Dreamy Garden Borders in April

When March turns to April I know the time has come when I can procrastinate no longer: my herbaceous borders need me. The seed heads and sheltering dead foliage have done their bit for the wildlife over winter.

Now is the time to get out there, chop it all down, dig out the odd weed and mulch like crazy. Leave it another week or two and the weeds will have taken hold and the plants grown too large for much to get in there.

But as I clip and snip, gather and discard the border looks more bare with every action. Where are all those perennial goodies? Have they died? Been eaten? There is still the odd clipped evergreen certainly, the occasional rose bush. And the lime trees to pleach on the nearby path.


These thoughts fester as the clearing goes on and the mulching with compost is done bit by bit. But by the time I'm finished the odd inch of rain and even odder days of sunshine have worked their magic. Suddenly the phlox and tradescantia, the aqualegia and bistort have burgeoned.

Geranium phaem and Bleeding heart is flowering prettily; Heuchera and Alchemilla mollis seem to have doubled in size overnight. What was I worried about. I had forgotten that every year – cradling some purchase bought in a weak willed moment at a plant stall – I walk around the garden searching for a spot in which to squeeze it in.


By now the purple beech tree has been through its wondrous leaf opening cabaret. First small leaf buds tentatively open, salmon pink, soft and ethereal. After a day or so of sun they stretch out their leaves and with more confidence start to turn that glorious shade of copper. Another few days of good weather and, overnight, every branch is covered in the richest of copper leaves.

In fact a few days of absolutely glorious weather has fast forwarded spring to such an extent that plants and flowers normally performing in May are out now. And blossom that usually lasts a week or two is over in a couple of days. The lilac is in flower but the blossom of the weeping pear has already faded.


If I work like crazy from now until June getting all the worst weeds out, then it should set me up for the summer. In the wall border the plants grow until they are cheek by jowl. The idea is that they will choke out the weeds and I won't have to do anything for the rest of the summer. But that remains a theory for now.

There is one border so overgrown with ground elder that we have had to take all the soil out, burn it, and start again. Cow parsley self seeded to such an extent under the beech and Judas tree last year that its going to take days to dig it out. And the nettles! How come they have colonized every corner? Another digging job, I'm afraid.

I am happy for pockets of nettles – similarly buttercups – to grow in the wild garden, I'm trying to do my bit for conservation by encouraging habitats. Why else was I down on my hands and knees trying to balance rotting logs into a tidy pile like nature never intended? But nettles, buttercups and dandelions in my herbaceous borders are a step too far.

So I better keep at it. There's a long way to go. But it's hot. Too hot to garden. I better sit down – it's tiring this gardening – have a rest in the dappled shade of the beech tree and dream of manicured lawns, meticulous flower beds and..........

Wanting by Richard Flanagan

Was this going to be another one of those books about the aboriginies of Tasmania? We've read Secret River and The English Passenger and didn't need more of the same. Wanting was promoted as something quite different: a novel to "show how the colonized and the home territories are inextricably linked."


The two strands run side by side in the novel. Mathina, a young orphaned aboriginal girl, is adopted by Lady Jane Franklin who seeks to experiment with civilizing the natives. She never gets close to the child but appears to be achieving her aim of civilising – but not educating – her when unexpectedly the child's natural desires break out. Unfortunately so do those of her husband, Sir John Franklin.

Sir John had been the governor of Tasmania, still living on his reputation as an arctic explorer. Finally expelled from his post he journeyed once more into the arctic where he disappeared. Back in England Lady Jane tries her best to rescue his reputation – and her own – by exonerating him from the slur of cannibalism. And to do this she employs the help of Charles Dickens.

Mathina was cast out before the Franklins left Tasmania and let us just say that her life thereafter was all downhill. Her story mirrors the plight of the natives and the dramatic irony of the tale – and the true story - was that the savages were more humane and civilized that the Westerners that chose to subjugate and civilize them.

