by Gil McNeil
“All set dear? Dennis and I thought we’d practise on you, give you the tour, so to speak. Would you mind?”
“Not at all Celia, that’s a great idea.”
They’re both carrying buckets full of bamboo canes with our homemade plant labels attached with green string. The usual white plastic plant labels look so awful, and the smart ones cost a fortune, so we’ve made our own. Celia has spent ages writing plant names onto thick pale-green card, using her thick black fountain pen and her best copperplate handwriting. We’ve covered them with the same sort of sticky-back plastic I used for school displays, although when I saw how many labels we needed I had to rope the boys in to help, so a few of them have creases in the plastic, which I’m hoping adds to the overall artisan feel.
“Is this all the labels?”
“No, there are quite a few more buckets, we’ll get those later. Bring that one though dear, if you wouldn’t mind. We thought we’d start with the roses, and then go back round and fill in the gaps.”
“Sure.”
Oh dear. I think I know what they’re up to now. They’re hoping if they trot me round and point out some key names, nobody will think the new chatelaine of Helena’s garden is a complete idiot. Dream on, as Dan would say.
“Shall we start with the species roses?”
Dennis nods and starts searching through his buckets.
“Let’s start at the front.”
We walk round to the front door. There are a series of gardens surrounding three sides of the house, divided by hedges or old brick walls with gates or arches. A border runs right round the house and a flagstone path which widens to a terrace at the back, outside the French windows from the drawing room and the library. The main lawn is flanked by two long flower beds, culminating in the ha-ha, to stop sheep getting into the library. There are more lawns at the front of the house, with a large circular bed in the middle of the gravel drive. Dennis has even mowed the grass all the way down the edges of the lane, leaving clumps of longer grass around the shrubs, and mowing paths through the trees. He’s spent hours sitting on his ride-along mower over the past few weeks, having a wonderful time in between telling me what a boon it is not to have to puff up and down with the old lawnmower.
“Here you go. Stanwell Perpetual—lovely scent that one.” He pushes the cane into the soil by a pretty pink rosebush in the bed in front of the guest sitting-room window. “That one’s the Hedgehog rose, white with good red hips in the autumn. And then we’ve got Incense by the back door; and Persian Yellow takes over blooming once Incense is finished—both good perfumes.”
“I think I should probably be taking notes.”
They both smile.
“No need for that dear, the labels will be there to help you. This one’s Empress Josephine, large double-cupped, good strong-veined pink and very old, named in memory of Josephine and her magnificent garden at Malmaison. She was known as Rose before she met Bonaparte, always keen on roses, her collection at Malmaison was enormous. Napoleon used to bring back plants for her from wherever he went—shame Helena couldn’t get Bertie to do the same.”
Dennis smiles.
“We had a few other things on our plates besides collecting plants.”
“I’m sure, but I can’t help thinking they’d have been far more useful than that silly parrot.”
We walk into the central rose garden and it all starts to get really complicated as they begin to label all the Tea roses.
“This one is Lady Fitzwilliam, great-grandmother to most of the modern roses, double pink blooms and good strong scent. And there’s Lady Hillingdon of course, that apricot one on the wall under your bedroom window—one of her special roses that was. I’ll put the label in later.”
Celia nods.
“Glorious. Semi-double, good strong scent. Damasks and Chinas now I think?”
Oh God, I think we should have made bigger labels.
Dennis puts a label by the low hedge which surrounds the seat, as Celia walks across to the seat on the opposite wall.
“Konigin von Denmark: quartered rosette with an excellent scent, good strong pink.”
She puts her bucket down by a beautiful pale-apricot rose.
“Here’s Gloire de Dijon—unbeatable for scent, blooms until Christmas. Have you got the label Dennis?”
“No, it must be in one of the other buckets.”
I think this might be a good moment to escape before I go into rose overload.
“I think I should go and see how Mum and Ivy are doing, but thank you. Maybe we could leave the labels in for a few days and I might learn a few more names. Lunch is at twelve today remember, so we all have time to get ready afterwards.
