WHEN I WAS IN MY TEENS, I was once taken on holiday to France by the sympathetic family of a school friend. One day we walked from Compiègne to Pierrefonds, sans parents, strolling blithely through the Royal Forest. It was May, but the infant summer was already ferocious in its aridity, and the fallen branches snapped easily when we stepped on them. I was in one of my Italian phases, I recall, having recently been introduced to Mozart’s glorious Da Ponte operas by a pederastic housemaster who was, the other boys tittered, “sweet on me” (nota bene: that is another story, to be ignored for the present). I began to devise a kind of pidgin Franco-Italian throughout this walk, delighting in my friend’s growing irritation as we tramped merrily along sous les alberi.
“It’s a bloody desecration,” he said. Pritchard was his name; he was an earnest boy. “The purpose of a holiday in France is to imbibe its culture and its language,” he continued. “You don’t take anything seriously, Wormwood.”
I was humming the tune to “Voi che sapete,” squeezing my larynx to make as high-pitched a squeal as possible.
“That’s horrible,” Pritchard said. “Stop it.”
“Tremo senza le vouloir,” I replied, falsetto.
We argued briefly about our route. He wanted to make a detour to the village of Rethondes, to visit the place where the terms of the armistice were presented to the “defeated Hun” in 1918. I, on the other hand, wanted to press on towards the wonderful fairy-tale château in Pierrefonds. In the end, after halfhearted demurrals, I conceded and allowed him to lead me to the Clairière de l’Armistice. I was about to continue with my singing when I saw, dead ahead of me, a vast carpet of lily of the valley spread out on the forest floor, sprinkled with faint pearls of dappled light filtering through the trees. In this hot dry weather, it was the only plant that had survived in the dense shade. I stood perfectly still, drinking of this magnificent sight. It made me think of the woods near Hemscott, my poor dilapidated home. It was enough to make my lip tremble, I am ashamed to admit. I stood gazing at this shaded field of lily of the valley, unable to move, whilst Pritchard marched blindly into them, trampling the tiny plants underfoot. He continued his quiet diatribe against frivolity, accusing me of not having properly appreciated the lessons and sacrifices of the Great War; I did not understand what dangerous times we lived in, he said. Silently, I wiped the moistness from my eyes and followed him, tracing his path through the crushed foliage.
I remember this moment because I have been toying with the idea of planting lily of the valley in this new garden. I think they might just thrive here. That summer in France was exceptionally hot, yet those delicate-looking perennials seemed undimmed in their vigour. In transplanting a foreign plant to these tropical climes, I shall also be following in the footsteps of those intrepid Victorian gardeners who brought exoticism to English gardens and made it part of the landscape there. Of course I shall be re-creating this process in reverse, but if I succeed, my deeds may have far-reaching consequences. Just think: fifty years from now, if lily of the valley does become naturalised in this country, a quintessential English flower will become a tropical plant. Will it then, sometime in the very distant future, be exported back to England, I wonder? Who will consider it exotic where? I tremble at the possibilities.
And not just lily of the valley, but oxeye daisy, foxglove, cranes-bill, snake’s-head fritillary: I will plant them all in this hot earth. I want woodruff, too, so that I can dry its tiny star-shaped leaves and use them to infuse my linen with the scent of new-mown hay. And lavender — I must have lavender. There is a perfect spot for a long, slim bed of lavender, just outside my window, as it happens. Its perfume shall greet me when I wake and mollify me as I fall asleep. No longer will I have to wait for summer to enjoy its scent, for here it is summer all year long. Therein lies the genius of my garden. It captures the happiest months of the year, containing them in perpetual fecundity within its boundaries.
My garden will not stop there. It will travel to China and Japan and other temperate Eastern climes, proudly displaying cloud-pruned Japanese holly, Chinese peonies, pink cherry blossom, bitter orange, tiny gnarled bonsai. Thus I will emulate not only Victorian gardeners but Oriental emperors too, the very ones who created the gardens that first inspired this endeavour. Like the Emperor Chenghua, I will create a microcosm of all that is beautiful here.