This aspect is personified in the character of Dickens far away in civilized England. He champions family life in his books and in his outward persona but is not happy with his lot. He has fame, he has family. The first he relishes, the second he finds disappointing and eventually betrays.

It seems to me that Flanagan said to himself: I can't write yet another one of those books about the aboriginies of Tasmania. What can I do to give it a new twist? I know, think of a well known character and link them in some way. And up he came with Dickens and desire. But the result feels contrived. The two stories do not sit comfortably together; although the form is cleverly constructed it is a clumsy concept.

Flanagan is quite obviously a good writer and it is an easy book to read because it is deceptively well written. Like the curate's egg, it is good in parts. When Mathina's desire finally gets the better of her and she dances as she feels, the writing is as passionate as the act. The same could be said of the desire that Dickens finally succumbs to. In fact the groupies found the part about Dickens so interesting they thought it deserved to be enlarged as a stand-alone book.

Those who had read Flanagan's other books and loved them were perhaps disappointed and this coloured their criticism. But none of us enjoyed the novel for various reasons. No-one was drawn to any of the characters in the book. None would recommend it. And yes, the part concerning Mathina was yet another one of those books about the aboriginies of Tasmania. And a pretty depressing one at that.

The Garden in Spring

The snowdrops have faded and the daffodils about to burst. Both of them late this year owing to the snow. And in between times aconites, hellebores in all their glory, iris and crocus have flowered. Violets and pulmonaria have sneaked in between them and now the tiniest little blue gentian has flowered in the gravel drive under the oak tree. A glorious abundance of colour.


The shrubs have not been quite so quick off the mark: walking up on the wooded hills at Emmetts, the National Trust garden in Kent, rhododendron and azaleas are in wonderful colour and I can only imagine in such gardens at Exbury in Hampshire, or Stourhead in Wiltshire, the display of these dramatic shrubs must be coming into their peak.

In my garden, less acidic, the wonderfully scented pink flowered viburnum bodnantense and the winter honeysuckle, Lonicera fragrantissima, are in bloom. The first flowers on the bare wood and, although leaf is a wonderful clothier, one can really appreciate the flowers when they are not disguised with green. The honeysuckle is actually an evergreen – but it is such a straggling, poorly leafed bush in the winter that you could be forgiven for thinking it deciduous. But the scent! And both are hardy – they have to be in my frost pocket.


This is the time of year that I look at my borders and think they are empty. Some sign of life is there: the odd shoot, the occasional leaf, the first inkling of a mound of something. I must mulch and quick. Keep down the weeds now and warm up the soil with a blanket of compost and, you never know, the plants might be the victors. Leave it another few weeks and I'll have a fight on my hands; the weeds will win.

Lately, on a freezing day, I spent a happy couple of hours online planning my vegetables. What a list I've ordered! I can see them now all growing in glorious technicolour, looking like all those beautiful potagers we see in magazines. Oh yes, I'm good at the planning. Great at imagining. It’s the growing and the looking after I'm not so hot on.


So it's only the foolproof I grow – the ones that don't take too much TLC. Nothing too precious. Courgettes of course. Perpetual spinach with the addition of ruby chard this year - I fancy a bit of colour; cut and come again lettuce; beans; tomatoes - preferably the bush variety that needs no care and attention - herbs; pumpkin and squash. Best Beloved has cracked leeks, so they are on the list. And I have heard the golden beetroot is delicious so I'm having a go at that.

And, yes, I am still struggling on with my asparagus bed. Every year it is threatened with annihilation but every year it gets a reprieve. How come everyone else has asparagus coming out of their ears and I am still only producing enough for a monk on a diet? Mind you, Freddie was caught in the act - eating the spears just as they surfaced. Thought he had found the perfect grass (for medical purposes of course) for a quick nibble. Chicken wire over the top should put paid to that little trick. Any tips (excuse the pun) gratefully received.

Now I only have to make sure that I plant them in time, rotate as I should, remember to water and hope the summer brings forth fruit or, in this case, veg. Vegetable gardening for me really is a case of hope over experience.

