We Made a Garden

by Margery Fish

  I have heard many explanations for this behaviour of the macrocarpa. I used to think it had only a limited life because its roots found something they didn’t like when they got down below a certain level. A nurseryman has at last solved the problem for me. It is the regular clipping that does it. Macrocarpa, unlike yew, needs to breathe through its trunk to survive. The tight clipping makes the foliage denser and denser and cuts off all air from the centre of the tree. The correct way to deal with macrocarpa is to thin as well as trim. The trained gardener pecks out little tufts here and there with his secateurs and lets in air. All shaped cupressus trees should be treated in the same way, and it is remarkable how they respond to such treatment.

  The one thing I did directly we bought the house was to plant a hedge parallel with the back of the house to hide the back door and kitchen. My sister gave me enough little plants of Lonicera nitida to start us off and these I planted with the idea of screening entirely the back premises. It is difficult now to understand our point of view and remarkable that things could have changed so completely in such a short time. For in those days it was unthinkable that ladies and gentlemen enjoying themselves in the garden should be disturbed by the sight of tradesmen delivering food at the back door. We even put ‘Tradesmen’ on the back gate! And the lower half of the window at the pantry sink, which overlooked the garden, was discreetly glazed with ground glass. No one must see the maid washing up, but it never occurred to us, the architect or the builder how dull it was for the poor girl to be shut off like that. When the war came and I spent hours at the sink I adopted my sister’s suggestion and had clear glass put in that window. I enjoyed the garden and planned my next job while I washed the breakfast things. I got a lot of good ideas too, even if I did finish the war with hardly one of our original cups or plates!

  The little hedge had a difficult childhood. My sister had generously given us small cuttings that she had struck for herself and they were very tiny to face life with such hazards. Early in the spring the builders took possession and we could no longer live in the house. Pipes for central heating, boards, bricks and all the other things that go with building were heaped everywhere, and I shall never cease to marvel at the tenacity with which that little hedge stuck to life. My aristocratic gardening friends refer to it as ‘the common hedge’, but I know nothing else that would have survived and prospered. We used to drive down from London to see how the builders were getting on, and the first thing I did when we arrived on the scene was to walk over to my hedge and remove the worst of the debris. Very soon the builders began to realize where my affections were centred and as soon as we drove in at the gate there would be a scurry to free the hedge from its encumbrance of building material.

  With cuttings from that little hedge I made all our other hedges. To break the garden we planted small hedges in various places. One went across the top garden between the flowers and a small orchard, another at right angles to screen the small vegetable garden, and two

  rectangular enclosures were hedged at the back of the malthouse to hide heaps of compost, manure, peat and leaf mould.

  The garden high-brows may sneer at ‘the common hedge’ but it really is the easiest and most accommodating hedge material I know. Whenever we decided we’d like a hedge all I had to do was to prepare the ground, put in a line (I tied knots in my line at nine-inch intervals for sowing broad beans and planting hedges) and then stick in my cuttings. It doesn’t seem to matter at what time of the year one takes cuttings but they should be of hard wood. I generally use cuttings of about nine inches in length, as straight as possible and after taking off all the side branches from the bottom half push that part into the soil.

  The most important thing when taking cuttings is to see that the earth is pressed as firmly as possible against the cutting, particularly the base from which the tiny roots will soon appear. If they find kind mother earth ready to receive them these little roots take heart and venture further, but if they meet a vacuum they become discouraged. In heavy, lumpy soil it is always safer to use sand or sand and peat. Such a mixture makes an inviting reception for the infant roots, but it must be pressed as tightly as possible to the cutting, starting at the bottom. Some people use a small dibber for this but I feel safer with my fingers, as I know what I am doing. For a screening hedge, such as that used round a compost heap, I put in the cuttings in a single row, nine inches apart, but for a wider, more important hedge, say in front of a garden, a double row, staggered, with a foot between each cutting, is better. After watering I press down the earth on each side, then cut off the tops of the cuttings to encourage side growth.

  I find that Lonicera nitida roots with the slightest excuse, in fact it can be a nuisance because if any little piece is left on the bed after trimming the hedge, it will root. I suffered badly from this until we started using a wide piece of hessian on each side of the hedge to catch all the trimmings.

  We made a mistake with our first hedge in not cutting it down more drastically. We were so anxious for it to grow high enough to hide that disgraceful back door that it wasn’t trimmed properly for a long time, merely cut level. The consequence is that it did not grow thick at the bottom. After twelve years it was nearly four feet wide at the top but only a foot in width at the roots. Though we kept it well clipped the nature of the plant is not equal to the strain of supporting so much flesh. It waved about in the wind, quivering like a jelly, and when there was no wind the line was floppy and undulating. To bring it back it had to be cut down to two feet in height, and cut back so that the top is slightly narrower than the base, and it will continue to be trimmed in this tapering fashion. The cutting back process is not pretty. For several months there were only bare branches to be seen, with horrid maimed stumps, and I received many condolences on the death of my hedge. I explained I had done it myself and I was certain the disfigurement was only temporary. It was during the winter that we dealt so drastically with it, and sure enough in the spring tiny leaves began to appear on those bare branches, and very soon it was as green as ever and needed clipping again. None of the other hedges were as bad as this one, as they were trimmed earlier in their youth, but all have a tendency to get too wide at the top and now we are very firm with them.

