Is a weed just an out of favour flower?

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.