The Public Enter My Garden «

The Public Enter My Garden

Wednesday 3rd July 2013

The public were admitted to my garden recently; it was a charity opening. I gave a lunch beforehand attended by Aunt Lavinia – the menu was cold poached chicken with beans, broad beans, asparagus and peas with tarragon dressing followed by apricot fool. The debris of the luncheon was also on view to the public who much appreciated the insight apparently. At Versailles, the King dined in public; it was exhibition dining. Maybe the custom should be revived. Certainly, when Aunt Lavinia was mistress at Basketworthy,she took coffee in the drawing room after lunch regardless of any paying members of the public touring the house.

Did the public in my garden quite know where they were? Lord Arrowby himself manned the front door, in paisley panels. He arrived just in time for lunch and said he hadn’t eaten for days and was living on his nerves. ‘Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?’ So he addressed the public pressing to get through my house to the garden. Little did they know that it is usually the PM he is addressing in firm but reassuring tones. Or the Newsnight team, saying ‘No.’ Lord Arrowby throbs at our Nation’s heart, if anyone does.

Next the public encountered Bruce MacBain, who took the money. Architect to the Poor Little Rich Gays and other celebrities, charmer of first order. The public were enchanted of course but did they sense the wracking plethora of detail lurking behind the facade? The tiling modules to be got right, the grouting agony, the array of sliding glass doors from which to choose? Finally, downstairs in the kitchen, Robert Nevil, biographer of the Pony Club of Great Britain, was operating a kettling system before releasing small quantities of public into my tiny garden, where I, Adrian Edge, was also to be found.

Visitors were charming, generally appreciative; they either knew nothing or everything, just as Lady Bracknell said. Many asked questions with less interest in the reply. I never stopped talking. ‘That little shrunk lady in brown,’ Robert Nevil said when it was over, ‘she was someone.’ But we couldn’t think who. Not Eva Figes, because she’s passed. But another such – Viennese, possibly.

I didn’t sense an absolute obeisance to the Poor Little Rich Gays. On the whole they seemed to think it was normal middle-class.

If opening next year (if spared as well), maybe a different approach. Somehow to strike terror and love.