  Heavy snow is liable to make temporary havoc of Lonicera nitida and some people cut their hedges like a roof instead of flat to avoid this trouble.

  One has always to take the rough with the smooth, and the advantage of a quick growing hedge means the disadvantage of constant clipping. Four times a year is the minimum required and in between it may need a slight hair cut if one wants to be particularly trim for a particular occasion. If one has only a small hedge a good way of keeping it in check is to cover the sides and top with wire netting and trim down to that. It wouldn’t be possible to use an electric trimmer on a hedge so treated and therefore it is only practicable on a scale that can be covered by hand clipping. An electric hedge clipper is a great boon for hedges such as mine and I don’t know what we should do without it. It makes a better job of the trimming with straighter lines and more clean-cut edges.

  Lonicera nitida is the most obliging hedge material. It doesn’t mind being shaped like yew, and I have seen extremely good birds and animals cut from it. It makes a very good little edging hedge instead of box, and can be kept just as small as a box hedge. Some of the cottages in this village have trained it into green porches by dint of careful and regular trimming, and I know one house where it has been grown as a great solid block of close green over six feet high for a screen. In fact you can use it in any way you want but you must go on trimming it regularly.

  A lavender hedge can be grown just as easily, although not so quickly as a lonicera one. Cuttings pushed into the soil root very easily. When making either a lonicera or lavender hedge it is a good plan to have a little cache of spare plants in an odd corner. Some of the hedge cuttings may be obstinate and refuse to root and then you have a reserve of the same sized plants to fill in the gaps. Santol
ina makes a delightful silver hedge and can be clipped like lavender.

  Some gardens call for a natural hedge and here there is wonderful scope. Hardy fuschias look lovely falling over a wall, Kerria japonica rewards one with its bright golden flowers, and for a taller hedge there are laurustinus, old-fashioned roses or cypresses. In a very big garden tall cypress trees, grown without clipping, make a delightful background and save a great deal of work.

  I persuaded Walter to put a beech hedge round the orchard. It took a lot of persuasion because for years he had complained that beeches were still clothed in their brown winter leaves when all the rest of the trees were gaily flaunting their delicate spring green. He agreed to beech in the end because we didn’t want quickthorn, the price of yew would have been prohibitive and we didn’t think anything else would be at all suitable for an orchard. In the end Walter became quite attached to his cosy brown hedge. Though he didn’t mind it in the winter he complained in the spring, but agreed that the delicate green of the leaves when they did come was worth waiting for. One clipping a year in August is all it requires and I still think that decision was a good one. Perhaps we might have made it copper beech but that, I think, is a little too refined for an orchard. In a garden copper beech is lovely and I often wonder why more people do not put in hedges of this in their gardens. I know several and they are always a delight to me.

  7. The Terraced Garden

  While the lawn and drive were being made I had to work as a labourer with Walter and the garden boy, but when they were finished I was at last permitted to go off and amuse myself in what was to be my part of the garden, the flower beds. I had long been considering what should be done with the ground on the west of the house. This was on a higher level than the rest and sloped up to a small orchard. We were lucky that our garden was on different levels. A garden that is completely flat is difficult to make interesting. We all know gardens that start as a field and finish as a field, no matter what the owners do in the way of trouble and expense. The kindest thing fate can do to you is to give you a garden that slopes away from the house. The upward slope is more difficult to deal with as great care has to be taken that it does not become top heavy.

  When we bought the house this part of the garden rose sharply to the orchard without path or form. The speculator who sold the house to us had put in a few miserable gooseberry bushes, but they were choked with couch grass. In fact, it was nothing but a wilderness and looked the most uninspiring material for a garden.

  Walter had no particular views about what should be done here. He agreed that I could have it for flowers and left it at that. The work of the garden had divided itself unconsciously. Walter took over the care of the grass, paths, walls and hedges and left the flowers (and most of his clearing up) to me.

  It was getting towards winter when I started. I studied the ground for days on end, looked at it from every angle, drew plans on paper and, by degrees, ideas took shape.

  The first thing to do was to make a path up to the orchard, and this I decided must be slightly curving. The lay-out was irregular so we couldn’t have anything too formal, and my idea was to have something simple and cottagey to go with the long low house.

  To get the first level I made low, stone steps, with a fairly high wall to support the earth. On this level I made very wide paths to give the feeling of space. They were gravelled in Walter’s day but since then I have paved them, and now the effect is of a gracious terrace.

  I decided to make the garden on each side of the path a series of terraces, each terrace supported by a low wall, in which I planned to grow rock plants. Paths were to be made between the terraces.

  I didn’t realize at the time that I was setting myself the hardest task any gardener could have. Everyone knows that the easiest border to arrange is one against a wall or hedge. A double border which must be attractive from both sides is difficult, but what I was trying to do was to make a series of borders, each of which must look well from four angles and must also combine with the borders in front and behind. I had three terraces on the left, and three on the right, but on this side I had to dovetail in a fourth, triangular, bed to fill up the space.

