The Allotment

Lenny Hargreaves stood at the gate and looked at the patch Tommy had left behind. Just mud and weeds, same as it had been for the last two years of Tommy’s life, only now Tommy wasn’t coming back to moan about it. 

Lenny felt the guilt land on him like a cold spade across the back of the neck. All them times Tommy had said, “You should get yerself down here, Len, do summat proper with yer hands,” and Lenny had laughed and said, “Aye, when I win the pools, I’ll buy a ride-on mower and pay someone else to drive it.” 

Tommy had died on a Tuesday, quick heart attack in the queue at Aldi, and Lenny hadn’t even been there to see him off. He’d been in the bookies, watching a horse he’d backed finish fourth. Bad that.

So here he was, fifty-eight years old, hungover from the wake, standing in front of a rectangle of shit soil and a shed that looked like Buckingham Palace compared to the others. Tommy’s shed. Now Lenny’s shed. Proper palace it was: felt roof, proper door with a Yale lock, window that opened, gas stove, kettle, sink with a proper tap just outside, and a chair that didn’t try to fold you in half when you sat down. 

Maureen wouldn’t come within a mile of the place. She had her roses and her lavender and her little gnome with the fishing rod. Lenny wanted spuds, carrots, summat he could dig up and eat without it tasting of perfume.

First day he just stood there, hands in pockets, staring at the weeds like they owed him money. They were winning. Big Mal came waddling up the path, belly leading the way like a battering ram.

—Alright, nobhead. Thought you’d bottled it.

—Give us a chance, Mal. I’ve only just got the key.

Mal peered over the fence, sucked his teeth.

—Christ, it’s worse than when Tommy stopped bothering. You’ll have to double-dig the whole bastard. Turn it, weed it, turn it again. Let the frost get at it.

—I know, I know. I’ve seen Gardeners’ Question Time.

—You’ve seen fuck all, Len. You couldn’t grow a moustache on yer top lip.

Lenny laughed because it was true. Mal went into the shed, came out with two mugs of tea that smelled like they’d been introduced to a distillery.

—Get that down yer. You’ll need it.

Ray appeared next, cap pulled low, eyes like two piss-holes in the snow.

—Morning, ladies. Still standing around scratching yer arses, I see.

—Morning, Ray. How’s the marrow?

—Mind yer own, Mal. Me marrow’s bigger than yer head and twice as thick.

Ray looked at Lenny’s plot and shook his head.

—Tommy’s turnin’ in his grave, lookin’ at that jungle. He always said the only thing you could grow was a beer gut.

—Aye, well, he’s not here to see it, is he? said Lenny, quieter than he meant.

The other two went still for a second. Ray rubbed the back of his neck.

—Sorry, mate. Foot in mouth.

—S’alright.

They drank their tea in silence for a bit, listening to the rooks arguing in the ash trees. Then Mal cleared his throat.

—Tell yer what, Len. We’ll give yer a hand next weekend. Me, Ray, maybe young Darren from plot 14. We’ll have it turned over in a day. Can’t have Tommy’s plot looking like a tip.

Ray nodded.

—Aye. We’ll bring cake.

Lenny felt something shift in his chest, like a knot coming undone.

—Ta, lads. I owe yer.

—You owe us a crate, said Mal. And don’t be gettin’ all sentimental, yer soft bastard.

Frank the secretary marched past then, clipboard under his arm like a bayonet.

—Morning, gentlemen! Just reminding everyone about the boundary amendments. Some of you have been letting your plots creep. We’re watching.

Ray waited till Frank was out of earshot.

—Creep? I’d like to see him creep when I shove that clipboard up his—

—Ray, said Mal, warning.

Frank stopped, turned back.

—And Leonard, welcome. But that plot needs attention. We can’t have ragwort spreading. Health and safety.

—It’s Lenny, said Lenny. And I’m on it, Frank.

Frank gave a curt nod and marched off. Lenny watched him go.

—Wanker.

—Certified, said Mal.

They stood there a bit longer, finishing the tea. The sun came out for five minutes, proper low winter sun that made everything look like it was worth saving. Lenny looked at the shed, at the mud, at the two old blokes who’d known him since school.

—I’ll get some seed potatoes ordered, he said.

—King Edwards, said Mal. Nothing else’ll do.

—And I’ll bring me radio, said Ray. Keep us entertained while we sweat our bollocks off.

Lenny smiled, first proper one in days.

—Tommy’d have liked that.

Mal clapped him on the shoulder.

—Tommy’d have told us to stop pissing about and get digging.

Ray raised his mug.

—To Tommy, then. Daft old sod.

—To Tommy, said Lenny.

They drank. The tea was cold now but it tasted better than anything Lenny had drunk in years.

He locked the shed, pocketed the key, and walked back down the path feeling lighter. The plot was still a mess, the weeds were still winning, and he still didn’t know his arse from his elbow when it came to gardening. But next weekend the lads were coming, and the shed was waiting, and somewhere Tommy was probably laughing his head off.

Lenny looked back once. The shed stood there solid, a little palace in a sea of mud. His palace now.

He’d make it work.

He’d bloody have to.