Dennis sighs.
“Ivy’s pressed my suit. She wants me looking smart.”
Celia gives him a sympathetic look.
“I’ve got a frock to change into—ridiculous fuss really. Be more appropriate if we wore our gardening clothes. But I suppose we’d better put on a show since the President of the Rose Society is coming. Great honour for us he’s agreed to attend. I will admit I’m feeling rather nervous. I do hope we’ve done Helena justice.”
She smiles, and Dennis puts his hand on her arm, and they both stare into the distance.
“I think we’ve done our best, and that’s all she would have wanted.”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be a grand day, you’ll see.”
“I’m sure it will, but I have been wondering: are we sure Bertie is the right person to speak? Don’t you think it might be better if you did it my dear?”
“It’s just to say thank you after the medal is presented, Celia. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Or you could do it. Or Dennis. But definitely not me. It wouldn’t be right.”
They both look panicked.
I’m making another mental note to make sure Betty is definitely indoors for the speeches as I walk back to the house and they start sorting through their buckets and rearranging labels and muttering to themselves. The garden is looking stunning—even I can see that—so I’m sure everyone will be impressed, and they’ll get all the praise they deserve. And if anyone says anything nasty, I can always bring Betty out, or get Bertie to fire the cannon at them, although I was hoping to keep the cannonage to a minimum today.
Oh God.
By half past two the gardens are packed—people were queuing from half past one—and there are little groups wandering round the orchard, saying hello to the pigs and admiring the fruit trees, with Alfie and Tom proudly standing by in clean Wellies to share fascinating pig facts with anyone who lingers too long. Patrick’s in the orchard too, making sure nobody decides the pigs need a run round the orchard to say hello properly, and the chickens are out, keeping a beady eye on everyone or sulking inside the henhouse.
Dennis and Celia are on duty in the rose gardens, making sure no cuttings get snipped, with Mr. Stebbings roaming round on extra cuttings patrol, with his wife, who has been telling me how much he’s enjoyed working at the Hall and how lovely it is we invited her to come along today. Mum and Ivy are putting the final touches to the tea stall, with Dan and Ben acting as sherpas; I’ve promised them twenty pounds each if they help nicely and don’t take refuge in their rooms, and so far they’ve both been great, trotting backwards and forwards with trays and plates and Tupperware boxes. Vicky and Bea have arrived, and they’re sitting with Sally by the gates down the lane selling tickets and telling people to park in the field and walk up the lane. They’re taking turns wearing the fluorescent jacket Sally brought in from the hotel from the fire-drill cupboard, and doing fifteen-minute stints in the field to make sure people aren’t parking like complete idiots. And Florrie and May are on duty in the house, ready to repel petty pilfering in between helping Mum and Ivy. So far, so good.
“There you are my dear. Thought I’d take a drink down to the girls on the gate, good idea? Nothing too pole-axing, thought a jug of Pimm’s might be welcome?”
“I think they’d prob
ably prefer tea Bertie—leave it to me. I’ll take some down in a minute with some cake.”
“Amazing so many people have turned up. Helena would have been so pleased. Bit nervous about my speech, Betty seemed impressed at the first rehearsal, but she’s not always the best judge. Hope I’ve got the tone right. Garden’s looking good though, so we shouldn’t have any complaints. Think I might take a stroll down to the beach, make sure nobody is trying to arrive by boat and avoid buying a ticket. Locals can be very cunning you know.”
I take tea down to the gate, and they all seem to be enjoying themselves immensely, especially since I added cakes to the tray.
“At the last count we’d sold three hundred and forty-six tickets, and that was about half an hour ago. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s brilliant Bea, and thanks so much for helping.”
“Our pleasure, Vicky’s always wanted a fluorescent jacket. She was keen on joining the police a few years ago, until I talked her out of it. She hates violence, and faints at the sight of blood, so I don’t think it was ever going to be the ideal career for her.”
Sally laughs.
