(Loosely based on Andersen’s The Gardener & The Lord)
Some miles to the south of London, nestling in the gently rolling, green swathed hills of the Surrey Downs, there stands an old country manor house, which boasts the thickest of stone walls, a small but nonetheless impressive little tower and ornate white painted wooden gables. This lovely old place was once owned by a famous television personality, whose claim to good fortune and favour was based upon his inestimable knowledge of all things horticultural. He presented a weekly show about gardening and had recently been seen in the nation’s living rooms helping the poor and needy to fix up their allotments and their child friendly but dishevelled herbaceous borders. The television gardener lived with his lovely wife on his modest but beautifully proportioned estate in the country, when filming and international awards ceremonies permitted.
The manor house was beautifully appointed, inside and out, sporting a novelty coat of arms above the door and a beautiful wisteria that twisted and flowered around the porch and around the front bay windows. The lawns were of the lushest, velvet green and were matched for their smoothness only by the expensive Wilton carpets that lay in the sitting room. There was not a weed in sight and the flower borders exploded with colour and vivacity throughout the spring, summer and autumn.
Given the many calls upon his time, filming new and instructive programmes, making personal appearances and in advising the great and the good about their white flies and their black spots, our good television gardener and his wife employed a rather clever man from the local village to look after their own garden when they were away. The local man was blessed with the greenest of fingers, and everyone, be they an inhabitant of the locale or a distinguished visitor, always remarked on the sheer beauty and splendour of the gardens at the manor house.
The gardens at the manor were extensive and with so many important assignments and projects to see to, neither the television personality nor his faithful gardener had ever found the time to finish remodelling every nook and cranny in the place. Adjoining the kitchen garden, to the east of the house, there was still a rough patch of ground upon which stood an ancient oak tree. This magnificent specimen stood all year round, in wind and rain and sun, standing bare and almost leafless. Instead of thick green leaves hanging from its branches, the ancient oak was covered in the large, round twig balls that made up a great city of rooks.
Ever since the tree had first raised its huge crown to the skies the rooks had made it their home, passing their history and their grandeur down through every generation until the present day, so that the bird city teemed with life and every resident rook knew that he or she was a true aristocrat. They had seen men and women come and go through the ages, but they had always been there; they were the old, the true lords of the land and the sky. It didn’t matter to them one bit that men came along from time to time and raised thunder in their high-rise homes with shotguns. They cawed and wheeled, watching the fire and the thunder rise with a mixture of fear and utter disdain.
The faithful gardener often spoke with his employer about the patch of rough ground around the old oak tree. He was convinced that if the tree was chopped down he could make real use of the land and be rid of the screaming rooks to boot. Despite every good reason he could think of, however, his employer had no desire to be rid of the ancient tree. The famous television gardener always said that the great oak leant the estate an air of permanence and solidity; that it was a link with the past of this small but great house; that it was history and should stand, like himself, as a symbol of greatness and stability forever. “After all, Ted, haven’t you got enough to do with the flower borders, the lawns and the vegetables?”
Ted did indeed have plenty to do in looking after the gardens, the vegetables and the orchards. He always worked with zeal, with vigour and not without considerable skill and expertise, but the truth was that the television celebrity and his wife were too busy to see the merits of his arguments about the grand old oak tree. In fact, they were often at pains to explain to old Ted that as good as he was with their little garden they had often seen flowers or eaten fruit on their travels that surpassed the specimens he grew for them at home. These conversations, these descriptions of wonderful blooms and ripe fruits, distressed old Ted, because he wanted to do the best job that he could for his employer.
One day while visiting their country home the famous television gardener and his wife called for old Ted and told him quite bluntly that the previous day they had tasted the most exquisite tomatoes. Visiting some friends in London, they had been privileged to attend a summer barbecue, where everyone, they told him, had praised these succulent and flavoursome tomatoes to the heavens. They were convinced that these luscious fruits could not be of a domestic variety and the famous television gardener asked old Ted to make enquiries, to find out where they came from and to order some seeds for the greenhouse. He was to start growing them here at the manor house immediately.
