Yesterday morning I had my first Zoom meeting since lockdown. It was a cross between Celebrity Squares and Through the Keyhole, with our twelve little faces smiling out in a grid with various backgrounds. One of our number managed to conjure up an idyllic tropical beach by some Zoom-related wizardry. The rest of us offered windowsills, home offices, coloured in African animals and rather nice curtains as our backdrop.
Since this all began, I haven’t put make up on once and have developed a look you might call Pioneer Frontierswoman Chic. By this I mean messy hair, untamed eyebrows, earth beneath my fingernails and a reluctance to tart myself up. Since our meeting was at 9.00, the time I am normally sitting up in bed enjoying my second cup of tea of the day, steps had to be taken. I arose at 8.30, cooked breakfast and did the tea and then slipped into something less comfortable. I applied a thin layer of cosmeticry, including a good slick of Speaker’s Lipstick*. Following my own advice (please see here in Ruth’s Top Lockdown Tips) by draping a posh scarf over my top half, I then climbed back into bed and dialled up, or whatever you do on Zoom.
It was good to see everyone. We shared our stories. We’re all self-employed small business owners in Suffolk. Some of us still have work. Most of us don’t. I was impressed at the fact that none of us were giving up, throwing in the towel or calling it a day. We’ve all worked very hard to make successes of ourselves and although this pesky virus has put a dent in our plans for 2020, it won’t finish us off.
Which rather neatly brings me on to Adolphe Audosson who lives in our front garden. He is looking particularly fine at the moment with his glossy dark green leaves and his double petalled red blooms. He is a camellia bush (full name camellia 'Adolphe Audusson' of the family Theaceae.) But not any common or garden shrub. He’s been through a heck of a lot in his time. Let me tell you his story.
My husband’s grandma, Grace Ivy Spence, was a keen gardener. In the early 1970s, she was given two camellia bushes, one pink, one red, by her brother, Uncle Reg, the Head Gardener at Valentine’s Park in Ilford. The two bushes were duly planted in her garden at 85 Woodgate Road, Eastbourne which she shared with her two sisters, Auntie Bab and Auntie Cis. My husband has very happy memories of that garden. It was in the old English style with apple trees, two greenhouses, a veg patch, an apricot tree and old-fashioned sweet-scented roses and sweet peas. The two camellia bushes thrived.
The sisters called in a dodgy odd job man. Having fixed the roof, he threw all the old wood on top of the camellias, crushing them.
In 1983, she moved with Auntie Bab (Auntie Cis having died in 1981) to 107 Chelmsford Road, South Woodford. I came on the scene in 1985 and remember her garden well. The camellias were doing well, until a leak was found on the flat roof at the back of the house. The sisters called in a dodgy odd job man. Having fixed the roof, he threw all the old wood on top of the camellias, crushing them. To add insult to injury, he then had a bonfire. Both camellias were both burnt to the ground. The pink one was a write-off, but camellia Adolphe Audusson had one pitiful little stalk still hanging on. With careful nurturing, plenty of manure and lots of loving care, it was somehow brought back to life.
Its next challenge came in 1991 with yet another move, three miles up the road to 81 Russell Road, Buckhurst Hill. Sadly, a year later, Grace died and in autumn 1993, we got married and moved in. We inherited the camellia bush, which features heavily in photos of our early married life. The huge, glossy flowers lit up the garden and clashed beautifully with the forsythia behind it.
In 2006, we left Essex to move to Loudham, right here in Suffolk, and of course camellia Adolphe Audusson joined us on our journey up the A12. We were anxious about how it would adapt to yet another move, but we needn’t have worried. I can see it out of the kitchen window as I type, tall and healthy and covered with huge, beautiful blooms. It’s probably not a surprise to you to learn that camellias are sometimes known as the roses of winter. Buds appear as early as December, and in March, they burst into glorious bloom.
You don’t need me to provide the subtext for this – but just in case, here goes.
Times are hard. We don’t know what the future holds. Some of us may be feeling uprooted, damaged, vulnerable, crushed and with good reason. These are frightening times. But at our core, we are strong and versatile and even the vicissitudes of life will not finish us off. Like our hardy camellia, which has survived being crushed and broken, then burnt, as well as move after move, somehow, we will see the green shoots of growth when this is all over. We may even burst back into bloom.
We're all in a hard place, but we’re in it together. Let’s remember to hold on to hope and to support each other until we are re-planted in the fertile soil of society where social distancing and lock-down are distant memories, stories to tell our grandchildren.
* A fine red lippy, worn only when networking or speaking at events. The upside is that it brings out the colour of my eyes (I know – weird isn’t it?) and makes me feel confident, the downside that it transfers to the front teeth, necessitating frequent grimacing in mirrors.