The Plot

We lived at number 5, my grandparents lived at number 2. My Nana and Taid owned the “plot” that ran along the back of all 6 of the houses in the terrace. My earliest memories involved the plot. Planting lettuce with Taid, he always maintained he planted them and I pulled them up, to sawing wood with Nana for the fire that stoked the cast iron boiler that heated the pipes that ran around the greenhouse to ensure they always had the earliest tomato crop. When I was 5 or 6 the “new” greenhouse was built and me and my brother were allowed to draw our initials into the concrete step. Bearing in mind I’m almost 49 I often wondered why it was still known as the “new” greenhouse. As we grew up we had many an adventure in the plot. It was the most amazing place for hide and seek with it’s mish mash of sheds an kits, bushes, trees and compost heaps. I remember absolutely hating the ferret kit. The smell was disgusting. My Dad, who was the bravest of the brave, squealing like a girl when a rat ran out of the chicken kit and jumped over his shoulder. My Nana had sticks strategically placed all over the plot as a weapon in case the errant cockerel attacked. As we grew up there were several mysteries. The peas, despite being covered by nets to prevent the birds still had empty shells. Oh how I love peas straight from the garden. The strawberry and raspberry crops never did very well either but we did get told off frequently for having red ringed mouths. One of the highlights of the year was bonfire night. Half term was always the week before and by leaving the plot, going under the railway bridge we were in the enchanted territory of the woods which in those days was quite safe to play in from dawn until dusk. We’d drag as many fallen branches it’s possible for a gang of kids to drag and build the biggest, bestest bonfire in the area. What I failed to mention was the plot was tiered and all the kids were banished to the bank where we still had a perfect view whilst my Dad let off the fireworks safely by the fire. Spuds roasting in foil in the embers, beans and sausage to warm our cockles and treacle toffee to polish off the evening. My grandparents passed away many years ago and my Dad took over the mantle of running the plot and my elder kids and nephews took over getting into trouble playing football and breaking the bean canes or making divots in the cricket square lawn. Sadly my Dad passed away in April 2011 and the plot has become somewhat neglected. With panes missing and the roof bowing badly we were forced to admit defeat, that the greenhouses really were a health and safety hazard and would have to come down. Today’s the first day of half term. Transporting myself back 40 years, with my husband and brother’s help we began the monumental task of emptying and demolishing and building the biggest bonfire ever. We discovered the riddle I’d used as a tiny child to riddle the ashes. The ash to go back on the ground, the clinkers to go over the hedge and the rest to go back on the fire. We found the tub where Taid kept his special brew (sheep poo fermented in water which was his secret tomato feed – He made us collect this by hand and then take us to the pub for pop and crisps – without washing our hands.) The bottle to spray the tomatoes with Jeys Fluid (I think!), the pewter teapot used to water the geraniums and my Dad’s Council ID badge. And all the time my youngest, and my youngest nephew and niece ran around screaming playing hide and seek. I ache in places I didn’t know could ache. Incredibly hard, satisfying work. We have the biggest, bestest bonfire ever. All that remains is to decide who will light the fireworks on Saturday night.