EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, Lawrence?’

  ‘I suppose, until now, the resemblance just hadn’t struck me. But there’s no question that there are many similarities. Tim Smit wrote a book about Heligan. It’s brilliant.’

  ‘I’d very much like to read it. Don’t you think we should go there, too?’

  ‘We should, without question.’

  ‘Let’s go inside and you can tell me more about it over dinner.’

  Throughout the main course Jamie did most of the talking, unusual for her. She seemed happy with small talk, mostly about her first impressions of Somerset and Wickersham. Kingston avoided asking further questions about her past, realizing that he had come close to overstepping the bounds of propriety earlier, though he was dying to know what she did in California—what kind of work? Her family?

  The conversation drifted back to gardening.

  Jamie frowned. ‘How come we don’t have big gardens like Wickersham back home?’

  ‘There are quite a few actually. Old Westbury Gardens on Long Island comes to mind, Longwood, Dumbarton Oaks, Monticello, of course … out your way Filoli, just south of San Francisco. Superb garden, did you ever go there?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it but I’m ashamed to say I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Got its name from the first two letters of fight, love, and live. It was the family credo.’

  ‘Clever.’

  Kingston nodded. ‘Helps one to pronounce it properly, too.’

  ‘So when did this English obsession for gardening all begin,’ she asked. It was an innocent enough question but she wasn’t to know that it would take Kingston at least ten minutes to answer.

  ‘First of all, Jamie,’ he said, ‘you have to realize that throughout civilization, the garden has always played an important role as a natural and often significant extension to the house.’ He took a brief pause, resting his knife and fork beside his plate, then continued. ‘For example, I’ve seen Egyptian tomb paintings of 1400 BC that depict a detailed garden plan with placement of trees, vegetation, papyrus fringed pool and an imposing entry gate reached by a canal used to irrigate and fill the pools. Quite extraordinary. ’

  He took his time cutting into the pink filet steak, savoring and swallowing a slice, then washing it down with a healthy gulp of wine. ‘You know,’he said, looking at Jamie, who, up until now hadn’t murmured a word, ‘Roman Senator Pliny’s letters describe in considerable depth, the garden at his two country villas near Rome.’

  Another two minutes or so went by before Jamie interrupted Kingston’s discursive lesson on garden history.

  ‘But what about English gardens?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, I got a little carried away there. Let’s see … well, going back four hundred years, English gardens pretty much followed the vogue of European formality, particularly the French.’ He looked up to the ceiling. ‘Ah, yes, the French—it’s as if they were born with a mandate to prove their mastery over nature by cutting, clipping and pruning everything in sight. If you’ve seen the big chateaux like Versailles and Chenonceau you’ll know the look: symmetrical lines, clipped and regimented trees, straight alleys, parterres and topiaries, that sort of thing.’ He paused to dab a napkin to his mouth before going on. ‘Then, around the middle of the eighteenth century, a new gardening style emerged in England. A relatively unknown Northumberland gardener with the rather lofty name, Lancelot “Capability” Brown, was about to change the face of the country with grander and much more permanent schemes. He widened rivers, created lakes, moved earth to change the contours of the parkland and undertook massive plantings of trees. Little or no attention was paid to flowers.’

  ‘These were obviously very large gardens, then,’ said Jamie.

  ‘They were, indeed. And there were lots of them.’ He placed his knife and fork neatly lined up in the center of his empty plate and went on. Jamie, who had also finished her meal, seemed happy to sip wine and just listen.

  ‘This new style of gardening on a grand scale was called “English landscape” or “natural style” and one by one the large country houses like Hatfield, Blenheim and Studley Royal abandoned their formal gardens and adopted this new approach to garden design. I read of one estate that planted 100,000 trees, mainly oak.’

  ‘My God, that’s a whole forest,’said Jamie.

  Kingston smiled and plowed on. ‘Anyway, by now just about every kind of style had been tried in gardens known to civilization, and it wasn’t until the middle of the nineteenth century before any significant changes in English garden design or philosophy started to emerge. By the time Victoria assumed the throne in 1837, a steady succession of plant hunters, starting with Sir Joseph Banks in 1768, had been setting out from England, scouring remote parts of the globe, bringing back with them shiploads of new plants and trees. This changed everything. These men literally risked their lives and endured all kinds of danger and hardships simply in order to bring back seeds and plants. Their exploits—believe me, Jamie—make Indiana Jones look like an amateur. On one trip alone, the Scotsman George Forrest brought back over three hundred new species of rhododendron from China. Nurseries were soon overflowing with these new selections and, as you can imagine, gardeners were more than eager to try them. As the quantity of plants, shrubs and trees grew exponentially, two distinctly different styles of gardening were in the making.’

  Kingston waited while Jamie topped up his wine glass. He took this as a sign that she wasn’t going to doze off quite yet and that the lubrication was meant as encouragement for him to go on.

