Planting Spuds

                                                                                            

Planting Spuds

John Griggs got up with a struggle and groaned at the nagging pain in his right leg. ‘Dammed old age,’ he muttered as he dragged himself over to the window and stared out into the bare moonlit garden. He had been planning to have it dug over, ready for the spuds. But there was no chance of that now. In his present state he could probably manage to plant the spuds, but there was no chance of him being able to dig over the ground first.

If his son Charley were here he would have dug it over for him. But Charley was on the run; had been ever since the armed heist at the security depot and the rest of his mates, who were also involved, had gone to ground too.  ‘Pity,’ he mused. ‘Or one of them could have turned it over.’ He sighed, closed the curtains and returned to his chair, still going over the problem in his mind.

          There was no help to be had from his neighbours, a bunch of geriatrics older than himself. He was the only one in the street who had been fit enough to do any gardening. With no family living nearby and his only friend Billy being in a wheelchair, he had thought of phoning Social Services to see if they could help. But he changed his mind; they were such a nosey bunch of dogooders.

No, he would wait until tonight and ask Charley if he knew anyone who could help.

That was the thing with Charley, while he was probably soaking up the sun in some foreign hideaway, he never forgot his old man. Every night without fail he rang up to see how his dad was, only for a couple of minutes mind you. But how many lads would even bother to keep in touch like that. Especially when they were on the run.

Charley rang at eight o’clock. ‘Hi, Dad how are you keeping?’

‘I’m OK, but the rheumatism is playing up and I can’t get the garden dug so that I can plant the spuds’

‘Good!’

‘ What do you mean good?’

‘Don’t get on you high horse Dad, I’m not saying it’s good that your rheumatism is playing up, only that it’s good you can’t dig over the garden.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, I don’t want anybody digging in the garden; anyway, I’ve got to go, can’t stay on the phone too long.’

‘OK, Bye son.’

‘Bye Dad and remember, no digging in the garden.’

The following night John could hardly contain himself and he picked the phone up as soon as it rang. ‘Is that you Charley?’

‘Yes Dad.’

‘Well, shut up and listen. I think the police have a tap on my phone. Because two hours after you said don’t dig up the garden, they arrived with floodlights and spent most of the night digging in the garden. What shall I do Charley?’

‘Easy Dad, why don’t you plant your spuds?’

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