Lucy

Writing is Daft

Well, the time has come. The MS is complete enough. Chapters chosen. Agents researched, letter drafted. It just needs that one last little thing: confidence. Because once the first rejection comes back it's the start of the chipping away. At expectation.

Here you are, an aspiring writer, tapping away morning, noon and night. Or maybe just grabbing the minutes where you can. There is no pay, no kudos, no reward. The result could be a self-obsessive outpouring or a modest novella. Whatever it is it is a little piece of yourself. Served up raw. Ready for dissection. Or ready to be spat out.


If you write something with a 'story', you want to be read. I keep that picture of A Little Blue Jacket for sale on the shelves of the WHSmiths and try to imagine this one. If it's not to be read then what is it for - therapy? Fair enough. Brilliant therapy, writing. But that sort of writing is about getting experiences or emotions down on paper. Out of ones head and into the light of day. Released. We most of us have done it at some time.

The sort of writing many of us do needs a lot of planning. First the genre. Then the idea. But how to make the embryo develop? Deciding how to narrate it is far from an easy decision - what tense, who will tell? And the viewpoint – a choice must be made before a word is written.

An idea, a plot, a story - call it what you will, but whatever you call it there is one fact – it needs to begin and has to end. Deciding just where these two points will be is not as obvious as it may seem. And between these two, what will the shape be. The structure.

Nobody is going buy a boring book, let alone publish it. It will have to be different, in content or style. No mean feat. Then the tone should reflect the character or the subject, period or genre. Easier said than done. Added to which there are additional factors - pace, texture, devices, humour – we don't want the reader to be bored.

And characters? Characterization? A subject far too difficult and diverse for any but an expert. You've either got it or you haven't. Not that most things can't be improved on. Dickens had it in spades. But then so did Jane Austen and the two could not be more different.

Decisions, decisions. And once made they are not so easy to change. So it takes an enormous amount of confidence to send your opus out with so many factors to be taken into account; so many decisions that may not have been the right ones. To be judged and found wanting is not a pleasurable experience.

I think it best (for me anyway) to think of rejection as a necessary fact. It will happen. If a tiny word of encouragement can be gleaned from it then that is a kindly sop to injured pride. If constructive criticism comes that is a real bonus. It might mean that the next recipient of my work is better pleased.

This all makes me sound very balanced and realistic. But the truth of the matter is, in spite of my reasoning, I shall be disappointed when I see that self-addressed envelope come through my door. A little down for the day, a little less chipper. But after a while I will gird my loins and send another letter, another few sample chapters out. I am a determined optimist. One has to be to do anything as daft as write.

Lucy

Alan Bennett, Talking Heads

Alan Bennett's monologues Talking Heads are surely classics now, the first of which are as funny today as they were when written and recorded for television in 1987.

But what is quite different now – at least in the western world – is the role of women. Those in most of Bennett's work are the age of his mother and, until the 1960's, many such married women were restricted, sometimes repressed, often frustrated. Trapped. Some knew themselves to be more able than their husbands, capable of much more than they were permitted to do.


Pre-war, wives were judged on the cleanliness of their homes, mothers on that of their children, and so many put their vigour – and sometimes their vitriol – into it with a vengeance. All this comes across in Bennett's monologues - fortunately with the most wonderful humour.

Eavesdrop at a bus stop today, a works canteen or social club, and you might still overhear much the same sort of conversations as Bennett relays. But the directness and deadpan delivery of northern humour is not universal. And it needs someone with an 'ear' for such things as innuendo and a masterful ability to form it into something that an audience wants to hear. Not as easy as it may seem.


Although in the majority of the monologues we associate with the views of an elderly mother or grandmother, in some - Bed Among Lentils and Her Big Chance for instance - we can recognize characteristics or emotions that could apply to those of any generation. We all know a character like Lesley in Her Big Chance who tries to convince everyone of her worth – a woman who thinks her talent is greater than it is and whose morals are unimpeachable – but who is quite unaware that she is fooling no-one.


