Rosemary Verey. Barbara Paul Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ showing exactly where they belonged. I noticed that the staff had not completely complied when they put their tools back, but it seemed a brilliant idea nonetheless.

      I was about to receive my first lesson. Rosemary showed me the proper way to fold the paper money and to roll the coins, explaining that her system made it easier at the bank. A simple matter but a clear indication that there was going to be a proper way to do things and it would be the Rosemary Verey way. I could tell she would be a strict taskmaster, a tough and demanding boss, but one who enjoyed the teaching role.

      On Monday, I started work promptly at 8:00 A.M. trying to ignore the cold drizzle. Mrs. V. was not yet out, but I met the “boys,” Andy and Les Bailey, the brothers who had worked there for more than fourteen years. These two immediately began their daily routines, but first set me to work. Andy explained that the first chore of each day was the “dead’eading.” Handing me a bucket and “secateurs” (“clippers” to me), Andy sent me out to dead-head the spent flowers in the garden to make it presentable for the public. Clumsy in my rain gear, I was too terrified to step right into the deep, lush flower borders to snip off the head of some wilted daffodil or tulip, sure I would trample too many treasures, or, worse, that I would fall, crushing all the plants beneath me. When I returned empty handed, Andy said simply, “Well, you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

      When Mrs. V. arrived shortly thereafter, we all snapped to attention. Then Andy and Les fell into line behind her to walk through the garden, as she, clipboard in hand, pointed at things to be done, jotting each down on a list. Her white hair uncovered, she stood straight and undaunted in the cold rain. This trio had been together for so long that not many words were needed. Just some pointing and mumbling, with several stops and pauses, punctuated by a few “umms” or “aahs.” While the boys did not audibly sigh with relief when Mrs. V. went back inside the house, their mood definitely lightened.

      Only a few days after I arrived, Mrs. V. departed for Michigan where she was designing a garden, leaving the staff in charge. Although I was disappointed by her absence, the others clearly relished their freedom. When Mrs. V. returned, we were subjected to what felt like a military inspection. Pots of small plants were picked up, weighed in her hand and found to be too light. Clearly they needed water. How had we failed to notice? The watering cans were judged to hold water we hadn’t warmed sufficiently for the tender seedlings. The compost was not in the potting shed, things were untidy and the garden badly in need of attention. We all fell in, set to, quickened our pace, and followed her orders.

      I worked at Barnsley House for a month; it was an intense and marvelous experience. In the following decade of her life, I stayed with Rosemary at Barnsley whenever I could and she often came to stay with me either in New York City or in Connecticut on her many trips to America. I called her virtually every Sunday for the rest of her life. One of my favorite memories took place during one visit to Barnsley that Rosemary and Charlie arranged to get me started on writing a book about my garden. Rosemary decreed that I would stay indoors to write every morning until lunch before she allowed me to go out to play. One night when I was fast asleep, I awoke to noises outside my bedroom window. I got up to see what was going on. It was three o’clock in the morning, but in the darkness below I could see it was Rosemary. Her white hair glowed in the moonlight as she moved through the garden dressed only in her cotton nightie. It had been a dry summer and she was moving the sprinklers to be sure to water all the lawns. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.

      Rosemary taught me important lessons about gardening, but she also taught me more profound lessons about life. Just like all good lessons, they are simple and clear. And once learned, seem obvious but not easy to put into practice. By her own example, her most essential lessons were about character and discipline. About setting high standards, about stamina, energy, and drive. One of the most important lessons I learned from Rosemary was to take risks, to “just get on with it.”

      Having lived and worked at Barnsley, I also saw another darker side of Rosemary, one she concealed from her public. After the death of her husband, she was often home alone. In her solitude, she began to drink too much. It may have been the drinking that caused her unpredictable eruptions that seared close friendships and tested those around her. Like many strong-willed, successful people, she could be difficult, demanding, and complicated. Self-disciplined and a striver for perfection, Rosemary drove herself as hard as she drove those who worked for her. And, as is often the case, she could be hardest on those closest to her. Whatever the reason for her drinking and her outbursts, Rosemary was a product of her times and upbringing. She did not discuss her emotions or indulge in self-reflection. At heart, those who knew her best sensed a deep insecurity, a need to feel loved.

      If Rosemary had been born in a later era, she would have likely succeeded in something other than gardening, possibly one of the professions or even politics. Highly intelligent and extremely hard working, she also loved an audience and audiences in turn loved her, thanks to her special flare, great charm, and sense of fun. She was vibrant, engaging, the life of any party. Even before the word had been invented, she was the ultimate networker, a shameless self-promoter who delighted in being the center of attention. But she was constrained by her time and the conventional expectations of English women of her upper social class. Gardening was a suitable arena for someone of her background, and she made the most of it. She followed a long line of English lady gardeners and writers, such as Gertrude Jekyll, Norah Lindsay, Margery Fish, and Vita Sackville-West.

      Her eventual success was in part due to luck and timing, but Rosemary certainly seized the moment. After the two world wars, many of the magnificent gardens of the great English estates had been turned into lawn as cheap gardening labor disappeared into the factories. By the 1970s, the economy began to recover and conditions were ripe for Rosemary to re-introduce the English to their own garden heritage and traditions. In America, home ownership had grown along with the expanding suburbs, and Americans were traveling to Europe in growing numbers as flights became easier and more affordable, developing more sophisticated tastes for European styles in food, furnishing, and gardens.

      The public was ready for Rosemary’s message that anyone could have a beautiful garden and could do it themselves, just as she had. Through her lectures, articles, and eighteen books, she taught lessons about plant combinations and the importance of structure, color, texture, and appealing to all the senses. She wrote in clear, lucid prose that was neither too poetic nor too erudite, offering know-how and practical advice while urging her audience to express themselves. With real insight, someone called her the “great encourager.”

      Gardens are ephemeral. Rosemary’s gardens at Barnsley House continue to be maintained by a fancy hotel that has taken over, but they are not the same. Her eye and hand have gone, but Rosemary’s legacy will endure through her books and her influence on those who will always love beautiful gardens. For those lucky enough to have known her, Rosemary will also be remembered for her indomitable spirit. She was great fun. Her favorite saying was, “It’s a sin to be dull.” And she never was.

      CHAPTER ONE

       Early Years and Marriage 1918–1939

       My family did not allow me to be seriously competitive.

      ON A COLD, wet day in December 1998, a small plane painted in crisp red, white, and blue with a black-and-white striped single-propeller circles the Royal Flying Corps Rendcomb Airfield awaiting the arrival of H.R.H. The Prince of Wales below. Rosemary Verey, the internationally renowned plantswoman, writer, and garden designer, sits freezing and impatient in the open cockpit. She knows that over sixty of her friends have come from near and as far away as America; they are waiting for her to arrive to celebrate her eightieth birthday. Because protocol normally requires royalty to arrive last, it is a great tribute to Rosemary that the Prince has arranged to arrive before she does to greet her. But there is still no sign of the Prince.

      Rosemary СКАЧАТЬ