Whatshot

2026
2025
November
2024
June
April
2023
March
2022
2021
2020
March
February
2019
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
2018
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
2017
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January
2016
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January
2015
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January
2014
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January
2013
December
November
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January
2012
December
November
October
September
August
July

The Silence in the Garden

The Silence in the Garden

Author: Jo Rushby
Date: 2022-03-23

The red brick terraced houses were squashed together like cuny in a bunny. The front garden, the tarmac. My grandparents lived here. I remember two things; a pantry room leading off the kitchen,its' shelves stocked with jams, puddings and pickles, and at the end of their street, a high wall with a wooden door. A huge iron handle. This was the entrance to the manor house garden. Wood guarding wood. My grandfather had the key to this door. Head gardener of this temple.
My grandfather taught me how to watch plants nurture grow and flourish. To chink in solace and beauty.
Recently, when twilight threatened day, I went to the Botanic Gardens in Durban. My niece Maddy (short for Madeleine let me hasten to add) is visiting from York. Hand in hand we enter the Gardens. The quietness is stalk. Do trees absorb sound? Do ponds slurp them into silence.
A buttercup winks. A frog turns into a Prince. The water lily rests. The sycamores swaying languidly cooling the roses.
Maddy has wandered between the flowing tendrils of the banyan tree. I sit on the bench. I am halfway through William Trevor's The Silence in the Garden. He writes with a delicate hand, that evokes colour and precision, an embroider of the quotidian; ''In the teashop, when she'd taken her coat off, there'd had been a tiny brooch, a single sapphire in a gold setting, pinned to the black material of her dress.A hat you hardly noticed­ black also-was worn a little to one side.'
Autumn will come. The leaves will start to turn orange. In winter they will fall only to spring back to life. But there are threats. On the Ridge, giant monstrosities stare down on the Gardens. Those who give of their time as volunteers are evacuating the city. Budgets are to be pruned by the City Fathers.


A city of death, distinct with many a tower...

The dwelling-place,
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost. Shelley Maddy is slowly making her way towards me. Nearly 6 foot and still only 18. I know instinctively I will give her the brooch that has clung to me through the decades on the move. Lineages of the family, like the Botanic Gardens, must be preserved, so that 'life and joy' is never lost.