WRITING THE GARDEN
Where it began:
Thursday, 23 May 2013
Testing the water
Ten days into a year as Writer in Residence at the ‘Botanics’ and I’ve dipped in a toe or
two: a few pencil notes in the pretty ‘journal’ I bought along with a small plant in the
garden shop on Day One, a couple of talks on the Tudor garden by Twigs Way (really),
and some hours spent recording stories for the Voicing the Garden project on Saturday.
Time now for a real dip – or a good paddle at least...
Testing the water
Ten days into a year as Writer in Residence at the ‘Botanics’ and I’ve dipped in a toe or
two: a few pencil notes in the pretty ‘journal’ I bought along with a small plant in the
garden shop on Day One, a couple of talks on the Tudor garden by Twigs Way (really),
and some hours spent recording stories for the Voicing the Garden project on Saturday.
Time now for a real dip – or a good paddle at least...
The 'journal' - which quite early in the residency began to take shape as a collection of stories - begins with a vignette on the theme of purple. This was one of the first pieces I wrote, although the story for the month of May and the first in the book, 'Paradise', was written last:
THE COLOUR PURPLE
According to Shug Avery, the epitome of strength and independence in Alice Walker’s novel, it ‘pisses God off’ if you walk by the colour purple
in a field somewhere and don’t notice it. With your wits about you, it would be hard to miss. It doesn’t just draw attention to itself; it blazes...
" They inched their way along the edge of the big bed, where the stems of a peony sprawled across the mat of dog’s mercury and yellowing
daffodil leaves and the crowding bluebells – that scent! she said – leaving a trail of crimson petals like magnified drops of blood. The
magnolia by the gate had shed its petals too – she bent now, very slow, scooped up a handful then let them fall, leaning a little heavier into Robin
until she was steady again. Towards the back of the bed, a rose with small creamy flowers was almost hidden in a thicket of alliums and foxgloves.
All this life, thrusting with such determination upwards! It makes me quite tired, she said, laughing. At last they reached the bench at the end
of the lawn..."
[from 'Paradise']
*
JULY
Suddenly it’s high summer. Weeks of grumbles about the weather evaporate as temperatures soar. From clear skies and full sun, the heat of the morning has given way to closeness, moments of sunshine interspersed with opacity; as if the air were something to cut through, like the stuff you might use to fill a cushion. It’s stifling. Visitors prowl the garden in search of respite.
‘Peter’s Seat’ is in a clearing in the Woodland Garden, a glade of shade and sunlight on the edge of the lake...
"The path winds through willows along the edge of the water and I follow it to the bench in the clearing. I’m screened from the eyes of waking
waterfowl by a curtain of willows. Clumps of bamboo stand guard at either side, rattling the tips of their spears. I breathe in: the smell of the water,
the tobacco plants. Leaning back against the slats, I fumble the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. The first one is crushed and snaps in two. I
straighten the second, find the lighter, inhale, close my eyes.
"Almost silence; only the chatter of the bamboos, a swish as the shreds of curtain rearrange themselves; a lapping there, and there – a moorhen
intrigued by the smoke? Then a burst of noise: a crunch, a crack; a muted squeal; a giggle, a splash. I jab what remains of my cigarette into the
earth, waving a hand to dispel the smoke and stand, inching towards the water. There are two of them..."
[from 'Classical Studies']
*
waterfowl by a curtain of willows. Clumps of bamboo stand guard at either side, rattling the tips of their spears. I breathe in: the smell of the water,
the tobacco plants. Leaning back against the slats, I fumble the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. The first one is crushed and snaps in two. I
straighten the second, find the lighter, inhale, close my eyes.
"Almost silence; only the chatter of the bamboos, a swish as the shreds of curtain rearrange themselves; a lapping there, and there – a moorhen
intrigued by the smoke? Then a burst of noise: a crunch, a crack; a muted squeal; a giggle, a splash. I jab what remains of my cigarette into the
earth, waving a hand to dispel the smoke and stand, inching towards the water. There are two of them..."
