If April is the cruellest month – and according to Eliot it is – then May is the purplest, at least in my book. And there’s nothing understated about purple. In the Botanic Gardens the gaudy pompoms of the allium are standing tall in rose garden and the bee beds and the first of the foxgloves Digitalis purpurea are suddenly open and are as tall as I am. Aquilegia and Ajuga reptans vie for attention. And iris, all shapes and sizes and shades. The raised beds in front of the café are punctuated with the dusky furls of Iris barbata ‘Sable’. The name Iris, from the Greek goddess of the rainbow, reflects the range of colours found in the many species. And, since Iris also linked Mount Olympus with the mortal world, perhaps the name places the plant somewhere between earth and heaven. The genus was the subject of a monograph by Richard Irwin Lynch, Curator of the Garden from 1879 until 1919. The Book of the Iris, published in 1904, had the twofold aim: to offer ‘all the useful information on culture’ and to provide ‘an easy and efficient means for the verification of names’. In his preface Lynch thanks ‘Mr. E. Allard, my foreman of the Indoor Department’ for ‘almost all the photographs’ and ends with a quotation from The Winter’s Tale:
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them
I do repent.
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them
I do repent.
In the Glasshouse Range the extraordinary jade vine Strongylodon macrobotrys has its signature blue-green flowers exploding from hanging purple racemes just now. The Botanics’ specimen is one of the best-flowering in Britain. Clearly a member of the Fabaceae (pea) family – see the claw-like flowers – in its native Philippines it reaches more than 20 metres in height, though extensive deforestation has made it vulnerable to extinction. The vine is pollinated by bats, probably attracted by the ‘luminosity of the flowers in the tropical twilight’ according to the Garden’s own notes. The bats hang upside down on the purple stems to feed on the nectar. Another member of the pea family, Hardenbergia violacea is also in flower on the north wall of the glasshouse corridor: look for its sprays of small, intensely lavender flowers with two lime green spots in the centre. Common names of this Australian climber include purple coral pea and happy wanderer
Outside, the branches of the Judas Tree Cercis siliquastrum in the Gilbert Carter Memorial Area are packed with pinky-mauve flowers. And then there’s wisteria, not just in the Botanics but spilling over college walls and house fronts all over Cambridge, palest mauve to vibrant purple, filling the air with its scents. Within the garden it drips off the Brookside building above the shop, whilst the group of free-standing Wisteria sinensis near the Judas Tree is covered in long arching tails of flowers, the characteristic pea-shape of upper banner, wings and keel clearly visible in each floret. Loveliest is the elderly shrub near the stand of mixed lilac: its wrinkled limbs and faded flowers sprawl comfortably in its wadding of cow parsley, the weight of its flower clusters matched by the upward thrust of the neighbouring lilacs, their combined fragrances a delicious mix.
There wasn’t much purple in evidence last weekend when I strayed back to my other life in Cumbria for a joint fiftieth party, although our brush with fame added a bit of a shine. Simon met me off the train, and introduced me to the only other alighting passenger. My friend Mark, he said. I recognised him, of course, just couldn’t quite place him. I asked him if he’d come far.
The celebration began with a walk, a group of twelve or so retracing the circular path we’d trodden with our children so many times. For those new to the area, this was a first meeting. So this is a tarn, Mark said, looking out across our northern waters. We walked and talked, then back to the house for tea and cake and conversation.
The celebration began with a walk, a group of twelve or so retracing the circular path we’d trodden with our children so many times. For those new to the area, this was a first meeting. So this is a tarn, Mark said, looking out across our northern waters. We walked and talked, then back to the house for tea and cake and conversation.
Do you think he’s the most famous person ever to be in the Lacy Thompson Hall? Nancy says.
I guess so, I say. It’s the evening do and our faces almost collide and then veer apart amongst the other grizzled heads moving to the snappy rhythms of the band. Too loud anyway to confess that I can’t put a name to this familiar face even though I’ve spent the afternoon in his company.
Later, I wander to the back of the hall in search of a drink.
Is it really him? Chris says. Tom says it is. She whispers the name with reverence and of course as soon as I hear it it’s obvious. It really is, I say, enjoying the reflected celebrity. He’s Simon’s best friend. I told you, Tom says.