They gave old Ted the name of the fruit dealer in the city where the tomatoes had been bought and so, the very next morning, old Ted drove into town and arranged to meet the fruit dealer. Arranging all of this was no problem because Ted knew the fruit dealer very well. He was, after all, the very same fruit dealer to whom, on behalf of his employer, old Ted sold the surplus fruit that grew in the garden of the lovely country manor house. When they met, and after a few pleasantries over a cup of tea, old Ted asked the fruit dealer where these wonderful tomatoes came from.
“Why, they’re from your own garden, Ted”, said the fruit dealer in surprise, and he showed him the very same tresses full of beautiful ripe, red tomatoes that old Ted had sent up to town just a few days previously. This, of course, made old Ted feel very happy. He rushed back to the country manor house and told his master and mistress immediately that the tomatoes came from their very own greenhouse.
The celebrated couple could not believe their ears. “Ted, it’s simply not possible. No, we won’t believe a word of it unless the fruit dealer can prove it in writing”.
And prove it he could. Within an hour there arrived a facsimile copy of a receipt, which clearly showed that the tomatoes had been sold to him by the gardener at Watersmeat Manor.
“Well, that’s amazing”, exclaimed the television gardener to his wife.
As soon as they had checked the greenhouses for themselves, they started to despatch punnets of their lush red tomatoes to all of their important friends. They were especially keen to send their tomatoes to the restaurants run by their celebrity chef chums in the bustling centres of expensive consumer consumption that shined amid the phantom lights of the capital city. They were over the moon that their modest little estate could produce such wonderful produce and did not hesitate to tell everyone and anyone about the wonders of their traditional approach to gardening. And yet, they felt compelled to tell old Ted that, after all, it was an exceptional summer and everyone’s tomatoes had turned out pretty well.
A little later in the year, the famous gardener and his wife were honoured with an invitation to attend a dinner at a famous politician’s house. They dined with minor royalty, with famous politicians and with an impressively ostentatious banker. They were even introduced to a famous footballer and his wife, but found the conversation wandering away from the arts of pruning rather too quickly for their taste.
The day after the grand banquet, old Ted was summoned to the hotel in the capital city where his employer and his wife were staying for a few days. They had been served with the most delicious, the tenderest and the most juicy plum pie they had ever tasted. Old Ted was told to make enquiries of the politician’s kitchen staff to find out where these plums were cultivated. He was to obtain the name of the fruit, to purchase some young trees and to plant them in the orchard at the manor without delay.
It so happened that old Ted’s niece was the pastry cook in the politician’s kitchen. She quickly introduced him to the head chef, who was delighted to make the acquaintance of the man who had sent him such wonderful fruit and vegetables for the previous night’s culinary extravaganza. At first old Ted was a little confused, but his state of mind changed to one of pure joy as his niece explained it all to him. A few months previously, when the kitchen had a very bad experience with the government catering suppliers, she had shown the head chef some her uncle’s home grown fruits that she was going to have for her lunch. Ever since then the head chef insisted on ordering fresh seasonal fruit and vegetables for banquets and special occasions through old Ted’s niece, and all the while the unsuspecting Ted had been convinced that his niece was strangely obsessed by fresh fruit and vegetables.
When old Ted reported back to his employers they were quite stumped for an answer. Once again they couldn’t believe what they were hearing.
“Ted, you can’t pull the wool over our eyes, you know”, they both said. “It’s quite impossible. You can’t have grown those plums”,
This time old Ted was prepared. Written on official government notepaper and in the head chef’s own hand, which the famous couple recognised instantly from the menus on the table the previous evening, there was a signed testament to the source of the wonderfully succulent plums.
After their initial shock subsided, the famous television gardener made sure that the whole land heard about his amazing plums. He sent fruit to every person pictured in ‘Hi!’ magazine that week, arranged visits to his orchards for the great and the good and started a small mail order business selling new young trees to anyone who wanted to grow their own. This particular specimen was so well appreciated that it even came to bear the famous television gardener’s own name, which he thought absolutely thrilling.