“Probably not Bea, but she’s a brilliant parking warden. Look at her making that stupid idiot in the Range Rover move his car into line with the others. And she hasn’t even got a whistle. We should have a whistle by rights Moll. Some of them are so lazy you wouldn’t believe where they want to park.”
“I’ll send one down. Anything else you need?”
“Is there more of this cake?”
“About half a ton, last time I looked.”
“Great. We’ll try to save some for Vicky this time.”
Mr. and Mrs. Collins are having tea in the courtyard with their son and daughter-in-law, showing off the new baby while I sort out the extra cake supplies and send Dan down to the gates with a tray.
“This is our grandson, Luke, we thought we’d show him where we’ve been staying. Kept them awake all last night he did, so we thought a bit of fresh air might tire him out.”
The baby is wearing one of the pale-blue cardigans she knitted for him, over a tiny white sleep suit, waving his hands in that random way newborns do, staring intently at the sky.
“He’s beautiful.”
He starts to whimper and his mum gets up, looking exhausted, but Mrs. Collins stands up.
“You stay sitting down love. Let me walk him up and down, probably just wants settling, and you haven’t finished your tea yet.”
She starts pushing the shiny new pram around the courtyard and the baby instantly quietens, much to the evident relief of his mother, who looks pretty shattered.
“Shall we take him for a walk down the lane, give you a proper rest? I promise we won’t go far.”
She gives her mother-in-law a look of total devotion.
“Yes please.”
“Come on then Bill, let’s leave them to enjoy their tea in peace for a bit. Never get a moment to yourselves with a new baby. I’ll push the pram on the way down, and you can push it on the way back.”
I head back to the kitchen and find Ivy and Florrie, scattering sugared rose petals over three more Victoria sponges and buttering more scones. We’re loading up more trays when we hear raised voices coming from the hallway. The door which leads into the rest of the house is closed and we’ve put a Private sign on it, but it sounds like someone doesn’t think this should apply to them, so we both tiptoe towards the door to hear what’s going on.
“I’m a great friend of Molly’s, and she did say there would be tours of the house.”
“Are you dear. Well isn’t that nice, but she didn’t mention anything to me about tours, so I’m sorry, you’ll just have to go back outside and look round the gardens like everybody else. This is an Open Garden Day after all, not an Open House.”
Good for May—she’s definitely the right woman for this particular job.
“I may want to book the bed-and-breakfast rooms. We’ve got so many visitors this summer, but I will need to inspect them first.”
“I’d talk to Miss Molly about that dear, they don’t need inspecting, I can tell you that for free. She handles all the B-and-B side of things herself, with Ivy. I can give you a leaflet if you like. Ever so nice they are, got a picture of the gatehouse on too, done it up lovely they have, not quite finished yet but you can see it’s going to be a real treat for whoever gets to stay in it, only I know they’re getting booked up already. And they don’t take just anybody of course. They’ve got their regulars, and friends of course, and they get priority, which is as it should be. Got to reward loyalty, haven’t you dear?”
Ivy and I are holding our hands over our mouths now, trying not to giggle. It sounds very much like Lucinda Langdon-Hill to me, in which case I can’t help thinking May is being pretty brave.
“Why don’t you go and get yourself a nice cup of tea. Just follow the path round to the stables, get yourself a bit of cake too, give yourself a treat. And all the money goes to charity dear, so be as generous as you can afford, because every little bit helps doesn’t it?”
“I do raise a great deal of money for charity May, as you well know, so I’m perfectly familiar with the importance of giving generously, thank you.”
“That’s good dear. Because they’ve worked ever so hard, all of them, so I’m glad to hear you’ll be making a nice big donation. Say hello to your mum for me, when you next see her, won’t you?”
There’s the sound of the front door banging rather loudly, and May comes through into the kitchen passage.
“Did you hear her?”
“We did May. And you told her right enough. Bet you enjoyed that didn’t you?”
