“Don’t talk to me about town gardens,” said Elinor Rapsley; “which means,
of course, that I want you to listen to me for an hour or so while I talk
about nothing else. ‘What a nice-sized garden you’ve got,’ people said
to us when we first moved here. What I suppose they meant to say was
what a nice-sized site for a garden we’d got. As a matter of fact, the
size is all against it; it’s too large to be ignored altogether and
treated as a yard, and it’s too small to keep giraffes in. You see, if
we could keep giraffes or reindeer or some other species of browsing
animal there we could explain the general absence of vegetation by a
reference to the fauna of the garden: ‘You can’t have wapiti _and_ Darwin
tulips, you know, so we didn’t put down any bulbs last year.’ As it is,
we haven’t got the wapiti, and the Darwin tulips haven’t survived the
fact that most of the cats of the neighbourhood hold a parliament in the
centre of the tulip bed; that rather forlorn looking strip that we
intended to be a border of alternating geranium and spiræa has been
utilised by the cat-parliament as a division lobby. Snap divisions seem
to have been rather frequent of late, far more frequent than the geranium
blooms are likely to be. I shouldn’t object so much to ordinary cats,
but I do complain of having a congress of vegetarian cats in my garden;
they must be vegetarians, my dear, because, whatever ravages they may
commit among the sweet pea seedlings, they never seem to touch the
sparrows; there are always just as many adult sparrows in the garden on
Saturday as there were on Monday, not to mention newly-fledged additions.
There seems to have been an irreconcilable difference of opinion between
sparrows and Providence since the beginning of time as to whether a
crocus looks best standing upright with its roots in the earth or in a
recumbent posture with its stem neatly severed; the sparrows always have
the last word in the matter, at least in our garden they do. I fancy
that Providence must have originally intended to bring in an amending
Act, or whatever it’s called, providing either for a less destructive
sparrow or a more indestructible crocus. The one consoling point about
our garden is that it’s not visible from the drawing-room or the
smoking-room, so unless people are dinning or lunching with us they can’t
spy out the nakedness of the land. That is why I am so furious with
Gwenda Pottingdon, who has practically forced herself on me for lunch on
Wednesday next; she heard me offer the Paulcote girl lunch if she was up
shopping on that day, and, of course, she asked if she might come too.
She is only coming to gloat over my bedraggled and flowerless borders and
to sing the praises of her own detestably over-cultivated garden. I’m
sick of being told that it’s the envy of the neighbourhood; it’s like
everything else that belongs to her—her car, her dinner-parties, even her
headaches, they are all superlative; no one else ever had anything like
them. When her eldest child was confirmed it was such a sensational
event, according to her account of it, that one almost expected questions
to be asked about it in the House of Commons, and now she’s coming on
purpose to stare at my few miserable pansies and the gaps in my sweet-pea
border, and to give me a glowing, full-length description of the rare and
sumptuous blooms in her rose-garden.”
“My dear Elinor,” said the Baroness, “you would save yourself all this
heart-burning and a lot of gardener’s bills, not to mention sparrow
anxieties, simply by paying an annual subscription to the O.O.S.A.”
“Never heard of it,” said Elinor; “what is it?”