  ‘Towards the end of the nineteenth century,’ he said, in a professorial tone, ‘a veritable battle was taking place between two English gardeners. One was author William Robinson, the other, the architect Reginald Blomfield. Their divergent views were easy to distill. The cantankerous Robinson insisted that only the gardener, with his knowledge of horticulture could decide on the layout of a garden. The opinionated Blomfield insisted it must be the architect’s province since only he knew anything about design. Robinson championed the idea of “natural” garden design with hardy rather than tender plants used in the scheme. Drawing much of his inspiration from the simple cottage-style gardens of the time, he became a fervent crusader of natural gardening, writing books and periodicals, encouraging readers to grow old-fashioned hardy plants in the same manner as the cottagers. His book, The English Flower Garden, first published in 1883 went into fifteen editions in his lifetime.’

  Up until now Jamie had been showing keen interest in everything Kingston was saying but now he recognized the beginning signs of tedium in her expression—one that he’d seen before on the faces of his students. He was realizing, too, that he hadn’t even reached the twentieth century, yet. He decided to wrap it up before she did.

  ‘We may have to continue this some other time, Jamie,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so long winded but there is an awful lot of ground to cover. Anyway, by the end of the nineteenth century most English gardens—with the exception of cottage gardens, of course—were starting to reflect the trend to a formal style of gardening. As is the case here at Wickersham, you’ll find most of today’s preeminent gardens use architecture in its varying forms: stone and brick walls, stairs and archways; pergolas, water features, gates, fountains, sundials, statuary, manicured lawns, clipped yew hedging forming compartments and boundaries, wide grass walks with paved footpaths and plantings, all of which are the result of careful planning and design. I’ll quote Blomfield, who may get the last word, since the designs of most gardens nowadays are essentially based on his precept that horticulture stands to garden design much as building does to architecture; the two are connected but very far from being identical. He said “The designer whether professional or amateur, should lay down the main lines and deal with the garden as a whole, but the execution, such as the best method of forming the beds, laying turf, planting trees and pruning hedges, should be left to the gardener, whose proper bus
iness it is.” ’

  Kingston placed his hands face down on the table. ‘So there you have it, Jamie.’ He smiled. ‘Probably left you more confused than ever.’

  ‘No, not at all. It all helps to give me a greater appreciation of what I—we have here.’

  ‘There’s no question that Wickersham has its place in English garden history, all right.’

  After a moment silence of silence, Kingston spoke again. ‘I’m curious, have you always been interested in gardening or is it a more recent thing, as it were?’

  Jamie brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘To be honest, mostly since inheriting this place. I mean I’ve always enjoyed gardens and the little bit of gardening I’ve done but I have to confess, up until now, I’ve been one of those self-indulgent people who like gardens solely for the pleasure they give. It’s not that I don’t like plants and flowers, the nitty-gritty, the hands in the dirt thing, the Latin names, it’s just that I prefer the sensory aspect of gardens, as a means of escape, for the serenity, as a quiet and beautiful place for contemplation.’

  ‘You’ll have a wonderful time over here then. There’s no end of extraordinary gardens to see. Quite a few in this neck of the woods, too.’ He looked up at the ceiling moulding. ‘Let’s see, Hestercombe is close by and there’s a lovely small garden at Tintinhull. Then there’s Hadspen House—as I recall, the gardeners there are Canadian. Barrington Court, East Lambrook Manor. You could spend all summer doing nothing but visit gardens, Jamie.’

  At that point, Dot made a well-timed entrance to take away their empty plates and inquire about tea or coffee, telling them that ‘afters’ was on the way.

  ‘That’s such a quaint phrase,’ Jamie commented the moment Dot had left.

  Kingston took a sip of wine. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s right to the point. Personally, I’ve always thought “dessert” was a trifle pretentious, if you’ll pardon the pun. Plus, it comes from the French,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Desservir, loosely translated as clearing the table.’ For a split second his mind flashed back to a vaguely similar set of circumstances two years ago, sitting across a dining-room table from Kate Sheppard, an equally attractive young woman. She and her husband, Alex, owned the garden where a blue rose was discovered. He glanced briefly at Jamie who was lost in thought, studying her wineglass. They sat in silence for a few moments, each with their own thoughts.

  ‘Tell me about the blue rose,’ she said, suddenly looking up.

  The question caught him off balance. The damned woman was reading his mind. Latimer must have mentioned it to her. ‘You mean my fifteen minutes of fame,’ he replied, grinning.

  Over the rim of her wineglass, Jamie’s brown eyes looked larger than normal and inquisitive. ‘That’s not what I heard,’ she said with the slightest smile. ‘You made a big splash according to all reports. Tell me about it.’

  Kingston smoothed the tablecloth in front of him, long fingers spread, deciding which version to give her, the abridged or the unexpurgated. Having recounted the story so many times now, he had both by rote. He was about to launch into his narrative when Dot reappeared carrying a tray with two individual dishes of sherry trifle and a silver-plate coffeepot, cups and saucers.

  The moment the door closed behind her, Kingston launched into his eyewitness account of the blue rose, and the high drama that had taken place in Wiltshire just a few years ago. Save for the occasional question, Jamie listened attentively and with masked amusement as he relived those days with obvious relish.

  Starting with the first phone call from Kate Sheppard, he told how she and her husband, Alex, had discovered a blue rose in the two-acre garden of the old country house they’d just bought. Skeptical, to say the least, he nevertheless drove down the next day to find it was indeed the real thing and worth a proverbial king’s ransom.