[from 'Classical Studies']
*
PIGEONS
The story for November, 'Pigeons', was shortlisted for the BBC Opening Lines competition for writers new to radio and longlisted for East Anglia's Words and Women competition, both in 2015. However, the charming Shelford pigeon fancier who generously spent an afternoon showing me his collection of birds and taking me through the ins and outs of breeding, keeping and racing pigeons, didn't respond, either when I sent him a copy of the story or when I let him know the good news about its success.
Which just goes to show how subjective the whole business of appreciating writing can be; or, simply, perhaps, that you can't please all the people all the time...
"Walter sat and waited, his overcoat tight round his knees. The wooden seat felt damp through the cloth. No sign of frost yet, though, and the sun
warm for November. He was too early of course. Sometimes she was there before him. More often, she kept him waiting as she had when she was
alive. Always on the last minute, she arrived in a rush, cheeks flushed, hair flying. She would laugh at him for worrying, as she stretched up to kiss
him. You should have married a shorter man, he’d say. You’ll do, she’d say. And maybe I still have some growing to do.
"Here was the robin, another regular in this end of the gardens. This morning it darted from branch to grass and back to branch in the bush behind
him, so that he had to duck his head or look over his shoulder to keep it in view. Once it appeared on the arm of the bench, close enough for him to
touch, shiny eyes avoiding his, and immediately off again. He was sorry she wasn’t there to see: she loved the birds, all of them. Apart from the
pigeons – couldn’t get past the fact that his weren’t the same as the feral pigeons who’d fly in close, spoiling picnics, mess everywhere. Vermin, she’d
called them. Not these, though, he’d say. Look at this one, fawn and white, look at the wing markings – a real beauty. She wasn’t convinced..."
[from 'Pigeons']
*
FEBRUARY
IRIS
There is a narrow gravelled path which winds along the back of the Winter Garden, easy to miss if you’re dazzled by the ruby stems of the dogwood or the elaborately patterned trunks of the acers or entranced by the fragrance of Daphne bholua. But it’s worth looking out for. There, beneath the creamy blossoms of the Japanese apricot, a midwinter surprise of ice-blue Iris unguicularis, their stumpy stems rising from a mess of grassy foliage. Originally introduced into Britain from Algeria in the nineteenth century by collector and botanist Dean Herbert, I. unguicularis also occurs naturally in the Middle East. Vita Sackville-West, in her Observer column in the 1950s, gives us the derivation of the name – from unguiculus, a small claw – and her planting tip: this iris thrives on ‘sun and poverty’.
Iris as the personification of the rainbow and the messenger goddess linking the gods to humanity features widely in classical mythology, not least in the story of Semele, mortal mother of the god Bacchus (Dionysus). The story has been adapted many times, most famously perhaps by Ovid and then, some 1800 years later, by Handel in his opera, known less for its title than for the lovely aria ‘Where’er you walk’, which seems on the surface the perfect love song. The story which follows is also an adaptation – of Handel’s adaptation – combined with another more recent tale of a wedding where love proves to be not quite enough – or is it too much?
The action begins on Semele’s wedding day, in the grounds of Juno’s palace. (Juno’s responsibility, as well as wedding organiser, is to protect women – but getting the better of her husband, who is also her brother, is always uppermost in her mind. Which is why, when we first meet her, she is busy removing Argos’s 100 eyes before fixing them on the tail of her peacock – a story for another day!) Semele, nursing a secret passion for Jupiter, is reluctant to go ahead with the ceremony and calls on him for help. Disguised as an eagle, Jupiter whisks her away to a wonderful palace in a secret location, where he provides everything she could possibly wish for: even the trees and flowers are organised for her delight. Juno, furious at her husband’s infidelity and set on vengeance, enlists the help of Iris to find Semele…
IRIS
There is a narrow gravelled path which winds along the back of the Winter Garden, easy to miss if you’re dazzled by the ruby stems of the dogwood or the elaborately patterned trunks of the acers or entranced by the fragrance of Daphne bholua. But it’s worth looking out for. There, beneath the creamy blossoms of the Japanese apricot, a midwinter surprise of ice-blue Iris unguicularis, their stumpy stems rising from a mess of grassy foliage. Originally introduced into Britain from Algeria in the nineteenth century by collector and botanist Dean Herbert, I. unguicularis also occurs naturally in the Middle East. Vita Sackville-West, in her Observer column in the 1950s, gives us the derivation of the name – from unguiculus, a small claw – and her planting tip: this iris thrives on ‘sun and poverty’.