And through it all, in their quiet moments, the famous television gardener and his wife made every effort to keep old Ted’s feet firmly on the ground.
“It wouldn’t do to let him get above himself,” said the wife.
“Absolutely not”, replied her husband. “We can’t let him get big headed about all of this”.
Old Ted, however, was not inclined to inflate his own ego. Instead, he strived harder every year to produce the most remarkable flowers, vegetables and fruits. All that he wanted was to be recognised as one of the best working gardeners in Surrey, and, with a great deal of hard work, he achieved just that, producing some of the finest specimen fruits and vegetables from the country manor garden for many years to come.
But despite his successes, his employers often reminded him that the tomatoes had been the best of all. The plums were fine indeed, but of a different nature all together and everything else since, while very good, was not a patch on those original fruits. Indeed, as good as his produce was, it was no more than a match, at best, for the produce of other gardeners. When, one year, the rhubarb wilted and turned yellow at the stem, only those poor, unfortunate rhubarb plants were ever mentioned again. It seemed to old Ted that his employers found some sort of satisfaction in being able to say, “Well, Ted, my old friend, it didn’t turn out quite so well this year, did it? Better luck next year, eh?”
As well as growing the most stunning fruits and vegetables, old Ted was also something of a wizard with the flower beds. Every Saturday morning he brought fresh flowers up to the manor house and created the most delicate or the most vibrant arrangements, depending on the patterns of the weather and the moods of his employers. One day, while reading one of his master’s gardening magazines, which just happened to have an article about cottage gardens in it penned by the famous television gardener himself, old Ted read about a great national competition. Entries were invited from gardeners across the land, the prize being the chance to have your very own television programme about gardening on one of the satellite television channels. Old Ted had never considered a career in the media, having considerable first hand experience of the pressures and the trials of it all through his employers. He was, however, intrigued by the competition’s rules, which stated that to win the competition you had to produce a most unusual and new flower.
It occurred to Ted that there might be something in this, as he had spent many years experimenting with grafts, cross-pollinations and rootstocks. Hidden away, in the roughest patch of the old manor’s gardens where the ancient oak tree grew, was old Ted’s private nursery bed. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he should enter the competition.
All through the next spring, while paying attention to the manor’s gardens, vegetable patches, greenhouses and orchards, old Ted carefully cultivated his special plants. It was a glorious year for growing and, amid the general praise for his floral displays and the usual comments from his employers; old Ted worked quietly and assiduously, waiting for the day of the great competition.
On the day before the competition, old Ted set off bright and early for Kew Gardens. He spent the day preparing the soil in his allocated spot, mulching, weeding and hoeing, before gently placing his prize specimen in its ornamental pot in the middle of his display. He watered his plant, brushed its stems and tenderly pricked out a few older leaves. As if responding to his loving touch, the magnificent red flower head threw up new feathers, filling out and flaming into glorious bloom at just the right moment. The next day, with the show ground full to bursting with every type of plant, with new roses, new fuscias, begonias, hostas and hebe, with the walkways full to bursting with eager competitors and excited crowds, the judging commenced.
To old Ted’s delight, each judge stood for minutes on end gazing at his prize entry. Their eyes lit up when they saw the shape of the plant, its fullness and its glorious shades of green rippling in the sunlight. They seemed to melt into the dazzling display from his plant’s fire-red flowers, flowers bursting with energy and vibrancy. At last, with the sun at its full height and with the crowds buzzing in anticipation, the famous television gardener and his wife arrived at old Ted’s display.
They were amazed, once more, by what they saw. They walked around the plant, examined every leaf, every shoot and every stamen. They tutted and clucked, pressing their tongues against their cheeks, sucked in their breath and made notes on their judge’s pads. After ten minutes they stood back and looked at each other.
“It’s quite stunning”, said Ted’s employer. “To think that we should see an Amazonian Fritillary, and a red one to boot”.