  Despite all their efforts to keep the rose a secret, word leaked out. First a phone call from an anonymous American wanting to buy the rose direct, soon followed by a letter from a Japanese man representing a wealthy client, also wanting to purchase the rose. To complicate matters even further, the nephew of the spinster from whom Kate and Alex had purchased the house lays claim to the rose.

  ‘This is starting to sound like a book or a movie,’ said Jamie.

  ‘It could well be,’ Kingston smiled. ‘And, mind you, I’m leaving a lot out,’he said taking a few spoonfuls of trifle before continuing.

  At this point in the game, he said, things started to get nasty. First, the rose is stolen then the most devastating shock of all—Kate gets kidnapped and is held as ransom in exchange for the rose.

  Jamie grimaced. ‘“Nasty” sounds like a bit of an understatement.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Kingston replied, ‘but I haven’t come to the murder yet.’

  ‘Murder?’

  Kingston nodded, took a sip of coffee and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘Worse, Jamie. Before it was all over, three more people were dead because of that cursed rose—but why don’t I finish the story another time. It hardly makes for very pleasant table talk.’

  As the evening drew on Kingston was starting to wonder if she was ever going to ask him about his impressions of Wickersham and how he felt about her proposal. He decided that if she didn’t bring it up before the evening was over, he would take the initiative. Not a minute or so later she got round to the question of his involvement.

  Step by careful step, she unfolded her plan, ‘visualizing,’ as she put it, what his role would be, stressing more than once that he could go at whatever pace he felt most comfortable. He noticed, too, that she used mostly ‘whens’ as opposed to ‘ifs’ in talking about his participation. Still, there was no mention of reimbursement.

  Before long, the tall-case clock in the hall was announcing eleven o’clock, the somnolent chimes reminding Kingston, as did his eyelids, that it had been a long and remarkable day and that he was ready to pack it in. He glanced at his watch and then at Jamie, who looked wide awake. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘As the classic line goes, Jamie, you’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse. There are some important things we need to get resolved before signing on the dotted line but, by and large, I’m very interested in your project and would like to be part of it.’ He paused to take a sip of coffee, wondering whether she had got the hint. ‘I’m not quite sure if you realize just how huge an undertaking this is but, regardless, I get the impression that you’ll be able to handle it. I think we’ll make a good team.’

  ‘I know we will,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘Would it be all right with you if we picked up our discussion in the morning?’ he asked, stifling a yawn.

  For a second, Jamie’s expression was blank. Then, as quickly, she smiled again. ‘Yes, of course. But there’s one thing we haven’t talked about yet, perhaps the most important of all. I apologize for not bringing it up sooner.’

  Finally, thought Kingston.

  ‘The question of compensation,’ she said. ‘Your fee.’

  For reasons unknown—but no doubt to do with his lifetime in the halls of academia, where talking about one’s income was considered boorish and salaries were rarely negotiated—he had always found discussing such matters uncomfortable. With his curiosity piqued, now could be an exception, though.

  ‘I must confess, Jamie, I hadn’t given it much thought.’ The minute the words left his mouth he knew they sounded hollow. ‘Well, that is to say—it wouldn’t necessarily be the deciding factor.’

  She said nothing, as if enjoying his momentary and rare lapse of equanimity.

  Kingston broke the awkward silence. ‘Perhaps you should tell me what you had in mind.’

  To his surprise, Jamie got up from the table and went over to a nearby bureau. She opened the top drawer and withdrew an envelope. Returning to the table, she slid the envelope towards him. ‘I suppose I should have given you this much earlier.’

  Kingston opened the envelope, took out the letter, unfolded it and started to read.
After a few seconds he looked up at Jamie, astonishment registered on his face. ‘This is—well, what can I say—this is more than generous. Are you sure—?’

  ‘We don’t have to discuss it now. It will keep overnight, Lawrence.’ Suddenly, her eyes hardened, locking on to his. ‘I would like to say one thing, though, she said. ‘I don’t want the money to influence you unnecessarily. I want you to be well compensated but above all I would want you to accept the assignment only because you believed in it and would put your heart and soul into it. I would like to think of you as a partner, not an employee. The two of us can create something of extraordinary beauty here. I’m certain of it.’Just as quickly, the brown eyes were soft again, still fixed on Kingston but not demanding a reply. She fell silent.

  Kingston took a deep breath and placed the letter on the table. The sum she was offering was more than double his former annual salary. He was still struggling to contain his shock. ‘Jamie, it’s far more than is necessary,’ he said softly. ‘And you’re right. If I accept, you have my word for it that it will only be for the reasons you have stated.’ He smiled. ‘Can we sleep on it, then?’

  By noon the next day, he and Jamie had reached a handshake agreement. He would return one week hence to further familiarize himself with the estate and start to address the myriad tasks confronting them. During his absence she would start checking with the county and the local borough to find out what permits or special procedures might be required. Equipment and materials would be purchased as needed, starting with two pickup trucks, a small backhoe loader, and a laundry list of items like axes, chainsaws, power and gardening tools.