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I remember Mr. Slayter well. He must have been
about seventy if a day,
rolled his own cigarettes, was never seen in public without a soft brimmed
hat and rode a bicycle that was at least as old as himself. He 'did' the
garden weekly – Tuesdays if I recall – covering the 5 miles from 'his' to
'ours' on his bicycle, an Old Holborn dangling from his mouth and his
trouser
bottoms tied tightly with twine, a sort of do-it-yourself bicycle clip
notion. Years later, when I became interested in gardening myself and came
across the ornamental grass 'Gardener's Garter' (Phalaris arundinacae
'Picta'), an evergreen perennial with broad white-striped leaves, I
realized
that this was how he tied his trouser legs, not with twine at all but with
an
invasive ornamental perennial. A Gardener of the 'Old School', unlikely to
frequent new-fangled Garden Centre places, he possessed the serenity and
wisdom of one who knew what he was about. In essence: 'half-man,
half-garden'. Even in his youth, many years ago, I can still imagine him
as
being a 'half-man, half-garden' sort of person. And they certainly don't
make
them like that anymore, do they?
Now this brings me on to Mr. Sprats, who – in a similar
vein – could be
described as a 'half-man, half-ladder' sort of person on a bicycle, if you
follow me.
Mr. Sprats (now there's a name to conjure up images of
rustic simplicity
from a by-gone era) was the man who mended the many windows we broke
playing football in the garden. We seemed to break them on a regular
basis,
you see, so this must have been before toughened glass was invented. "A
superb
pass from George Best, a cracking shot from Pele, tipped over the bar by
Banks
and bang goes the bathroom window."
(Parents can be very understanding, can't they? "Was
it an
accident?......well accidents will happen......try not to do it again.")
Mr. Sprats would be telephoned and, if available, would
come cycling
recklessly up the High Street with a 14 foot extendible ladder balanced
precariously on his shoulder and a pot of putty dangling from the
handlebars.
(Just imagine if that was to happen these days?) It
never crossed my mind
at the time to ask him how the panes of glass reached our house, a fact
that
I would dearly love to know, for as the years go by this mystery becomes
more
intriguing. Did he carry them on his bike? Too late for an answer now, of
course, because Mr. Sprats is no more, although fond memories of him – and
also of Mr. Slayter – linger vividly on.
Now occasionally Mr. Sprats and Mr. Slayter would be
in the garden together,
one mending the windows, the other hoeing the flower beds, and both
possibly
muttering good-naturedly to each other about football, kids, weeds and the
meaning of life. But at half-past three everything stopped for biscuits,
tea
and a cigarette. Not much change there. The Council Workers have been
digging up a nearby road recently and, at prescribed times, times known
universally to Council Workers, Carpenters, Brickies, Gardeners and JCB
Drivers to mention but a few, everything still grinds to a halt for tea.
And
quite right too. Some traditions should last forever, shouldn't they? The
only difference these days is the transport employed. Instead of bicycles,
it's vans.
Postscript:
Mr Slayter had a remarkably simple and effective device for
eliminating
weeds: the garden hoe. He used this for fifteen minutes weekly, and not
just
in the areas where weeds were clearly visible, oh no, but in weed-free
areas
too. As a result, weeds were a rare occurrence whenever he was
around. The
moral of the tale: do your weeding before the weeds appear!
Mr Slayter was born, brought up and lived his life as a
gardening man in
Fordingbridge, Hampshire, England.
I knew him well.
(copy write Patrick Vickery 2002)
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