I live in the poorest quarter of town*, sandwiched between factories, some derelict and some still in use like the one directly across the road. Many of the Pakistani owners of houses like mine have let rooms to migrant workers: hundreds of them are engaged on building a new shopping/leisure complex in town. † Their tiny backyards are usually piled with discarded appliances, broken furniture and decomposing garbage. Mine is neat of course, because I come from a culture or class of those who like to impose order on their surroundings. And this is my reason for two weeks’ blogging silence. Plumbing, carpentry, bricklaying and gardening have occupied my days. My more usual form of ecstasy and exercise is solo walking amongst birds, trees and clouds in all weathers, or just to be outside when everything is kissed by the sun.
Plumbing, carpentry, bricklaying and gardening are elemental ways to grapple with Nature, and I take great pride in learning their lore, discovering the secrets of materials, tools and techniques. When a weeping joint betrays my inexperience at plumbing, pride is hurt and my energy deflates. Splits and warps in redwood planks are more readily fixed, with less primal panic. And as for the brickwork, I explore the many kinds of bricks, soft absorbent reds and Staffordshire Blues, which are impermeable and often called “engineering bricks” because the Victorians used them for bridges and railway cuttings. There are different types of mortar: sand and cement or the more traditional sand, lime and cement.
I’ve had to teach myself, make shameful mistakes. The easiest task was to plant a small cherry tree, next to the bird-table I’d constructed from pale wood, a little roofed tray where robins and sparrows and bluetits nervously peck at the seeds I leave for them. They can help themselves to the cherries if they get them first. I got the fruiting type of tree because I’ve always wanted one. My grandmother had a merely flowering cherry-tree in her garden and it disappointed me, despite her defence that it produced a more glorious blossom. “How can you call it a cherry-tree if it can’t bear fruit?” I complained as a child.
I’ve mended my neighbours’ front walls while I had some mortar and bricks to spare, but the main job was to make a bench at front, where I’m growing various plants in pots. This is the only part which catches the sun in this season, for only in summer does the sun rise high enough for its rays to kiss the back yard. A handsome wooden seat is supported on three brickwork columns. Is? no, will be. After my first attempt, where the mortar wasn’t quite dry and came apart when I drilled holes in the top brick (I was consumed by shame at this), I’m going to wait a while before putting the seat on top. There is no backrest— the sitter will lean against the sill of the bay window, contemplating the timeless wonders of flowers and passing neighbours. It’s essentially a pedestrian street. Vehicles can go one way, slowly, looking for a place to park.
* This piece and the one which follows, “The Snowdrop Garden”, were originally joined as a single post. See the next post for comments on both.
a wayfarer’s notes 