Once
again I've been reminded of The
Queen's Croquet Ground
(chapter eight of Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland)
or more specifically the three gardeners in it: Two, Five and Seven,
though perhaps unsurprisingly I don't live near the Queen nor
overlook a croquet ground. You're forgiven if you thought in Surrey
the latter was possible. Maybe it is...? in a wealthier, more
exclusive part. No, my view, as it has been for over a decade, is of
a pub garden which round about April they start to tart up, readying
it for the longer, hopefully warmer, evenings and extra traffic.
So,
out come the paint pots and paintbrushes, the potted plants and
hanging baskets, the bar staff and kitchen hands in their pub chain
t-shirts and waist-tied aprons, their chef white tunics and
chessboard-like checked trousers and catering clogs. Sometimes the
paint pots are abandoned for spray cans, the brush given way to
stencilling instead of freehand, so that all I hear for most of that
day is shake, shake, rattle, release: pfffffft.
Paint
is the favourite medium though for covering over, for making
everything look fresh and new. Anything that can be splashed with
colour is splashed, sometimes carefully, sometimes liberally,
sometimes literally dipped in. The seats and backs of garden chairs,
table-tops, cigarette ash-pots (overturned flower pots with saucer),
the exterior of storage sheds, and even the fence panels that
separate and enclose the area.
Bold
blocks. Bold stripes. A vibrant intensity. A grass green. A bright
orange. Royal blue, maroon and white stripes with STAFF PARKING
etched across them.
Their
endeavours futile, their execution of them amusing. All, however,
busily painting; concentrating on the task at hand in a slapdash,
lackadaisical way. This is a 'no frills' technique, or perhaps this
is for them the 'bells and whistles'. Whichever it is, it's art hour
for the kids and does little to improve or enhance the attractiveness
of this sun-trap with its landing strip of fake turf.
The
hanging baskets and potted plants are, however, left untouched-up;
the flowers allowed their natural blushes, which I've always assumed
are real and which being more delicate clash rather violently with
the backdrop to further affront the eye.
Admired
from above, chaos, like a Jackson Pollock, reigns.
If
I closed my eyes, I might be able to transmogrify it into a Henri
Rousseau jungle painting, in spite of the fact that the one below
(with eyes open) is obviously humanly-assisted and far less exotic.
Its design more modern. More town than country. A jet-washed paved
and deck-boarded jungle with bright flashes of colour and leafage,
surrounded on all sides by tall and squat residential and commercial
properties, which at times is filled with stalking and preyed-upon
beasts that do not hold the same fascination as those you might
expect to see in an Amazonian jungle. Or even a zoo, for that matter.
Their
behaviours are interesting, these beasts that circle round and round
or saunter up and up down, congregate at a table or in a corner, in
their causal or suited finery; the sounds they make are mostly brays,
of one sort or another – in recognition, in rapture, in rage,
in-between gulps of the nectar this jungle provides.
A
garden party, on a manicured lawn, with maybe one or two marquees and
a band, though considered more refined, would be, so I've been
informed, much the same, only with possibly a more genteel quality.
The gardeners, the fixer-uppers would have been in just as dawn, in
her rosy hues, broke across the sky, to prune, to titivate, to erect,
to be barked at by the Queen who wants the day to be just as or more
perfect than last year's. And they would tremble as they hid the
errors that shouldn't have been made but for one reason or another
had and then be careless in their attempts to conceal them.
The
beasts would mill, the floral dresses would waft, corks would be
popped, bottle-tops unscrewed and nectar poured into flutes, as
tinkles of laughter, similar to the notes a wind-chime makes, mingle
with the calls of birds and rustles of smaller unseen creatures.
Picture credit: Cards Painting the Roses Red, John Tenniel (source: alice-in-wonderland.net)
This post was penned in 2019 (i.e. when pubs and their gardens were open for business.)
