With spring sauntering in, my parents fancied the idea of putting the allotment up for sale. They were getting on a bit and decidedly not spry enough for wrangling carrot beds and temperamental roses. The daughtermewas knee-deep in raising kids and juggling a career, so helping out was more of a wish than a likelihood. After much tea and deliberation, the pensioners took the plunge.
The eldest daughterlet’s call her Margaretheaved a sigh of relief. No more guilt about not ferrying seed potatoes or battling weeds. The old allotment was a veritable trek, anyway. Margaret had gently suggested (more than once) that her parents sell and perhaps let her buy a patch closer home, strictly for lounging and picnics. She had no intention of spending her Saturdays up to her elbows in compost. A little green haven for reading and a picnic blanket? Sign her up. For her parents, of course, the allotment was mostly about jars and jars of jam and pickle theyd never quite get through.
Weekends whizzed by for Margaret and her husband, Tom. Housework was something to fit in between taxiing children and attempting to have a social life. Toms job was demanding enough that a Saturday call-in wasnt unheard of. Margaret knew that every visit to the old place meant more chores than relaxation; they always needed another weekend to recover from their relaxing one.
So, Margaret was quietly relieved when the allotment was sold. For a few blissful years, life buzzed along nicely. Then, inevitably, the day arrived when Margaret found herself wistfully longing for a little patch of something green. She still dreamed of a garden, but the spa-break variety, not the backbreaking one. Tom, ever the enabler, suggested they buy one.
With the kids a bit older and work less bonkers, weekends at a new plot in the countryside sounded well worth itand, Margaret reasoned, the children could do with some fresh air and perhaps a vitamin or two from the odd raspberry bush. But absolutely no vegetable beds, she decreed. Not a single marrow. Weeding is banned. Everyone found this charming, especially the children, who heard only fruit and no chores. The hunt for the perfect plot began.
After trawling through countless possibilities, they stumbled upon The One: a respectable house, some mature trees, and berry bushes that practically glowed with smugness. The seller, an elderly gentleman called Mr. Jenkins, had lost his wife and long since lost interest in battling courgettes. A handshake, a bundle of paperwork, and a not-insubstantial wad of pounds later, the deed was done.
Margaret was chuffed to bits. The house was perfectly pleasant and didnt collapse when you closed a door, which is always a bonus. They decided to spruce things up over the summer, so their next family holiday was dedicated entirely to Chilling at the Dachaas the kids called it, even though it wasnt Russian and strictly no pickling was allowed.
The first week was delightfully uneventful. Then Mr. Jenkins reappeared, announcing he needed to collect the odd itema mug or two, the worlds oldest watering can, that sort of thing. No one minded, until he began to grumble. First it was the raspberry bush they removed (The thing was deader than disco! Tom protested), then about the viburnum that, apparently, nobody under 80 cares about.
Mr. Jenkins insisted thered been a verbal contract to keep every ancient shrub alive forever. He wandered around, tutting at Margarets ornamental rockery where his strawberries once huddlednever mind Margaret thought the boulders lent a chic alpine air. The old gent found a gripe at every corner. Tom politely (ish) reminded him that the house, bushes, and all, now belonged to them and come with a lovely receipt to prove it.
Apparently, Mr. Jenkins had imagined a world where, after selling the place, hed pop by for a spot of weeding whenever he fancied. Tom said, If that was on the cards, we could have skipped the whole buying it bit! The next day, Mr. Jenkins was backbrandishing a spindly blackcurrant bush. He was all geared up to plant it right where the viburnum had been.
Tom blinked. Are you moving back in, or? he asked, helpfully offering to refund the money if Mr. Jenkins truly missed his kingdom. The old gent declined, but insisted on planting his bush, which promptly slouched over like all the others. A neighbor wandered over, startled to see the former owner treating the allotment like a day spa. She sympathized with Margaret: yes, legally, the plot was yours but have you tried conveying this to an octogenarian with a trowel?
Later, she confided that Mr. Jenkins had argued with everyone on the street since his wife passed, and she doubted the visits would stop. You might want to have a word with the parish council, she suggested. By the time Margaret finished her cuppa, Mr. Jenkins had left, leaving his blackcurrant bush for them to appreciate (or not).
After a few more visits from Mr. Jenkinscollecting random odds and ends, muttering about youths these daysToms patience snapped. Tom, being handy, worked for a construction firm, and after regaling his workmates with the saga, they gifted him a proper fence. By the time Mr. Jenkins returned, the garden was newly fortified. Not even a determined squirrel could squeeze through.
Mr. Jenkins tutted, huffed, and then stomped off to the parish hall to complain. The committee was well-acquainted with his flair for melodrama, and after a gentle word from them, Mr. Jenkins visits fizzled out. He returned only once, to collect a couple of items and bestow a final grumble.
And thus, at last, Margaret and her family could enjoy their little patch of peaceno hoeing, no unexpected guests, and if anyone turned up with a raspberry bush, they knew which side of the fence to stay on.
