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...
Hard to believe that was more than nine years ago! The 'journal' grew into a short story collection, one story for every month of the year, inspired by a particular feature of the garden and each introduced by a 'vignette' - although some of these introductions, as in the case of NORFOLK BEEFING below for the month of October, sprawled into fully-fledged vignes...
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...
Hard to believe that was more than nine years ago! The 'journal' grew into a short story collection, one story for every month of the year, inspired by a particular feature of the garden and each introduced by a 'vignette' - although some of these introductions, as in the case of NORFOLK BEEFING below for the month of October, sprawled into fully-fledged vignes...
NORFOLK BEEFING
There used to be a newspaper vendor with a stall in Carlisle city centre, famous for his catchphrase ‘Not many left’. October arrives with a similar insistence as flowers fade and leaves fall. The process of getting rid of the old is reflected everywhere you look in the Garden. And there’s something fascinating about things which are past their ‘best’, that sense of stripping down to the essentials. Rather than being dazzled by colour or distracted by scent, you are left with the form and texture of branch and twig, bare stems and browning seedheads. When a plant has ‘gone over’, there is a chance to appreciate both the shape of the thing itself and its place in the scheme of things, the architecture of the whole. It’s more than this, though. Our delight in the artifice of garden design is tempered as the autumn digs in by reminders of the natural world going about its business. It tolerates our interventions but, when push comes to seasonal shove, there’s little doubt who is in charge. Jenny Uglow puts it neatly: ‘We may think we are tending our garden, but of course, in many different ways, it is the garden and the plants that are nurturing us.’
Still, the domestic apple Malus domestica seems a clear example of nurture over nature, and its importance is marked every October in Apple Day events throughout Britain. After a five-year gap, the Botanic Garden joins the celebrations for a second consecutive year on the last Sunday in the month. The day is cold but remains fine and hundreds of visitors arrive ready to queue for the opportunity to taste and buy some of the less common varieties, locally sourced, as well as toffee apples, crêpes with and without an apple theme, cakes, honey, cheeses and of course cider. Some of the fruits on offer are a must if only on account of the name – William Crump and Captain Kidd are favourites – and others for their age, Rosa Nonpareil one of the oldest, or their unusual taste. Pitmaston Pineapple, for instance, boasts ‘an intense nutty, honeyed flavour with tropical undertones’. The combination of smells at the tasting tables is a delicious experience too, some sharper, some more mellow. Experts are on hand to offer advice on pruning and care and to help visitors identify apples they have brought along, and the Syndicate Room has a display of books on the apple, including the Victorian ‘pomona’ volumes normally kept in the Cory Library and named after the Roman goddess of fruitful abundance (from the Latin pomum ‘fruit’). ..
*
There used to be a newspaper vendor with a stall in Carlisle city centre, famous for his catchphrase ‘Not many left’. October arrives with a similar insistence as flowers fade and leaves fall. The process of getting rid of the old is reflected everywhere you look in the Garden. And there’s something fascinating about things which are past their ‘best’, that sense of stripping down to the essentials. Rather than being dazzled by colour or distracted by scent, you are left with the form and texture of branch and twig, bare stems and browning seedheads. When a plant has ‘gone over’, there is a chance to appreciate both the shape of the thing itself and its place in the scheme of things, the architecture of the whole. It’s more than this, though. Our delight in the artifice of garden design is tempered as the autumn digs in by reminders of the natural world going about its business. It tolerates our interventions but, when push comes to seasonal shove, there’s little doubt who is in charge. Jenny Uglow puts it neatly: ‘We may think we are tending our garden, but of course, in many different ways, it is the garden and the plants that are nurturing us.’
Still, the domestic apple Malus domestica seems a clear example of nurture over nature, and its importance is marked every October in Apple Day events throughout Britain. After a five-year gap, the Botanic Garden joins the celebrations for a second consecutive year on the last Sunday in the month. The day is cold but remains fine and hundreds of visitors arrive ready to queue for the opportunity to taste and buy some of the less common varieties, locally sourced, as well as toffee apples, crêpes with and without an apple theme, cakes, honey, cheeses and of course cider. Some of the fruits on offer are a must if only on account of the name – William Crump and Captain Kidd are favourites – and others for their age, Rosa Nonpareil one of the oldest, or their unusual taste. Pitmaston Pineapple, for instance, boasts ‘an intense nutty, honeyed flavour with tropical undertones’. The combination of smells at the tasting tables is a delicious experience too, some sharper, some more mellow. Experts are on hand to offer advice on pruning and care and to help visitors identify apples they have brought along, and the Syndicate Room has a display of books on the apple, including the Victorian ‘pomona’ volumes normally kept in the Cory Library and named after the Roman goddess of fruitful abundance (from the Latin pomum ‘fruit’). ..
*
...and here is the opening of its accompanying story. It's a favourite of mine, not least because of its complicated genesis. After a few faint-hearted attempts to find a publisher, I've done nothing to help the collection into the world. But Ihave recently been talking to my artist friend Carole about the possibility that she might consider illustraritng the stories and I'm hopeful. Meanwhile individual stories have been published in print and online. as has this one, by Litro magazine in its STORY SUNDAY slot, back in 2016. So if you felt like reading the whole thing, you could do so here
INSIDE
Are you sure she’s in there?
That’s what he said.
Tom?
Yes. Didn’t you pick it up? They saw her by the side gate.
The one with the ‘Private’ sign?