Iris as the personification of the rainbow and the messenger goddess linking the gods to humanity features widely in classical mythology, not least in the story of Semele, mortal mother of the god Bacchus (Dionysus). The story has been adapted many times, most famously perhaps by Ovid and then, some 1800 years later, by Handel in his opera, known less for its title than for the lovely aria ‘Where’er you walk’, which seems on the surface the perfect love song. The story which follows is also an adaptation – of Handel’s adaptation – combined with another more recent tale of a wedding where love proves to be not quite enough – or is it too much?
The action begins on Semele’s wedding day, in the grounds of Juno’s palace. (Juno’s responsibility, as well as wedding organiser, is to protect women – but getting the better of her husband, who is also her brother, is always uppermost in her mind. Which is why, when we first meet her, she is busy removing Argos’s 100 eyes before fixing them on the tail of her peacock – a story for another day!) Semele, nursing a secret passion for Jupiter, is reluctant to go ahead with the ceremony and calls on him for help. Disguised as an eagle, Jupiter whisks her away to a wonderful palace in a secret location, where he provides everything she could possibly wish for: even the trees and flowers are organised for her delight. Juno, furious at her husband’s infidelity and set on vengeance, enlists the help of Iris to find Semele…
BOLT FROM THE BLUE
What should have been a perfect Valentine’s Day for a local couple ended in disarray yesterday when
police were called to a brawl thought to have started over a pork pie. Interviewed later at home, the
groom said: ‘We had a brilliant day. It was great – you've got to expect a good punch up at a wedding.’
[News bulletin: 15 February]
" …no not really. I’m listening and not listening, at the same time. It doesn’t matter – he doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps it coming. It’s part of the
whole thing: everything is arranged and rearranged for – well, for my benefit. So it’s hard not to be impressed. I mean, the place itself, for a start,
is – amazing. I’ve tried to count the rooms, but I get a different number every time – 54? 46? 62? And splendour isn’t in it: I mean, it’s – palatial. All
marble pillars and satin cushions and drapes and stained glass, gold leaf… crystal fountains… And the morning I said maybe pink was – like – last
year? It disappeared – everything that was pink, vanished or transformed by lunch-time. That’s what I mean: nothing is too much trouble. Sometimes
I ask, just for the hell of it, see if I can figure out where it stops. Take the question of shade, for instance. I mean the weather here’s fantastic – if
you’re a sun-worshipper, that is, which I am of course – but it can get a bit much, so I happened to ask, is there any chance of a parasol or something?
So I get a full set in every one of Iris’s colours (no pink of course) and a whole bloody aria about marshalling the entire natural world to keep the sun
out of my eyes. Magic or what? I mean, really…
*
What should have been a perfect Valentine’s Day for a local couple ended in disarray yesterday when
police were called to a brawl thought to have started over a pork pie. Interviewed later at home, the
groom said: ‘We had a brilliant day. It was great – you've got to expect a good punch up at a wedding.’
[News bulletin: 15 February]
" …no not really. I’m listening and not listening, at the same time. It doesn’t matter – he doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps it coming. It’s part of the
whole thing: everything is arranged and rearranged for – well, for my benefit. So it’s hard not to be impressed. I mean, the place itself, for a start,
is – amazing. I’ve tried to count the rooms, but I get a different number every time – 54? 46? 62? And splendour isn’t in it: I mean, it’s – palatial. All
marble pillars and satin cushions and drapes and stained glass, gold leaf… crystal fountains… And the morning I said maybe pink was – like – last
year? It disappeared – everything that was pink, vanished or transformed by lunch-time. That’s what I mean: nothing is too much trouble. Sometimes
I ask, just for the hell of it, see if I can figure out where it stops. Take the question of shade, for instance. I mean the weather here’s fantastic – if
you’re a sun-worshipper, that is, which I am of course – but it can get a bit much, so I happened to ask, is there any chance of a parasol or something?
So I get a full set in every one of Iris’s colours (no pink of course) and a whole bloody aria about marshalling the entire natural world to keep the sun
out of my eyes. Magic or what? I mean, really…
*