
It was fantastic. I was only eight or nine, but for the first time I was being treated like a real and valued person, I was listened to and even given my own patch where I planted radishes, carrots and onions.
I let the younger brother have a bit of my land, where he planted radishes, in return for watering my patch, it was a sort of feudal arrangement in miniature. He showed me his maggoty radishes, and I showed him how to nibble around the maggots then spit them out, they were great days.
Over our back garden lived Mr C. He had an office job, so he was relatively well off and he and his snobby wife really looked down his nose at the likes of us. They were the first with a telly, first with a car and first to own their house. It was never a problem, until we got the allotment, because Mr C. was on 'The Comittee'. This gave him Carte Blanche to come around and stick his nose in, even where and when it wasn't wanted.
That first year, I learned a lot. An awful lot. It was hard-earned knowledge, an aching back, calloused hands, and, worst of all, the cane in school when I arrived late at the end of lunch-break, which was ninety minutes in those days. But I can speak with authority to this day about growing spuds, and I can explain why our carrot crop always failed. If anybody ever asked. Which they dont. Anyways, that first year we had a bumper crop of potatoes, and my dad explained about seed potatoes, where to get them from, and the blight in Ireland, the causes and the ways around it, so I got a bit of history thrown in as well.
The second year was the problem. Mr C. made a great play about his prize tomatoes and cucumbers, which he cultivated in his greenhouse. He came over boasting about his prizes and his rosettes and making some comments about spuds and 'bog-hoppers' , greenhouses and sheds. It was true, we were too poor to even have a shed. Every night we had to ship everything home in the wheelbarrow, tools and veggies alike.
In the Spring of the third year my dad pulled me aside and told me the news, he had saved up over Christmas and he had bought a greenhouse. It would be delivered in parts and we would have to assemble it ourselves. He asked me if I was strong enough to help. Of course dad. So it duly arrived, frame, glass, foundation bricks, instructions, and we started. Mr C. came over and had a bit of a sneer, but he never offered to help.
It took us all weekend to put it up. The last job was to put the glass in, with linseed putty. Now you are supposed to put panel pins in, as well , to hold the glass, but after a broken pane, dad decided not to bother with panel pins in the roof panes.
Next lunch time, I ran all the way from school, opened the big padlock, ran to the plot, I could not believe my eyes. There was broken glass everywhere. Half the panes in the roof were smashed to bits all over the ground. I was thunderstruck. Dad couldnt believe it when I told him, and we ran up to the plot. He pointed something out that I had missed. Most of the putty was gone. Mr C. came along with a massive grin on his face, 'ah that will be the birds. They love the linseed putty. You need arsenic putty for that job' my dad asked him why he hadnt said anything the day before. Apparently everyone knows that birds eat linseed putty. As he walked away laughing I could see that my dad had tears in his eyes, shame or anger, I dont know.
So dad saved up again, bought some replacement glass, bought some poisoned putty and did the job again. This time the birds stayed away. Then he sprung his next surprise. 'I have a cargo arriving at the weekend, you have five days to dig a three foot trench around three sides of the greenhouse, in addition get some clotches going with tomato seeds in small pots. I will build the tables and worktop for the greenhouse, can you do that?' Of course dad.
I must have been about twelve by now and I had no trouble digging the trench, althogh the greenhouse looked a bit flakey with its foundations exposed on the inside. I wondered what he was going to put in the trench. Then it arrived, a lorry load of pig sh 1t. Dad had bought tons and tons of pig poo, he got it cheap because nobody else would use it. Mr. C. came over to see what the smell was all about. 'No, you need horse sh 1t for a job like that'
but he wasnt laughing any more.
So we shovelled it in, put a few inches of soil on top, brought the tomato seedlings in, then went back to double digging the spuds.
The tomatoes went into the ground, the bamboo canes went in, and I settled into a routine, each plant got two gallons a day. Each plant got half a teaspoon of phostrogen every other day. It was a glorious summer.
Water and heat, water and heat, thats what they need.
We had a bumper crop of massive tomatoes.
Dad Stopped at the comittee shed one day and their eyes were like saucers as they looked into our wheelbarrow. The tomatoes and cucumbers were enormous, clearly prize winners, but there was dad, nonchalantly saying, 'oh yeah, we only take the small ones home during the week'
Mr C. was caught a few weeks later, jammed into the small window at the back of our greenhouse. He had gotten himself stuck, stealing our tomatoes, and had to shout for help to get released. He disappeared shortly after down to London, I believe, and has never been seen since, although I heard the police were on his trail for something or other.
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