Saturday 23 July 2016

Behind green doors


Last night's vivid dream entailed me answering a knock on the door of the big old house I was brought up in, and opening it to find several hundred people standing outside, and their spokesman - a famous, suited, T.V. personality - insisting they had the right to enter and take it over.

I was dressed in pyjamas, and I physically pushed him back and slammed the door on him before going back inside and wondering what to do next.

This house was - and still is - situated in a very leafy and wealthy area of Surrey, and the kitchen side-windows are set at a high level to prevent the servants from being distracted from their work by looking out of them. Most kitchen windows of houses with servants had them set this high, as did a lot of schools. The recently disgraced 'Sports Direct' company here has overcome the problem of workers becoming distracted in their warehouses by having no windows at all, I would guess.

In the days of my childhood, all - or most - of the employed gardeners in that area were Italian, and I guess that many stayed behind after the war when they were deemed non-dangerous and given work in the various communites where they were P.O.W.s. This is why there are so many Italians in Wales.

We could never afford a gardener on our two and a half acres, but the neighbours both sides could. One Sunday, we had all settled down to a roast dinner in the kitchen, when we heard some groans and garbled Italian pleas for help, and we looked up to see a half-severed hand, dripping with blood, being waved above the window cill. Next-door's gardener had somehow got it caught in the mower when clearing grass from the blades, but had obviously not bothered to turn the machine off beforehand. I didn't eat much lunch, and neither did my sisters.

The original owner of our house had shot and killed his Italian gardener, reputedly for having an affair with his wife.

During the inquest as to what happened that day in our garden, the owner said that he saw some bushes moving and thought it was a rabbit, so shot through the bush. The court accepted his explanation. Maybe the rule about always having to have a clear shot at your target did not apply to Italians at the time. Attitudes change.

Today, in Australia, you are seven times more likely to be murdered than the rest of the population if you are an indigenous Aborigine. I believe it was only a few decades ago that it became illegal for white people to go hunting Aborigines as if they were fair game animals. If they killed each other, nobody cared.

Attitudes usually change by example and peer-pressure, and this is why I love Dr Samuel Johnson so much. Not only was he an extremely clever bastard, but he was an extremely humane one too. A rare combination, especially 260 years ago.

18 comments:

  1. Sunday roast, Lady Chatterley's Lover, Italians, Aborigines, Johnson. Which nationality would you recommend to an as yet unborn with ambition to lead a gentle life (as a gardener)?

    U

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Is he/she being born with a fully-formed set of ambitions?

      Delete
    2. What I mean is that wars and other events often get in the way of ambition fulfilment. My mother's career as a model was cut short in 1945.

      Delete
    3. Are we "born with a fully formed set of ambition", you ask. I don't know, Tom. The lucky ones are those who have an undeniable talent and a lot of LUCK to make a living out of their talent. And, yes, Tom, life does get in the way of many an ambition wished to be fulfilled. It's why it makes my heart sink listening to those, standing cap in hand, with their "bucket" lists. Just enjoy life, till your garden. Stand and contemplate.

      In the end? In the end, nothing much matters as long as you were aware.

      Your mother sounds intriguing.

      U

      Delete
  2. My grandad often said people had to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Nowadays people just sit on the pavement.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ah, good old-fashioned bullshit. You don't hear much of that these days... oh hang on. you do, don't you?

      Delete
    2. Now correct me if I am wrong, but I get the feeling that your Grandad was not addicted to heroin?

      Delete
  3. This one is too complex for me, today.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sorry Joanne. I begin with the intention of writing a feel-good post which will appeal to everyone, then I end up crawling back into my own head. Just think yourself lucky you have the choice as to whether or not to come with me.

      Delete
  4. I'm coming with you !!!!!!!
    You really like that image, don't you ?!! XXXX

    ReplyDelete
  5. Well that had everything love, sex, murder and a roast dinner.
    Merle...........

    ReplyDelete
  6. Our Surrey gardener was English, his wife who worked in the house was English, and their son who did 'odd jobs' for us was also English. We had a part time 'occasional' gardener (also English) who died spade in hand in the garden; I think his name was Richardson.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I wasn't saying that you HAD to be Italian to be a gardener in Surrey, or that you have to be Polish to be a plumber in Somerset. In fact, I wish I could find a Polish plumber.

      Delete
  7. Many Italians emigrated from Italy after the war to never return. They made a better life elsewhere. I suppose the gardener who got shot died happily.
    Greetings Maria x

    ReplyDelete
  8. I know and appreciate your fondness for Johnson, but what the hell is he doing in this post?

    ReplyDelete