“I did Ivy, I can’t pretend I didn’t. I used to clean for her mother. Always been a right little madam that one, her mother is the same, or used to be—gone a bit doolally lately. They’ve stuck her in that home out by Charing Ford, and she never goes to see her. I know that for a fact because Alison from the library goes every week to see her father-in-law—always been a miserable old sod—but they go every week just the same.”
Florrie tuts.
“Terrible.”
“I know, and the cheek of her. As if I was going to take her round to poke her nose into all your rooms—go through your cupboards too I shouldn’t wonder, if she got half a chance. She must think I was born yesterday. Right, now what was it I wanted, oh yes, did you want to change the hand towel in the cloakroom, put a fresh one in? We’ve had ever so many people in, you know—a few of them hoping for a look round, but most of them have been good as gold. Only I think a fresh towel would be nice.”
“I’ll get you one May, and would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’d love one pet, if it’s no trouble.”
“Good, and you too Ivy, and Florrie, sit down for five minutes. You haven’t had a break all day. Stay in here in the cool, and I’ll make us all a cup of tea, how does that sound?”
May winks at Ivy.
“She’s a good girl and no mistake, I can see why you’re so fond of her now Ivy. I wouldn’t say no to a scone as well pet, if there are any going spare. If they’re one of Ivy’s, that’ll be a nice treat. I’ve always said she’s got a very light hand with scones.”
“Coming right up.”
Apart from one awkward moment when a nice woman in a pretty straw hat asks me the name of a lovely cream rose and I can’t find the sodding label, I manage a quick tour round the garden, and enjoy hearing people telling each other how lovely it is. And it really is, on a day like this, with most of the roses in bloom or in bud, it’s almost overwhelming. It does seem miraculous that such small tight little buds turn into such magnificent flowers, with so many different shapes and perfumes, from delicate pale simple ones to great big blousy ones like pom-poms—I can see how you could get completely addicted.
Celia’s looking slightly anxious.
“Shall we do the presentation now? The President is ready, if you could find Bertie? Oh, there he is, with
Dennis and Ivy, and your mother and the boys. Excellent.”
Bertie appears, looking very smart in his Navy blazer, beaming at everyone.
Oh God, I’m suddenly feeling rather nervous.
“Sally’s on the cake stall for a bit, and she’ll keep an eye on the plants, and Florrie’s in the house with May, but I hope they hurry up, because that tea urn needs filling up.”
“I’m sure they won’t take long Ivy.”
I think she’s as nervous as I am.
A young woman in a beautiful dress with a lovely rose print claps her hands and asks everyone to be quiet, as the President would like to present an award to the creator of this beautiful garden. Then a very elderly man steps forwards, leaning on a stick and says a few words which most of us can’t hear, and hands Bertie a velvet box. Then the young woman takes over again and says the award to honour Helena Harrington-Travers is a rare gold medal, that there is also a plaque for us to display in the garden, and that before we hear from Admiral Travers she would like to add her thanks to those of the president for what has been a truly memorable day. I have a second or two of blind panic wondering who on earth “Admiral Travers” is, until I work out she means Bertie.
He steps forwards and seems to hesitate for a moment, and then retrieves a piece of paper from his pocket, and his reading glasses. There’s a silence as he pauses, and then looks up.
“There are so many people to thank for making today such a success, so thank you to everyone for coming, and thank you to the Rose Society for acknowledging just how special this garden is. I know they did try to present the medal to Helena herself, but she was a stubborn girl. Often find the best girls are. She was never one for ceremonies and suchlike. So thank you, on her behalf. I know she would be pleased that her garden has received such an accolade, particularly since she doesn’t have to be the one to stand here and accept it.” He pauses, and smiles. “The garden is open today as part of the National Garden Scheme, and we’re delighted that the county organiser, Lady Wootton, has been able to join us today. Excellent idea, opening gardens to raise money for charity, so thank you for all your help Bobby—much appreciated. And last but not least, thanks must go to Celia and Dennis, without whom we wouldn’t be here today. All I can say is Helena would have been lost without you. As Ernest Dowson once said:
