The Gay Mother's superb garden

Tuesday 4^th August 2009

 Bruce MacBain returns to London by train. He actually has to work. But he is self-employed, of course. Very few rich gays are employees; if they are, there’s trouble.

 I remain for a few more days with the Gay Mother. We have a nostalgic couple hours after lunch on Monday recalling her old frockage. Rather I recall. She has forgotten.  The Dior-esque summer dress in a sweet pea print circa 1961, the plainer straight up and down navy frock with large white spots  –  a complete blank.

 In a nutshell: I was born and began immediately to find fault. Didn’t like gloss for the woodwork. Why not eggshell? Why magnolia throughout? Poor Gay Mother – no wonder she thought one child enough. By the age of five the effort of urging her to greater and greater heights of frockage was wearing me out.  She had plenty of jewels, hats, gloves, bags and associated garments but endless excuses for not wearing them. So what if she was gardening or it was too hot/too cold? My cousin, George, had better control. His mother rarely got more than half way down the stairs before she was ordered  back for a re-fit.      

 Looking back, the Gay Mother put up a pretty good fight. Now I’ve come to appreciate her taste. Her drawing room has an impressive unity, like a painting, all subfusc (Spellcheck has never heard of this word: I’m holding out) blues, greens and browns. Her garden this year is glorious. But she cannot be persuaded to open it under the National Gardens Scheme. Once she is gone, I’ll be very much alone in the world. I cannot bear to think of her home, where she has lived for 56 years and where I was brought up, in other hands.

 Nevertheless there is the matter of the overhead light in the dining room. And table-laying and styling is not a strong point (see below).

 Anthony Mottram’s mother poses flirtatiously if ever he takes a photo of her. Lord Arrowby’s is taking an excessive interest in his gay clergy friends. But she must be thrilled that her son is a lord. I would be. My friend, Edward Jasper, the bed linen expert and another genuine multi (I’m sorry. I love money. I really do) had a whole floor of his house re-modelled (walls knocked down, new bathroom etc) for his mother’s ten-day visit from abroad this summer.

 Is it that with gay mothers there is always an element of competition? We must return to this theme. The other day Mottram had the cheek to say to me: ‘You’ll never have a boyfriend for as long as you’re tied to your mother.’ Speak for yourself, I thought. ‘Boyfriend’ is a rather Central of Europe expression, don’t you think? Rather behind the times. We say ‘partner’ now, especially in our fifties.  But then, not all boyfriends are partners. And not all partners are boyfriends.

The Gay Mother's table styling