Most of Bennett's characters do not 'see' themselves at all, and he cleverly lets the character reveal this bit by bit as the monologue progresses. Muriel, in Soldering On, really knows that her husband is reprehensibly responsible for his daughter's 'problems', and that their son is a conniving cheat, but she still keeps up appearances and maintains a stiff upper lip – in denial right to the end.

His characters are often disappointed or disempowered in some way. I guess this is simply because happy, jolly characters would not make for such interesting stories. The bitterness of the narrator of A Lady of Letters, and the extent of her meddling, slowly unfolds. In Bed Among the Lentils, the dissatisfaction of the vicar's wife in drives her to drink, but the joy of an illicit affair gives her the strength to carry on.

A Chip in the Sugar, written in Alan Bennett's 'voice' – and indeed recorded by him – is one of the best. This one is not a monologue and the straight talking characters are sometimes cruel but their love for each other is not only a taken, it is spoken. This mother and son are - to the onlooker at least - 'married'. They are as close to bickering husband and wife – with their point scoring and their pretence at independence – as any real married couple might be. Their inter-dependence is clear, humour their saving grace.

Bennett picks up on social taboos and bigotry and shows us how easily these infiltrate and affect ordinary peoples' lives. The stories are sometimes poignant, occasionally sad, but the way that Bennett manages to convey this with humour is nothing short of masterful. Dig out a copy, read and enjoy.

Lucy

Planning on Gardening

The ground is soggy after the snow and nothing looks appealing in the garden. Surely no-one enjoys gardening in the cold, wet, winter weather anyway. I know I don't. Fair weather gardener, me. But it is the perfect time for planning. For looking at your plot and seeing the bare bones. Because the structure is obvious now, not overshadowed or softened by billowing plants.

The structure in many an urban garden may be the hedges, fences and walls, the paths and pond. But in my country garden it is trees and evergreen shrubs that constitute most of the structure. Sure, there is a wall, and a stone and gravel terrace, but the clipped box and yew are just as important.


Here hedges mark the boundary, trees give the sense of enclosure. But lest I mislead, darker forces are at work threatening this idyll of nature controlled. It is now, in the depths of winter, that all the evils – in summer covered by leaf and deciduous shrubs – are apparent. The bank of brambles that has got out of hand, self-sown saplings grown into trees, hedges too large, shrubs too leggy.

So, waterproof, thorn-proof gear donned, we go as if into outer space, pruning saws drawn, secateurs pocketed, to battle with the triffids and enormous green monsters. Slashing and burning, hacking and chopping we grapple with the overgrown shrubbery and the vicious brambles. My romantic little border of ferns and lily of the valley has been ravaged by ground elder. Sneaking in undercover in some alien pot plant.

Rubus cockburnianus, which looks so wonderful with its frost blue white stems, has taken cruel advantage and gone where not intended. Sambucus, common elder to most of us, has multiplied and magnified to terrifying proportions whilst Clematis montana, which flowered so prettily and pofusely for so long, is now a mass of twiggy stems. All my fault for not pruning hard enough.

And that under appreciated evergreen, Eleagnus ebbengei, has somehow grown to take up three times its allotted space, completely smothering some shy little shrubs close by. I love its glossy silver green leaves, and the perfume from its retiring flowers, but it's time it was cut down to size. Slash and burn. Hack and chop.


And whose bright idea was it to plant Euphorbia characias, in the Pet Cemetry. Meant to be a quiet corner – only white and pastel pink flowers allowed – where beloved dead pets could be assured they'd not be dug up. Get this, plants chosen: the tiny white rose 'Little White Pet', a pink and a white bleeding heart; the above mentioned ghostly rubus; snowdrops; geranium; lilies; heavenly scented philadelphus and lilac and a Kiftsgate rose climbing over the pear tree.


Should be the sweetest place. Pretty, perfumed and subdued. Instead it has become a battle ground with the euphorbia and Geranium sanguinem fighting for supremecy. The euphorbia is not only the wrong colour (though I love the acidic green), it is a positive thug that looks like overpowering everything in sight. And the Kiftsgate rose – a wonder for two weeks in June – has decided to wage war and send out its vicious thorny shoots over everything including the fence, the wall, the lilac and the veg patch, quietly minding its own business on the other side of the hedge.

