"There’s not much call to be here in the country on May Day nowadays. Nothing happens. Why, the schools don’t even give the children a holiday as they used to do. When we was children, we used always to go out with our garlands to all the houses. We’d pick every kind of wild flower and blossom and even ask people for flowers out of their gardens. Me and Maggie Oliver and Jenny and Martha Lacey would wear out garlands on our heads and round our necks, and we’d carry long poles, twined with flowers; and we’d have a doll in a chair on two long poles, and we’d dress the doll up in white and cover it with blossoms and garlands.”
Annie nods towards the window from which we can see a royal clump of crown imperials flowering on their tall straight stalks.
“The Queen would have one of them at the top of her garland."
So says an older woman of her childhood days in Clare Leighton’s tender ode to her garden. The world of the thirties Leighton describes, where grass is still mowed by scythe, has passed away and is only accessible through stories, and for me this text is most magical when it invokes a culture that has already passed away at the time of writing, before the other war perhaps.
The garden knows time only as a cycle of weather conditions. Clare’s woodcuts make no reference at all to the emotionally charged line of history that runs through me, tugs at me, a cultural groove I can’t free myself from. In the garden, detached from time, I feel nirvana close by, but one mention of a lost pagan rite and I ache with vicarious nostalgia. This text crosses and recrosses the boundary between eternity and memory, losing itself in soil and grass, teeming life and struggle. Mowing barefoot on the wet grass, Clare feels nourished by earth she belongs to, its goodness rising into her. The people of today are even further cut off from that wholeness and oneness-with.
In the city that I live in, I never touch the ground. This part of the earth looks metal plated from the air. I have no garden. I gave this book to my mother, who is a gardener and can feel the truth Clare speaks, without the sense I have of grasping at something out of reach.