Eye-popping truth about what REALLY happens on your local allotments. There's so many whispers among middle-aged gardeners about what the veg plots have become notorious for

Allotments are like gold dust in my suburb of south London but, even so, I still thought I’d try for one. I have two teenage boys and foolishly thought it might tempt them to come out of their bedrooms more often. Surprisingly, after just 18 months, I finally landed my small plot near the local pub. Within a year I’d grown an assortment of fruit and veg – squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, runner beans and even a fine crop of strawberries. Almost better than the produce was the lovely community atmosphere, especially on a summer evening. The chap who ran the whole thing was called Jeff – a friendly sort in his mid-50s, always on hand for advice about pruning or sowing times. One mid-spring evening he asked if I’d like to join a few of them for a drink in the pub. The group was small: A retired teacher in her late 60s, a single man who dreamt of expanding his plot and monetising his love of vegetables, and several others I knew by sight but had never spoken to before. When the chat turned to ‘Kirsty and Frank’, I nudged the woman next to me and asked who they were. ‘You haven’t met them yet,’ she said enigmatically. ‘They’ll invite you round to their house soon. They live right next to the allotment – the yellow house. They throw incredible parties.’ I felt pleased to have found such a warm, agreeable crowd. A few weeks later, I was working on the allotment when the mysterious Frank appeared to say hello. Immediately I could see he was attractive, with long hair tied back in a man bun. He was wearing a vest and old swimming shorts, but nobody dresses up for the allotment. ‘They have these parties, everyone gets smashed and then they swap partners. Frank is like Rupert Campbell-Black from Rivals’, writes Martha Price Knee deep in soil, I was struggling to keep the snails off my tiny seedlings. ‘I’ve got a good natural deterrent for snails,’ said Frank. ‘Come over to our house later and I’ll put some in a box for you. We’re the big yellow one.’ Later, I did just that, and met his wife Kirsty – an unexpectedly plain woman who gave me the strange feeling she was sizing me up. Did she find other women a threat, given the disproportionate handsomeness of her husband? I was 54 and a busy working mum, in a happy-enough marriage. The last thing I was looking for was male interest. Before I left, she invited me to a ‘small party’ they were having that Saturday, telling me to bring my other half. A few days later I was on their doorstep at 8pm, bottle of pinot in hand. I was solo, having failed to persuade my husband that a night with ‘all the crusties’, as he called them, would be fun. The house was stunning. And so was Frank. Out of his old vest, his long dark hair washed, he looked rather like a less well preserved Keanu Reeves. In the gorgeous kitchen I recognised a few faces, like Jeff, but there were five or six people I’d never met. Before I could say hello, however, Jeff headed upstairs. Odd. Perhaps the downstairs loo was out of order? Frank bounded over. ‘Come and see the garden. We’ve got a sauna – you’ll have to try it out one afternoon.’ The garden was lush, full of ferns, palms and a glorious Californian lilac. The May evening was warm and it felt like being on holiday, fairy lights hanging in the bushes. Frank and I sat on a bench, alone, a bottle of prosecco at our feet. Where was Kirsty? I’d barely seen her. ‘You look a bit tense,’ said Frank, suddenly. ‘Why don’t I rub your shoulders? Working on an allotment is hard graft.’ It was at that point I realised that the noise from the kitchen had quietened down. Surely they hadn’t all gone home – it was barely 9.30pm. The lights in the upstairs rooms were on, and I could hear Adele playing – I think it was Make You Feel My Love. Feeling a bit spooked, I declined the massage. Frank seemed unfazed. ‘Perhaps you’d like to go upstairs? Kirsty is great at reflexology. A few minutes working on your feet, and you’ll feel like a new woman.’ I’d had two glasses of fizz at this point. Enough to blur the edges but not enough to make me think a foot rub from a woman I’d met once – and who didn’t seem to like me much – was a normal proposition. ‘Honestly, you’d love it,’ Frank persisted. ‘We have a Jacuzzi bath in our ensuite, she’d do it in there. It’s private, and really good for tension.’ Now it felt weird. I’m no prude, but I do not expect to have a bubble bath with someone else’s wife at a neighbourhood party. Saying I needed the bathroom – but not the ensuite – I made my excuses and went back to the near empty kitchen. Were all the others ‘getting reflexology’ from Kirsty? Who knew. I decided to call it a night. A couple of days later I relayed the events to a friend. ‘You didn’t go into their actual house did you?’ she gasped.‘You know they’re Swingers? ‘They have these parties, everyone gets smashed and then they swap partners. Frank is like Rupert Campbell-Black from Rivals. He’s slept with every woman under 70 on that allotment. Did he try it on with you?’ I thought about Adele playing upstairs. The invitation into the Jacuzzi. Jeff’s disappearance… oh lord. Now I can’t help wondering if the garden gnomes on Frank’s plot – and on Jeff’s come to think of it – are some kind of signal. The internet suggests they might be (I wouldn’t recommend Googling). Since then, Jeff seems a bit sheepish around me. Frank tried to chat once and I told him, curtly, that the snail deterrent hadn’t worked. Looking back, I can’t believe how innocent I was. Who thought tending a veg patch was a actually disguise for kinky sex and partner swapping? I’ll never look at a biggest marrow contest the same way again. Martha Price is a pseudonym. All names and identifying details have been changed