Yeah – well they’ve both got signs I think. Anyway, she was there first thing, half an hour before she should have been in the gardens at all, and when they approached her –
So how did she get in?
No clue. Maybe that bit of broken fence the other side of the brook. Anyway –
But she’s old, right? She’d have had to climb – it’s only the top bit that’s come away – and then she’d have to get across the water –
I don’t know, mate. I’m just telling you what he said –
Tom.
Yeah. They saw her by the gate, walked over to her, called out ‘Excuse me’ or something, and she looked back at them over her shoulder, and disappeared.
Through the gate?
Well, where else? Tom’s waiting at the other side, in case she legs it that way –
Legs it? I thought she was old, you know – an old –
Old, Tom said, not incapable. Anyway, the boy’s here now, we’ll leave him at this end and we can check the outside first.
I don’t buy it. What would she want in here anyway? It’s all nettles and brambles – she’d have been scratched and stung to bits as soon as she made it through the gate. Nothing’s been done in here for months, years probably, not since that last lot of trainees, the ones – Ow! Shit. It’s not funny – that was painful, man.
Better watch where you’re going then, mate. Have a look round the back there by what’s left of the shed, by the honeysuckle – Criminal, really, when you think about it, all those poor sods with – anyway, make sure she’s not hiding in the undergrowth before we head inside.
What is she, a bloody badger, now? Or a mole? She’s an old lady, right? Why would she be grubbing about in the dirt?
No. Yeah. Well, nothing here, no one here. Try the door.
It’s locked
*
I hear them, crashing about outside, men of course, two I think although there may be more. Then their voices are suddenly close. The letter box – there is a letter box! – opens and springs back, once, and the handle turns, turns again. I stand to one side of the door, as still as I can, making no sound. In front of me is the hook, its key now back in place, and beside this a shelf with a pile of envelopes, damp to touch. I lay my palm on top of the pile, brush away webs and bits of plaster and dust. I listen for the men outside, wait for fingers to push open the flap again, imagine a head twisting on its neck, this way and that, eyes searching vainly for a glimpse of me, and I swallow my laughter, making sure I stay out of sight. I try to control my breathing – in, out, slower, silent – but they are making too much noise to hear anything. Perhaps they have brought reinforcements? I want to look, but I don’t want them to see me. I shuffle sideways as far as the doorway on my right. There is a window with curtains half drawn. If I keep close to the wall – there. Yes, two of them: one brute of a chap whacks the brambles with a spade. Now the other – smaller, younger – comes right up to the window and pushes his face into the glass. He shades his eyes with cupped hands, stares into the room. If I were there, my eyes pressed to the pane precisely opposite his, what a shock he’d have! But he moves away.
Round the back, he says...
Are you sure she’s in there?
That’s what he said.
Tom?
Yes. Didn’t you pick it up? They saw her by the side gate.
The one with the ‘Private’ sign?
Yeah – well they’ve both got signs I think. Anyway, she was there first thing, half an hour before she should have been in the gardens at all, and when they approached her –
So how did she get in?
No clue. Maybe that bit of broken fence the other side of the brook. Anyway –
But she’s old, right? She’d have had to climb – it’s only the top bit that’s come away – and then she’d have to get across the water –
I don’t know, mate. I’m just telling you what he said –
Tom.
Yeah. They saw her by the gate, walked over to her, called out ‘Excuse me’ or something, and she looked back at them over her shoulder, and disappeared.
Through the gate?
Well, where else? Tom’s waiting at the other side, in case she legs it that way –
Legs it? I thought she was old, you know – an old –
Old, Tom said, not incapable. Anyway, the boy’s here now, we’ll leave him at this end and we can check the outside first.
I don’t buy it. What would she want in here anyway? It’s all nettles and brambles – she’d have been scratched and stung to bits as soon as she made it through the gate. Nothing’s been done in here for months, years probably, not since that last lot of trainees, the ones – Ow! Shit. It’s not funny – that was painful, man.
Better watch where you’re going then, mate. Have a look round the back there by what’s left of the shed, by the honeysuckle – Criminal, really, when you think about it, all those poor sods with – anyway, make sure she’s not hiding in the undergrowth before we head inside.
What is she, a bloody badger, now? Or a mole? She’s an old lady, right? Why would she be grubbing about in the dirt?
No. Yeah. Well, nothing here, no one here. Try the door.
It’s locked
*
I hear them, crashing about outside, men of course, two I think although there may be more. Then their voices are suddenly close. The letter box – there is a letter box! – opens and springs back, once, and the handle turns, turns again. I stand to one side of the door, as still as I can, making no sound. In front of me is the hook, its key now back in place, and beside this a shelf with a pile of envelopes, damp to touch. I lay my palm on top of the pile, brush away webs and bits of plaster and dust. I listen for the men outside, wait for fingers to push open the flap again, imagine a head twisting on its neck, this way and that, eyes searching vainly for a glimpse of me, and I swallow my laughter, making sure I stay out of sight. I try to control my breathing – in, out, slower, silent – but they are making too much noise to hear anything. Perhaps they have brought reinforcements? I want to look, but I don’t want them to see me. I shuffle sideways as far as the doorway on my right. There is a window with curtains half drawn. If I keep close to the wall – there. Yes, two of them: one brute of a chap whacks the brambles with a spade. Now the other – smaller, younger – comes right up to the window and pushes his face into the glass. He shades his eyes with cupped hands, stares into the room. If I were there, my eyes pressed to the pane precisely opposite his, what a shock he’d have! But he moves away.
Round the back, he says...