It is a relief to get inside to the gardening books and warm fire. To plan and dream that my jungle will look like the beautiful photographs of tranquil gardens where shrubs are pruned to perfection, lawns roll smoothly out into the distance and borders display the most wondrous, tastefully chosen flowering plants. Fat chance.

Lucy

Snow is for the Birds

The first unexpected snowfall in November was magical. A white fluffy blanket covered the landscape, trees were dusted with icing sugar and everything was beautiful. Pure and unsullied. A still and serene scene. Progress of the odd car was muffled, the sky was on mute and only the very occasional murmur of a snowplough or tractor was heard. Bliss. For a while.


To start with I couldn't get out. What to do about it? Nothing. Make the most of it. I loved the peace and quiet. I was even glad of the chance to catch up on all those things I should have done long ago but had not because I was too busy rushing about. I wrote, I filed, I sorted. My telephone and internet access meant I was able to contact whomever I chose. Realising that I may not get out in time to buy presents I ordered them on the internet and managed to write all my Christmas cards. Wrapping up warm I could still walk Freddie.


Nevertheless, I managed to waste the precious time available to put my house in order. And I lay the blame fairly and squarely on the birds. Right outside my kitchen (where I sit up close to my beloved aged AGA) I have set up the bird feeders so that from any window I can watch them. The lesser spotted woodpeckers came regularly and, although they can polish off a whole bag of nuts in a day, they are still a welcome visitor.

At one time there were two on separate feeders and a green woodpecker (who usually is usually seen eating beetles and worms from the lawn) creeping up the nearby oak tree. More insects populate an oak than any other tree and in this weather they are a rich source of food. The blackbirds polished off all the pyracantha berries and the Tits pecked the mahonia flowers to shreds.


On the feeders there are mostly Great Tits, Robins and a whole busy little band of Blue Tits. Dunnocks - also known as Tree Sparrows - are also regulars, picking up whatever falls fro the feeders. But only one Sparrow to date. And where is the Nuthatch? The snow finally forced more than the usual visitors to take advantage of what was on offer: thrushes, jays, collared doves. But the undoubted star was a Coal Tit. At first I was not sure. But soon I was able to distinguish it quite quickly by its distinctive white Mohican haircut.


This tiny bird with his highwayman's mask is as nervous as the woodpecker. I was so excited. Pathetic, but it’s the simplest things. I wasted hours, like a groupie at the stage door, waiting to catch a glimpse of it. Set up my camera and hovered. I can only take photos through the glass and cannot work out the setting to use. It's not a professional camera but still, I manage to get some surprising shots.


Then, one day at dusk (is that a non-sequitur?) I noticed an odd shaped thing on the feeder. Peering out into the gloom I saw it was a mouse, big ears listening, small feet gripping, munching greedily. He had found a ready supply of rich fatty nuts to boost his diet. The camera was there, waiting on its tripod, and I took a shot or two. They are not very good but a record nevertheless. What terrific entertainment these visitors have been, the highlight of a snow bound week.

But of course this whole 'stay indoors warm and safe – don't go out unless strictly necessary, why put yourself and others at risk', sort of thing palled. We had finally eaten all those tins dated 1999 from the back of the cupboard, and the boxes of home-made mystery main courses from the freezer. I couldn't get to an appointment in London, failed to make a party in our market town and missed my Pilates classes. Driving was hazardous.

Finally, our rural roads became more manageable. At last, 'Life' would be back to normal. A trip to the supermarket was an event – sad, I know – and we even managed to get to a department store to buy a present or two. Then, on the way home, it started to snow. Again. Snow on snow. At this rate neither the Prodigal nor the Princess will be able to get to us, we won't be able to get to them, and Christmas will be just Best Beloved, me and Freddie. And the birds of course!

Lucy