Two-step guide to flower classification: One, daisies. Two, non-daisies.
‘ I’M not sure that pink is quite my favourite.’
Hermione makes a coy show of being surprised when all of a sudden we are surrounded by summer flowers. Big blousy flowers. Small flowers erupting into dizzy constellation clusters. Flowers csalling for instant attention and flowers providing subtle background, all combined in dazzling profusion and variety. ‘Here, hand me the secateurs and I’ll get you something special.’ Hermione does her best to educate a slow learning husband in floral affairs but so far he can be relied upon to recognise only a few of these beauties. He knew the daffodils and the tulips when they were in season, but surely everyone can spot a daffodil or a tulip. Roses are likewise universally familiar, though he can never figure out whether it is a floribunda or a hybrid tea which is being put in his button-hole.
He can at least be relied upon to pick a nasturtium out from the bunch because his old grandmother used to have nasturtiums growing on the cinder heap outside her kitchen door. Even as a chap he admired the way they could brighten up an unpromising piece of ground with their jaunty yellow and orange. And he loved the way the word was spelt too.
‘There’s more to gardening than spuds and sprouts, you know.’ Living with Hermione has added a few more strings to his floral bow as he feeds clumsily off her wisdom. That plant over there with its long stalks topped by perfectly spherical balls of colour is an allium. He proudly informs visitors, whether or not they show any interest, that the allium is related to the onion: ‘Just don’t try putting an allium in your omelette!’ Cue the forced laugher.
He has recently added delphinium, which announces its presence in an impossible shade of blue, to his repertoire. And he reckons too that he can spot a foxglove with a fair degree of accuracy. He also boasts of being able to distinguish a hollyhock at twenty paces but the claim will not be put to the test this year as there are no hollyhocks in bloom at the Manor. Maybe in 2021.
Generally he divides the many, many flowers he cannot name into two categories. One is daisies. Two is non-daisies. Oh, and three is pansies. Hermione despairs of his ever being able to cop the difference between a begonia and a petunia, or between a geranium and a gentian, a knack which comes as second nature to her. ‘Diascia – ideal for filling that gap, I think. Don’t you?’ He defers to the expert as she is blessed with a mind that operates in these matters with all the efficiency of a computer spread sheet. Beneath her playful tresses is a keen brain which sifts through the characteristics of each plant. Does it like a sunny wall or a shady corner? Will it thrive on neglect or does it require pampering with watering-can and weeding? What will its flowers contribute to a bouquet for home duty or for public exhibition?
She slips casually between the dog Latin of botanical names and the common names of ordinary English with the practised ease of a ballet dancer hopping from left foot to right. The diascia, for instance, with its chirpy riot of pink or red, may also be referred to as twinspur.
‘Come over here and smell this.’
It is beginning to dawn on him that the foundations of this sweet-scented wonderland were laid months ago, maybe years ago. All that trowel work. All those bags of compost. All that pricking out and pruning. Each plant has been selected with wisdom and positioned with strategic care. This is a military operation conducted with a general’s eye for both the small detail and the broad sweep. The results are stunning.
‘Medders will keep you entertained while I put the kettle on.’ Though he should be given no credit whatsoever for the grand display, he enjoys observing the reaction of callers when they first clap eyes on this joyful spectacle. Dull would they be of spirit who did not feel the wow factor. Asked to introduce one particular set of blazing blooms, he does not let ignorance stand in his way: ‘Ah! Good question. Magnificent aren’t they? They are Chinese lilies, if I am not mistaken. No, try again, Roman primula. Only joking, they are actually Californian poppies. I think. Don’t risk smoking them though.’