Summertime! And the living is uneasy. After two years of keeping clear, Covid catches up with us. First Henri and then me. There is fever and coughing, like flu. But the sun shines. The magnolia is alive with bloom and we count ourselves lucky.
We have a steady supply of Lemsip and Strepsils and the roof terrace is shooting. The roses are covered in new crimson leaf. There are fat, dozy bumblebees bumbling about, obsessing over the stellata. And we have time to attack the new greenfly.
Our isolation is made bearable by spring shoots. Tulips burst through. Narcissi grow. I wander round the terrace wrapped in scarves.
Opposite, the churchyard trees start to come alive. The horse chestnut has budded. The finer trees take on another, near-invisible sheen. There is a yellowy-green watercolour wash at the tips. Soon enough the smaller street trees will be in blossom. I order in flower deliveries. A van comes with food and drink and daffs. We bring the outside in.
Out the back window, the neighbours have begun busying in their gardens. The nearest is feeding and watering her trees and bushes. Others are trimming their jasmine, cutting back on overgrown fence. Tidying up wintry trellis for summer.
I watch my daughter Kala as she potters around, pruning. She is already anxious about over-wintering spiders in her shed. Tools will be taken out shortly. Grass will soon need cutting.
Later, she calls to say she has left some jars of Clematis armandii on our doorstep. I love their scent. One jar is sitting here on the kitchen table as I write. The other is in Henri’s ‘office’.
Soon enough we will be out of isolation. We’ll be back at the garden centre, looking for interesting annuals, replacing woody herbs. Readying for the growing season. Happy BST.
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