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The blossom is out!
This morning, as my dog Arthur and I pootled along the pavement, the overhanging branches of an apple tree hanging heavy with blossom created a canopy above us. The branches hung over the fence of a secret garden, which was hidden behind a beautiful, old, red brick wall. The pavement itself was peppered with pale pink petals and, as we made our way under the branches, the breeze blew and we were showered with fragrant confetti. Immediately I was transported back to my childhood.
Growing up in Chelsea on Chelsea Square and living in a small, poky flat, my mother would take us out daily for fresh air and exercise. Reminiscing, it’s clear that my mother had her favourite walks. She walked us literally miles – partly because she didn’t drive and couldn’t afford the bus fare, but mainly, I think, because she genuinely enjoyed walking and believed it was good for us.
She fostered in me a love of walking and while most people associate going out for a walk with striding through forests, fields, and wide open spaces, my joy is often found walking the streets of various towns and cities.
Growing up in an inner city, the capital in fact, we were very lucky in that there were lots of wonderful parks like Battersea, Kensington Gardens, and Hyde Park within walking distance of home. These parks were regular haunts, but my mother also took us all around the local area and pointed out hidden gems.
Mother was interested in everything: history, architecture, art, statuary, as well as the flora and fauna of a place. She took great pains to point things out to us from when we were tiny; like hogweed growing between the tiny cracks in pavements and yellow 22-spot beetles marching up a brick wall.
Photograph of my mother: Grace Joan Brooks
I learned to look at everything around me as she’d point out tiny treasures often missed and unobserved by most people. For example, a black and white plaster cat, sat high up on a roof in Church Street, or the painting of a house 100 years earlier over the door in Drayton Gardens.
From before we went to school at five, she would take us out come rain or shine and tell us all about Michelin House, the Physic gardens, St. Luke’s Gardens, or Petyt Square. And, you know, strangely I never asked her how she knew so, so much about so many places without the internet. But, as my mum was a member of Mensa and produced crosswords for The Telegraph in later years, I shouldn’t be surprised.
What she fostered in me was not only a love of history, but a fascination for ordinary houses too. Well, not exactly ordinary as very few properties in Chelsea were ordinary! How each house was presented, their front gardens, the plants they grew. I suspect that those homeowners would’ve been horrified to know that my mother would ask us for a score out of 10 for curb appeal and then question us as to why we’d made our decisions.
My mother never owned or lived in a ‘proper’ house herself as before the war she was brought up in a mews flat, her father in service as a chauffeur. Then, when she left the Auxiliary Territorial Service and my father came back from a Prisoner of War camp, they moved into the flat that I grew up in at the top of a block of flats in Chelsea Square.
I know that she was utterly thrilled when my sister and I changed our lives so that we were able to buy our own homes and, though never envious or jealous of others, I know she’d have given anything to have been able to have owned her own house. Smiling now as I write this, you can bet your bottom dollar it would have been a ‘10’ for curb appeal!
So, the reason I think of my mother as we encounter the delicate, pink petals of the blossom on Southcourt Avenue is that come spring she’d always take us to Dovehouse Street, around the corner from where we lived. A long road, it was lined on both sides with cherry blossom trees and when the blossom was out it was a completely magical sight.
She’d take us there to run along the pavements while humming the bridal march at the tops of our voices and laughing together as pale pink and white petals rained down on us. We’d kick up carpets of them as they lay in swathes across the pavements.
I remember we’d stretch out our arms, head back, and twirl in the sunshine, picking the petals out of our hair as we’d eventually exhaust ourselves and make our way home. My mother was a shy woman and not one to usually draw attention to herself, but I remember clearly her unbridled joy as she twirled with us, eyes closed, laughing loudly. Goodness knows what the neighbours thought, but the real joy was that she didn’t care – she celebrated those blossom trees with her two small children like no-one was watching.
Oh, and by the way, I still do it! When I plod along the streets of Dorchester, dog leads in hand, I can be heard whispering to Arthur: “Is that a seven do you think or should I be generous and give it an eight?” So, be warned, the ‘curb appeal police’ are still out there, making observations and judgements. If you want someone to blame, blame her, not me!
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