PROOF THAT GARDENS BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER
There were four of us standing in a row last Monday afternoon, squinting in the May sunshine. The preparations were complete, the garden we had put together for the Chelsea Flower Show lay behind us – foxgloves and cow parsley standing to attention, the Yorkshire moorland beck blithely wending its way among chunks of millstone grit on which the shadows of birch leaves and pine needles danced. The beck finally tumbled through a gap in the carefully crafted drystone wall that had become the spine of the garden into what we were pleased to call “the sea”, though until that morning it had been reluctant to shed a rash of scum that had risen from the sandy seabed below. But then it must have known that such behaviour would not be tolerated, for by 8am, with a little help from a fishing net, it had assumed the clarity of gin. Curving around the sandy beach, carefully littered with pebbles and seashells by yours truly, grew cabbage palms and the towering spires of bee-humming echiums. There were kangaroo-paw plants in honour of the Australians who had helped us build it, and a whole host of seaside vegetation from sea kale to samphire that would fool anyone into thinking that they were strolling along the Isle of Wight coastline rather than a Tarmac road in the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. A tastefully painted beach hut completed the scene, and had provided welcome shade during the weekend when the sun proved untypically fierce. Bees buzzed. A blackbird sang from the top of a pine. All was right with the world – and the garden – and the four of us stood in a line waiting for the Queen. I had been lucky enough to enlist the help of garden designer Kate Gould, without whom I could not have hoped to produce such a inappropriate). “If the Queen asks a question just answer it. Pleasantly. Naturally,” I advised, aware that Hannah was probably undergoing an out-of-body experience and had never felt less natural in her life. “What do I call her?” she asked. “Well, strictly speaking, ‘Your Majesty’ first, and subsequently ‘Ma’am’ to rhyme with jam. But if you’re worried just stick to ‘ma’am’, I’m sure she won’t mind.” “And the men?” “Sir.” It seemed unnecessarily complicated to go through the “Your Royal Highness” bit in a conversation that would be unlikely to last more than a few seconds. “How do I curtsy?” I will gloss over my demonstration. Listening carefully was the fourth member of our party, Simon, one of the seven Australians who had journeyed over from Sydney to help us make our garden. Not having an exhibit themselves this year, they had come over at their own expense, determined to help wherever they could. We were the lucky team they chose to work with and Simon, a great bear of a 6ft 6in tall youth, who picked me up off the ground and hugged me at our first meeting, was equally bowled over at the prospect of meeting the woman who was his Queen as well as ours. “Do I have to curtsy?” “Er, no. Just bow from the neck – not too vigorously.” “A hug is not a good idea?” he asked. “No. The Tower isn’t far away.” He winked, and I felt reassured that it had been meant as a joke. Hadn’t it? The air of calm that had prevailed began to slide into one of anticipation. A man with a walkietalkie came over and said, “Princess Alexandra has arrived.” Within a few moments the princess had walked over to greet us, astonishing us with her knowledge of the garden and even its title: “From the Moors to the Sea”. Hannah and Kate curtsied, Simon nodded neatly and the conversation flowed happily, but then as anyone who has ever encountered Princess Alexandra will know, no member of the Royal family is more genuinely interested or easy to talk to than she. I walked her along the front of the garden and she asked questions about plants, about construction and about… well… all sorts of things, until a voice reminded her, “Ma’am, we have a lot more gardens to see.” I don’t think it was just me, though as far as I am concerned, Princess Alexandra can stay as long as she likes. Then came Prince and Princess Michael of Kent, followed by the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. Hannah was keen for a run-down as to who was who and how they were related and why they came in the order they did. I am hopeful that my knowledge of the order of precedence and court etiquette did not let me down. And then, at around half past five, the Queen came, dressed in summery colours of lilac and green; the smile radiant as ever. I shook the royal hand and then presented Hannah and Kate and Simon. After a conversation with all three, I led Her Majesty from the moorland around to the seaside where the size of the boulders holding up our drystone wall seemed to impress her. “But you need scale like that, don’t you?” she said. I pointed out the beach hut, and the fingerpost that read “Over the Hills” and “Far Away” – a nod at Beatrix Potter, since such a sign appears in The Tale of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. The Queen smiled, and chatted, about the kind of plants we had used, about the drystone wall that had been dismantled in Yorkshire two weeks ago and rebuilt for us at Chelsea, until finally she said, “It’s great fun,” before moving on to the next garden. I returned to my companions. They were all smiling. Kate and I felt vindicated, not just by the royal seal of approval, but by the fact that the garden that we had had just four and a half months to build from scratch seemed to have come together beautifully. We were not eligible for a medal, since we had made it as an exhibit for the RHS. It did not matter. Our creation was proof, in so many ways, that gardens bring people together – Kate and me in designing it, Hannah and her companions who beautify our country thanks to Britain in Bloom, Simon and his mates from the other side of the world who just want to come and make gardens with us and who will return to do the same in Oz. It also brings together hundreds of thousands of people every year who come to the greatest flower show in the world to demonstrate their love of growing things. I can’t think of a better way of spending a working life. Fifty years? It feels like the twinkling of an eye.