I think it was a song that made me want a rose garden. ‘I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden.’ I decided that no one needed to promise me a rose garden. I could have one all by myself but it took years before I gave myself permission to have one.
When I was a child, we had roses and I don’t remember much about where they were or what colour. I do remember the pain of falling from my bike into a rose bush. I was covered in scratches for weeks. Roses make a very particular scratch. Instead of one even line, you get little bobbles of blood down the line. I also remember making rose perfume from the petals. We must have stunk! The petals would have been picked, put in a bottle of water, macerated to nearly a pulp and left in the sunshine to infuse for a few days. Then we would strain out the rotting vegetation and rebottle the yellow liquid, which would be dabbed liberally behind knees and ears
The rose is the flower of the Summer. In garden centres, country houses and on Gardener’s World they flower all summer long. Keep dead-heading, we are warned, and they will flower continuously. In my garden, however, even with deadheading and feeding they take July off. You think they are finished. Instead of the beautiful blooms you just have a prickly bush and let me tell you, no one wants a prickly bush. It coincides with the birdy babies leaving home, which makes me sad. Aggie is still flashing at me through the window and the sunflowers are busy being tall. The hydrangeas, salvias, buddlja and lilies are all coming into their own but I miss the roses.
In our first house I planted a yellow climbing rose called Golden Showers. I didn’t tell anyone its name. I didn’t understand pruning or deadheading and it was a bit of a mess but I loved it. At that time, roses weren’t fashionable. No one planted roses. When we moved I didn’t have any roses. I also didn’t feel at home. It took nearly twenty years before I realised and planted some. I still don’t understand pruning.
This morning, I noticed that Gertrude Jekyll and Emily Bronte have buds on them. I didn’t make the mistake of choosing a rose I couldn’t introduce again. I was quite excited.
“Ooh look,” I said to the robin on the fence, as I put out his meal worms, “We are re-rosing.”
He clicked at me.
“I know it’s not a real word but I like it.”
He kept on clicking. I looked up and saw that Desdamona (who hides behind the apple tree) had one beautiful flower.
“Shall I pick it?” I asked Rob.
He clicked his approval and watched me as I went to get the secateurs.
I wanted my sister to be called Rosie. This was because of a book I loved. They, however, completely misrepresented me and made her middle name Rose. She has never forgiven me and I have never forgiven them. It was, however, a family middle name on my Dad’s side and my Nan was thrilled. It meant that she could continue the rhyme and game that she had started with her own daughter. It was one of those games where you bounce the child on your knee, drop them between your knees and suddenly snatch them up before they hit the ground. I like to think of it as an early rollercoaster. You probably did it with the ride a cock horse rhyme.
I am telling you all this just in case you are wondering why I was standing in the garden at 6am, in my yoga clothes, singing to the robin. He was so judgmental about my use of the the word ‘re-rose’ that I sang.
“Desdamona Rose sat on a pin,
Desdamona Rose, rose again.”
The Robin took some mealworms and flew away.
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