And the cries went up from the assembled crowd, “Hip, hip, hooray for the Amazonian Fritillary, three cheers for old Ted!”
All of the judges assembled next to Ted’s amazing new flower, and busied themselves with their notes and their scores. The famous television gardener buttonholed each and every judge, telling them that he alone had recognised the new plant’s sublime glories, that the entrant was his own gardener, who had learned his trade from a kind-hearted master, and that there could only be one winner. Despite some wrangling, and the odd fraying of nerves amongst some of the better-known judges, eventually they all agreed that old Ted was, indeed, the winner.
The next few minutes were a blur for Ted. He was given a bright purple sash to wear, a sparkling shiny trophy to hold and was made to stand just to the left of the famous television gardener when it was time for the speeches. His employer rattled through some thanks, greeted the great and the good in the audience and continued to tell everyone about the new plant. He explained that, although new to them all, it was clearly a hybrid from the equatorial regions, a masterful admixture of the new world and the old ways of the English garden. It was, he said, a stunning masterpiece of the gardener’s art. The flower was the fruit of his own garden and was blossoming now because of his love for teaching and the many years of hard work that had helped old Ted to attain such levels of skill. He wanted no thanks for these services, professing only that old Ted should enjoy his moment in the limelight, safe in the knowledge that, like himself and his plums, old Ted would have a new flower named after him.
After some polite applause, and to his absolute horror, old Ted was pushed forward to make his own speech. He stood there before the assembled crowd, before the bigwigs and the celebrities, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an onrushing juggernaut. He cleared his throat once, twice, three times and stopped. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. Finally, summoning courage from the deepest wells of his soul he mumbled, “s’not a flower. It’s an artichoke, a red artichoke”.
To be honest, most of the assembled crowd neither understood the difference between an artichoke and an Amazonian Fritillary, nor did they care. They burst into riotous applause and cheering wildly, they carried old Ted on their shoulders all the way to a brand new Winnebago that was parked at the far end of the show ground. As old Ted signed the contract for his new television programme, as the crowds cheered again and again, no one noticed the furious argument taking place between the judges.
“He’s made a right bloody fool of you”, screamed the famous television gardener’s wife. “Amazonian Fritillary, my arse.”
“He…he should’ve said something”, stammered her husband, as around him one judge after another jeered and called him every sort of stupid ass that their imaginations could conjure up.
Events moved quickly after that. The famous television gardener was ridiculed for not recognising a reasonably common vegetable, albeit one of an unusual colour. The rules of the competition were checked, but it said nothing about vegetables being banned, and so old Ted’s prize was safe. The world of television gardening was turned on its head overnight. Old Ted soon got over his nerves and proved to be a natural on the goggle box, with his old world charm and his unpretentious manners.
As for the once famous television gardener, he soon found that many years of proud and boastful behaviour makes for a rapid fall from grace. With everyone’s confidence in his gardening knowledge thoroughly shattered and with old scores being settled, his programme was axed from the schedules and his publishing deals quickly dried up. His newspaper column was rescinded in favour of “Old Ted’s Country Ways”, and before long he and his wife were forced to sell the country manor. They bought a little cottage in the village eked out a meagre living on a residue of royalties gleaned from discount store book sales and the odd spot of lawn mowing that came their way from lineage adverts in the parish newspaper.
Old Ted, on the other hand, went from strength to strength, earning a small fortune from his globally syndicated television show and from a chain of franchised garden centres bearing his name that sprang up across the whole country. Within a year he bought the old country mansion for himself and spent every spare hour he had tending the gardens, the vegetables and the fruits. At last, and with a sigh of relief from old Ted, the ancient oak tree was cut down and cleared away. In its place he carefully cultivated the most beautiful, the tastiest and the most famous patch of artichokes in the whole of the known world.
And although, as he grew older, he was tempted to get some help with the lawn mowing, old Ted could never quite bring himself to ring the telephone number of another old couple in the local village who advertised as odd job gardeners.