Viva Lewes Issue #154 July 2019

COLUMN
Eleanor Knight
Keyboard worrier
Many summers ago I worked in Liberty. I say
‘in’ not ‘at’ because I’m not talking human
rights, I’m talking frocks. I was stationed in the
ladies’ dress department, which these days will
sound tautologous or progressive, depending
on your point of view. However, in 1987, amidst
the ship-timbers, perfumery and Persian rugs,
menswear was still reliably conservative.
Happy days. I spent my time shuffling shirt
dresses on wooden hangers, advising dowagers
not to wear kaftans, and became expert at
saying “Try this one, madam”, as I proffered a
larger size through the door of the fitting room
whence I’d overheard choice expletives fired at
zips that just wouldn’t do up.
The most common request, from a woman
of a certain station in life, was, “I’m looking
for something to wear while I’m doing the
garden.” Naturally, I suggested jeans might
be appropriate, though not available here in
Ladies’ Dresses. “Oh no, dear” (gales of melodic
laughter) “I want a frawk. Something nice
and cool, nothing fussy, just for
pottering in. Something I can
wear with my summer sendals.”
Of course. As I soon realised,
the garden in question
would boast not only
espaliered fruit trees, becherubed
water features
and parsley beds to
rival the Amazon
rainforest canopy, but
also – invisibly – a
faithful Bob who did
all the hard work. The
Hon. Mrs Arbuthnot
(and I have entirely
made her name up)
would trip along the lavender-lined pathways
in a Liberty-print frock gathering sweet peas
for the house in her little willow trug, or serve
tea and cucumber sandwiches on the elegant
lawns. Meanwhile Bob would be skulking out of
sight in the potting shed with a hip flask and the
Morning Star.
Don’t for a moment imagine I am suggesting
that the English country garden is a rallying
cry for class war deftly veiled in occasional
bunting. No. Merely it is the expression of an
aspect of our national identity contingent on a
dirty secret. There ain’t no beauty without hard
graft, as William Morris might have put it, had
he not been educated at Marlborough College
and Oxford.
From time to time we all like to go a bit
Arbuthnot but the truth is, at heart, we’re most
of us much more Bob. We can’t get the staff
because we are the staff. But whether our own
patch of heaven (not a euphemism) is large,
little, or no more than a jaunty window
box, there’s much more fun to be had
getting our hands and knees dirty
than there is to be making small
talk as our heels sink into the
grass.
By all means attend a garden
party if you must, but why
not go armed with secateurs
and trowel and be prepared
to muck in? Your hosts will
welcome you with open
arms and nobody need be on
their best behaviour. Cast
off your crêpe de Chine:
there is a lot more fun to
be had in a boiler suit from
Screwfix – a steal at £14.99.
Illustration by Hasia Curtis
29