The Raggedy Shed

I arrive at the allotment carrying a heavy shoulder bag filled with basic DIY and gardening tools. The spray of 99p shops in our area makes it possible to double up on hand tools and invest in new hasps, padlocks and bolts without fear of penury.

The shed itself is rotting, though charming with it's still bright, blistered paint and faded wooden bones . One gentle kick and I see it winded and sagging; a cardboard clothes carrier left out in the rain. It's simple to remove the old padlock and swap it for a new one but with the door gaping wide at the bottom it will have to be patched up and a second lower lock fitted to keep it closed. It judders, bends and finally splinters upon opening but digging out the surrounding soil should clear it's path.

The small window at the front is a loose pane of glass held in at only one corner by a few inches of aging putty. It moves like it's clamped between tiring teeth.

At home I have a random wood pile. Things I was collecting to possibly make a cold frame from. It should provide me with what I need; a patchwork of strips, planks and screws to keep the wind out. And possibly the mice (or are they rats?) The small tunnel in the corner suggests something that scurries, as does the strange morning bus shelter smell but it's all fine. When the door closes a calm swaddles. The low windows frame the pale grey spring sky, the panorama a pencil drawing; a skeletal fence with shredded bin bags knotted tight in rows along the wire, fluttering in the breeze. My small flask of coffee and nub of chocolate taste incredible, black and bitter as imagined crows locked out in the cold.

First view of Plot 49

I received the call at dusk on a wet evening in early Spring.
"You're top of the list. If you're still interested?"
The question caught me off guard, like a surprise smile or a wave from some distant, only-dreamed-of lover.

"Yes, I'm still interested. Thanks."

We met at the entrance the following day, Peter with his paper folder and solitary key. Once through the scraping gates, with their timeless chain and fist-sized padlock, the site opened before me; a prospectors field, pin-pricked by shacks, distant scarecrows and medal ribbons of thick black plastic. Wind tripped through ragged flags and leaning canes as we made our way along the grassy path towards plot 49.

Upon arrival, it feels unbelievably special. A strange calm is offered by the boundaries. The neon dogs of the neighbouring stadium, frozen mid race, watch from the wings, whilst a steady thrum from the towering electricity pylon seems to blanket all in quiet industry. There is growth and renewal here, sleeping vines and rising sap.

Best of all, there are bones and shape to the plot, ten rods of thought and moments of love visible through the grass, a strawberry patch partially hidden, rhubarb crowns unfurling in a discernible row, ancient gooseberries and raspberry canes become one with a step-over tumble-down fence. At the end of the row a wind-blown plum tree, already braving it's first buds of blossom, beds down with wild brambles and a godsend of a water tank.

There is but one bright splash of colour on the plot that day, a vivid turquoise green that suggests Cuban taxis or cheap motels but belongs instead to the shed door. It's padlocked, though the door lists to one side, like a drunkard’s tie, to reveal the glimpse of a bench and a tool space at the rear. It's shelter brings promises of tea and string, jam jars of assorted tacks and nails and a home for my rusting hammer.

I thank Peter and sign the lease. The key is mine now and for the cost of one pound a week I have tenancy of plot 49 and all it reveals.