“The Occasional-Oasis Supply Association,” said the Baroness; “it exists
to meet cases exactly like yours, cases of backyards that are of no
practical use for gardening purposes, but are required to blossom into
decorative scenic backgrounds at stated intervals, when a luncheon or
dinner-party is contemplated. Supposing, for instance, you have people
coming to lunch at one-thirty; you just ring up the Association at about
ten o’clock the same morning, and say ‘lunch garden’. That is all the
trouble you have to take. By twelve forty-five your yard is carpeted
with a strip of velvety turf, with a hedge of lilac or red may, or
whatever happens to be in season, as a background, one or two cherry
trees in blossom, and clumps of heavily-flowered rhododendrons filling in
the odd corners; in the foreground you have a blaze of carnations or
Shirley poppies, or tiger lilies in full bloom. As soon as the lunch is
over and your guests have departed the garden departs also, and all the
cats in Christendom can sit in council in your yard without causing you a
moment’s anxiety. If you have a bishop or an antiquary or something of
that sort coming to lunch you just mention the fact when you are ordering
the garden, and you get an old-world pleasaunce, with clipped yew hedges
and a sun-dial and hollyhocks, and perhaps a mulberry tree, and borders
of sweet-williams and Canterbury bells, and an old-fashioned beehive or
two tucked away in a corner. Those are the ordinary lines of supply that
the Oasis Association undertakes, but by paying a few guineas a year
extra you are entitled to its emergency E.O.N. service.”
“What on earth is an E.O.N. service?”
“It’s just a conventional signal to indicate special cases like the
incursion of Gwenda Pottingdon. It means you’ve got some one coming to
lunch or dinner whose garden is alleged to be ‘the envy of the
neighbourhood.’”
“Yes,” exclaimed Elinor, with some excitement, “and what happens then?”
“Something that sounds like a miracle out of the Arabian Nights. Your
backyard becomes voluptuous with pomegranate and almond trees, lemon
groves, and hedges of flowering cactus, dazzling banks of azaleas,
marble-basined fountains, in which chestnut-and-white pond-herons step
daintily amid exotic water-lilies, while golden pheasants strut about on
alabaster terraces. The whole effect rather suggests the idea that
Providence and Norman Wilkinson have dropped mutual jealousies and
collaborated to produce a background for an open-air Russian Ballet; in
point of fact, it is merely the background to your luncheon party. If
there is any kick left in Gwenda Pottingdon, or whoever your E.O.N. guest
of the moment may be, just mention carelessly that your climbing putella
is the only one in England, since the one at Chatsworth died last winter.
There isn’t such a thing as a climbing putella, but Gwenda Pottingdon and
her kind don’t usually know one flower from another without prompting.”
“Quick,” said Elinor, “the address of the Association.”
Gwenda Pottingdon did not enjoy her lunch. It was a simple yet elegant
meal, excellently cooked and daintily served, but the piquant sauce of
her own conversation was notably lacking. She had prepared a long
succession of eulogistic comments on the wonders of her town garden, with
its unrivalled effects of horticultural magnificence, and, behold, her
theme was shut in on every side by the luxuriant hedge of Siberian
berberis that formed a glowing background to Elinor’s bewildering
fragment of fairyland. The pomegranate and lemon trees, the terraced
fountain, where golden carp slithered and wriggled amid the roots of
gorgeous-hued irises, the banked masses of exotic blooms, the pagoda-like
enclosure, where Japanese sand-badgers disported themselves, all these
contributed to take away Gwenda’s appetite and moderate her desire to
talk about gardening matters.
“I can’t say I admire the climbing putella,” she observed shortly, “and
anyway it’s not the only one of its kind in England; I happen to know of
one in Hampshire. How gardening is going out of fashion; I suppose
people haven’t the time for it nowadays.”
Altogether it was quite one of Elinor’s most successful luncheon parties.
It was distinctly an unforeseen catastrophe that Gwenda should have burst
in on the household four days later at lunch-time and made her way
unbidden into the dining-room.
“I thought I must tell you that my Elaine has had a water-colour sketch
accepted by the Latent Talent Art Guild; it’s to be exhibited at their
summer exhibition at the Hackney Gallery. It will be the sensation of
the moment in the art world—Hullo, what on earth has happened to your
garden? It’s not there!”
“Suffragettes,” said Elinor promptly; “didn’t you hear about it? They
broke in and made hay of the whole thing in about ten minutes. I was so
heart-broken at the havoc that I had the whole place cleared out; I shall
have it laid out again on rather more elaborate lines.”
“That,” she said to the Baroness afterwards “is what I call having an
emergency brain.”