I guess so, I say. It’s the evening do and our faces almost collide and then veer apart amongst the other grizzled heads moving to the snappy rhythms of the band. Too loud anyway to confess that I can’t put a name to this familiar face even though I’ve spent the afternoon in his company.
Later, I wander to the back of the hall in search of a drink.
Is it really him? Chris says. Tom says it is. She whispers the name with reverence and of course as soon as I hear it it’s obvious. It really is, I say, enjoying the reflected celebrity. He’s Simon’s best friend. I told you, Tom says.
Now he’s on stage, he remains until the end of the set, alternately strutting his stuff with the other fiftyish celebrants and skulking with concentration on the sidelines in what might be a particularly tricky riff. In the dark red dark of the flashing lights, his presence adds a kind of glamour on the bare staging: he’s big, muscled in his black T-shirt, all style and cool with his shiny guitar slung low and his unmistakeable hair. The hall is bare, apart from a square of patterned fabric on the back wall behind the band.
I like the juxtaposition of The Clash with the quilting, Nancy says.
We bounce on, a heady mix of old friends and old music reminding us how we have loved and not quite lost over the years; and he’s there on stage still, letting us believe for an hour or two that our loyalty has paid off and we’ve all made it into the warm glow.
I like the juxtaposition of The Clash with the quilting, Nancy says.
We bounce on, a heady mix of old friends and old music reminding us how we have loved and not quite lost over the years; and he’s there on stage still, letting us believe for an hour or two that our loyalty has paid off and we’ve all made it into the warm glow.
The following morning Chris returns from the shop, her tiny granddaughter strapped to her chest.
Aimee’s beside herself, she says. She’s his Number One fan. She knows all about him – she’s done a project on him and everything. Guess who was in the village hall yesterday evening? I said to her. Have you heard of him? She’s desperate to meet him. Do you think he’d come up here to see her?
The morning erupts in a flurry of emails and phone calls, interspersed with elaborate fantasies about the village acquiring its own notoriety on Facebook and Twitter. Eventually, Aimee is whisked away from the Co-op – I’m still in my uniform, she says – and into Pete’s car. We leave Chris standing in for her and hurtle down the hill. We don’t have long: Aimee’s shift in the pub begins at 12.
Our arrival is breathless. There’s a terrible moment when I think we might have overstepped the mark and broken some code of privacy or respect. But he comes out of the kitchen and steps smartly up to her expectations. There’s a lovely photo of the two of them in the hallway, worlds apart in more than geography and years, Aimee looking up at him and he, arms folded, returning her gaze. Laughter, chatter, cameras clicking. Then Aimee is back in the pumpkin, Nancy arrives with tulips, Mark sets off for the first of his five trains home and the party returns to the serious business of celebrating Simon and Ginny’s birthdays.
Aimee’s beside herself, she says. She’s his Number One fan. She knows all about him – she’s done a project on him and everything. Guess who was in the village hall yesterday evening? I said to her. Have you heard of him? She’s desperate to meet him. Do you think he’d come up here to see her?
The morning erupts in a flurry of emails and phone calls, interspersed with elaborate fantasies about the village acquiring its own notoriety on Facebook and Twitter. Eventually, Aimee is whisked away from the Co-op – I’m still in my uniform, she says – and into Pete’s car. We leave Chris standing in for her and hurtle down the hill. We don’t have long: Aimee’s shift in the pub begins at 12.
Our arrival is breathless. There’s a terrible moment when I think we might have overstepped the mark and broken some code of privacy or respect. But he comes out of the kitchen and steps smartly up to her expectations. There’s a lovely photo of the two of them in the hallway, worlds apart in more than geography and years, Aimee looking up at him and he, arms folded, returning her gaze. Laughter, chatter, cameras clicking. Then Aimee is back in the pumpkin, Nancy arrives with tulips, Mark sets off for the first of his five trains home and the party returns to the serious business of celebrating Simon and Ginny’s birthdays.
The following afternoon, heading east along the lovely South Tyne valley to pick up a southbound train, I sift through the pictures in my head: afternoon light on the tarn and the blaze of gorse, the excitement of the band’s double finale, ‘Teenage Kicks’ romping neatly into my all-time Ramones favourite ‘Sheena is…’, and a glitter of stardust settling for a few moments on the roofs and fields of Hallbankgate.
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