  We all know the saying about fools. When I think of it now I wonder how I had the hardihood to attempt such an ambitious scheme. I had never done any gardening before we went to Somerset and had certainly never even thought about garden design. It might have been the most abysmal failure, but I didn’t think about that. My only thought was to get the project under way before Walter took an interest in what I was doing and complicated matters with too much criticism and advice.

  We had a very early fall of snow that year and I can remember walking out my plan in the snow. Walter was a fair weather gardener and I knew he’d busy himself with indoor jobs while the weather was bad and leave me to my own devices.

  First of all I dug out trenches and made my low dry stone walls in them. We had a liberal supply of stones and I was able to choose fairly even pieces and made quite presentable little walls.

  After the walls were done I dug out the earth in front of them to make paths between the terraced beds. It was then that Walter made an appearance and was quite horrified at what he saw. ‘Why on earth are you making canyons?’ I explained that they were the paths and begged him to be patient. The weather was still bad and he was full of indoor schemes so he left me to the mud and chaos.

  Levelling the beds was the worst job of all. I knew enough to save the top soil and take away the clay underneath, but the problem was what to do with the stuff. I had heaps of good soil all over the place where I was working and the clay had to be wheeled right away and dumped somewhere in the lower garden. The only way to get it there was down a plank over the stone steps. It was cold and damp with mud everywhere and the wheelbarrow was always tipping itself over as my unskilful hands tried to balance it on the greasy plank.

  Luckily it was a mild, if wet winter, and by the early spring I had done most of the work. It didn’t meet with approval and I admit it did look bleak. Every morning at breakfast I was greeted with ‘Stones, stones, stones!’ Or it might be a query ‘How is the floral quarry this morning?’ Walter’s bathroom overlooked that part of the garden and as he liked to dawdle over his bath and shaving he had ample opportunity to gaze with horror on what I had done the day before.

  He evidently thought about it for when the day came when I had finished the construction work and was ready to start planting he said ‘Now we’ll put in the pole roses’. ‘The what?’ I asked, aghast. As the house was a low one, and was built on a very much lower level than this part of the garden, I had planned to plant my beds with low growing plants, to give a tapestry effect, and if I wanted any very tall things they were to go at the back and at the sides. I had widened the path winding up between the beds and it was on either side of this path that the roses, trained up their poles, were to be planted. And they were. There was nothing I could do to stop it, no argument had any effect. Walter assured me that they would be the making of my garden and I’d like them in the end, so they were planted with due care and ceremony and I had to plan my planting round them.

  I can’t remember all the roses we chose; there was nothing very outstanding among them except, perhaps, Cupid, which I think is one of the loveliest of climbers, with its large single shell-pink flowers and golden stamens. It has the most devastating thorns I know but I can even forgive it that lustiness for the beauty of its flowers. Others we chose were Chaplin’s Pink, Climbing Lady Hillingdon and General McArthur, Melody, Paul’s Scarlet and some very old ones such as Gloire de Dijon and Wm Allen Richardson.

  I discovered that it was unwise for me to plant too near the roses. This was not only because their wandering branches clawed my hair and scratched my hands, but to keep out of the way of the manure with which Walter fed them. Walter believed in manuring with a very generous hand and woe betide any little plant of mine that grew nearby, as it would surely die of suffocation under the great gollops of m
anure that were plastered round every rose. All the manure we could get was devoted to the roses and dahlias. Neither of us was very concerned about the welfare of the vegetables. If sometimes I thought any of my children were in need of a little stimulant I had to steal little bits from the roses when my husband was not looking. When I was doing this I always remembered his oft repeated belief that women had no sense of honesty!

  When, later on, we were able to get more manure and I was allowed a little Walter did not like the way I used it. He always accused me of being mean with manure, and disliked very much the way I used it on my flower beds. I was so frightened of getting the manure on the plants that I took endless care to dot the ground with small pieces, well away from the plants. As we drove round the countryside Walter delighted in pointing out the massive heaps of manure dumped quite close together all over the fields, waiting to be spread. That is the way to use manure,’ he’d say, ‘not the way you put it on.’ I still use manure sparingly on the flower beds. We spread it lavishly in the kitchen garden but only the roses, and such things as delphiniums, phlox and dahlias, which have big appetites, get really big helpings. Christmas roses like some manure in the summer; it helps to keep them moist if it is not possible to give them plenty of water. Many people consider too much manure on the flower garden produces too luxuriant foliage at the expense of the flowers. It depends, I think, on your soil and what you take out of it. I cram my beds with plants and feed them well, and my hard clay soil needs plenty of humus. Even if you are not a manure fan it is not a bad idea to water your plants with manure flavoured water just before they are coming into bloom. If you have no liquid manure, to be well diluted before being used, it is quite easy to drop a small sack of manure into a watering can, leave it for a while and use the infusion. The plants will show their gratitude by giving even better blooms than they did before.