Many years ago, in the shared garden of a tenement house,
there laboured three keen gardeners. My Grandmother, my Dad and my Mum.
My Grandmother had a room on the third floor and we lived in
the basement. In between, the tenants had rights to half the garden, which was
exercised by coming downstairs and through our kitchen, whenever they felt like
it.
The garden was fiercely defined by big stones, wire mesh and
shrubs. We grew a harvest of flowers plus strawberries, giant greengages and
soft, sweet loganberries. They grew half hearted flowers and weeds.
When I was about twelve it was judged that I could have a
small patch of my own, about six feet by three.
It was right next to the conker tree that was the envy of my friends,
being variously the mast of a pirate ship, a plane bumping through the skies, a
castle turret, a lighthouse and a place where I could read in peace as no one
else could climb as high in the swaying branches. It also threw my patch into complete shadow
all day.
Nevertheless, some hardy plants had survived and my parents
encouraged me to consider the possibilities from a large book of thousands of unpronounceable
Latin names.
After about a month of inactivity it became obvious that, ‘Still
thinking about it’, was being received with a degree of non-comprehension, bordering
on frustration that such a golden opportunity to revive the fecundity of my
little patch should be missed as the growing season progressed.
I made my decision, and returned from school, rolled up my
metaphorical and real sleeves and set to with spade, fork and rake. There were some veiled comments about not exchanging
my not so metaphorical school trousers, but on the whole an appreciation of the
hard work that had turned an unloved patch into an almost flat, and empty,
rectangle of muddy soil. Many questions
were rebuffed and theories dismissed. A breathing space had been secured.
Several weeks passed, and the weeds began to poke through
the newly turned soil. Questions hovered on parental lips, unspoken yet hanging
like un-pricked speech bubbles. Some
careful digging and mound rebuilding in the corner led to intense speculation. A
rockery, a herb garden perhaps. But why had the weeds been left?
The following Saturday was fine. Dad was working, Mum was
shopping, Nan was snoozing. After an
hour of intense work on the garden it was finished.
The metal battlements of the castle were dug in around the
mound, with an inner keep, moat, drawbridge, cannon and knights, (history
followed the availability of toys). On
the plains below were tee-pee’s, cowboys, Indians, horses and assorted weaponry.
To the right lay the airport with runways of dried mud, carefully smoothed with
the back of a comb. In front were the roads, being flattened by a Dinky steam
roller, and flowing with vehicles of many vintages and sizes.
All this life, separated, protected, made real by the gorgeous greenery of trees, hedges and fields thanks to the generosity of the weeds.
