Nature and me live in different worlds.
Here I sit in the depths of Kent, the Garden of England, in a National Trust estate with the reputation of being one of the most picturesque and manicured gardens in the country. Horticultural students flock here from around the world to follow in the footsteps of the illustrious writer and TV gardener, Christopher Lloyd. It is mid-summer and I am wearing the obligatory shorts and tee shirt. The weather is typical for mid-summer England: sheeting rain, gale forced winds and temperatures in single figures.
I have rejected the numerous garden options in favour of the Tea Room. This description would hardly pass any Trade Description scrutiny being, as it is, a roof (albeit a waterproof roof) suspended on half a dozen substantial wooden pillars – a timber gazebo in effect. Surely the term ‘room’ should require the edifice to contain at least three walls and, perhaps, the odd window or two. Maybe I’m just a bit too ‘old school’ when it comes to my Tea Rooms.
My foray into the world of soil, plants and creepie-crawlies is, in spite of how it may sound, a relief after too many weeks submerged by the urban challenges of ageing neighbours, infirm relatives and the growing contagion of dementia. A breath of fresh country air, the banishment of ‘to do’ lists and the freedom to just sit and observe, rather than act and advise, is just what my soul craves.
As I sit in my al fresco Tea Room avoiding, where possible, the encroaching wind and rain I feel my equilibrium returning. The soreness between the shoulder blades, my symptom for stress, becomes a fading memory and my expression morphs from a studious frown into a contented smile – not the full on grin that unsettles those who spot it, forcing them to check for a faulty trouser zip or a skirt tucked into a knicker elastic. No, this is just a smile that says “I’m fine, and so are you.”
My spirits soar still further as I spot, walking in my direction a dozen or so ladies of a certain age all favouring something purple and sporting bright red hats or whispy fascinators, the more ostentatious the better! Clearly, they must be members of the Red Hat Society whose philosophy is simply to grow old disgracefully:-
“When I grow old I will wear purple and a red hat, which do not go together and which do not suit me.” Just because I can!
I am pleased to offer up my single occupancy seat at a table made for six to this new group and am warmly thanked for my generosity.
“My Mum always told me to give up my seat to any lady wearing a red hat,” I explain to looks of concern from some of the ladies. It is not until later that I learn a new phrase, popular in the East Sussex/Kent area which is “Red hat and no knickers.”
I have never heard this before but offer the Hornchurch equivalent which is “Fur coat and no knickers.” Obviously, Hornchurch is a more affluent area than Sussex.
Some are concerned about the implications of my remark, others just see me as a sister from another mother.
The mission of the Red Hat Society is to meet new friends, visit new places and simply have fun.
When the weather closes in still further I am invited to perch on the end of the table with them. I accept gratefully and pull out my Ipad from my rucksack.
“I can’t be doing with them electronic flicky-dickies!” offers one of my new companions.
“Oh! I really enjoy my electronic flicky-dicky” laughs another, a wicked glint in her eye.
I join the debate, “I love an electronic flicky-dicky,” I claim, realising too late that there might be a double entendre lurking in this conversation, ” I’ve just been in contact with Southampton, for example.”
“Don’t like Southampton,” protests the first speaker, “now if it had been Eastbourne, you’d have had me!”
The Red Hat Society continue a lively debate about the relative merits of Southampton and Eastboune. Like a car changing gear from fourth to second without the aid of the clutch the conversation judders into a different direction.
“Can you hear that bird singing?”
“I love to listen to the birds in my garden every morning. I try to whistle back to them and see if they will respond.”
“You can whistle, then?”
“Of course, everyone can, can’t they?”
“Do you have to put your fingers in your mouth?
“Depends how I feel – sometimes I do.”
The table, as one, attempts to whistle. Scone crumbs fly across the table top like a snow storm. No-one notices, or at least no-one seems to care.
The quality of the whistling varies widely from something akin to transcendental modulation to the splutter of a burst water pipe.
They are enjoying themselves enormously and invite me to have a go.
I provide me with my masterpiece – a shrill piercing note guaranteed to get the attention of my children, when they were young, at a distance of 100 yards. This has all of the power of a four-finger whistle but without the use of any fingers! I nod my head and rhythmically shrug my shoulders like Mark Knopfler completing his seven minute guitar solo in ‘Sultans of Swing’.
My audience clap in appreciation and wonderment. The Red Hat Society call for an encore.
Stage fright suddenly hits me. My lips dry and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The best I can muster is the burst pipe splutter.
We all laugh.