On any London street, or at least any one with post-war terraced and semi-detached houses, everybody can look into everybody else’s back garden. Over the back trees I can see when neighbours are barbecuing, on one diagonal I can see and hear others arguing, and on the other when a fox is visiting, one who sometimes mooches over to us.
To the right of me is a young and buzzy family, with a big trampoline, paddling pool, and what feels like a thousand kids running around screaming and chasing. (It’s actually only three kids, but they’re all in very chattery good voice, sounding like Minions).
To the left of me is a busy young couple. They are barely at home, so they have a professional gardener who comes round once a month to maintain their suburban rectangle. I often nip upstairs to sneak a look from my bedroom window and view their oasis of plants and flowers in reds, yellows, pinks and purples. I admire their verdant lawn and their pretty apple blossom, loved by in-flight bees and gently flapping butterflies. I usually gasp as it’s always so blooming pretty. I am green with envy, but not of fingers.
Every supermarket basil plant I’ve ever owned (with the intention of “making pesto”) has perished after three days. I can’t plant anything outside because the ground is too hard, and if I try to the dog digs the soil. Thus my garden is a boring “low maintenance” style lawn with two pots containing last year’s carnations (which amazingly still bloom) and a broken bird feeder. Every time I catch a view of next door’s “pro” garden, I feel absolute back door shame.
One day while sitting on the patio with my coffee, I looked up and saw a red rose and a white one peeking over the six foot fence. I love roses, how they smell and look, their deep colours and their don’t-touch thorniness which, I feel, gives them a beautiful bitchy edginess I imagine them lording over other blooms. They had finally climbed to a sufficient height to “see” over the fence (with what I’m sure was great disappointment).
My green-fingered father grew rose bushes in the garden where I grew up, and I’ve always wanted one of my own. I wondered if it would be okay to take a clipping of my neighbours’ sumptuous flowers – above the fence, not quite hanging over, but low enough to snip. I pondered the legalities for about a week, and chewed this over along with the knowledge that I kill everything I touch. As the roses waved gracefully in the wind, I thought, to hell with it, I’m having them.
I turned to Titchmarsh with the goal of properly propagating the tall, tantalising buds. As instructed, I ordered soil and hormone dipper and pulled the shed apart to find my cobwebbed plant pots. After hosing them down, I was ready.
I hadn’t seen the neighbours in a few days. I went next door with secateurs in bag to ask politely for a cutting, but there was nobody in. I toyed with whether I should just stand on a chair and clip, but decided to do the right thing and text for permission. The reply was abundant with yeses, almost as if next door was saying “for Godsake, at last, I need something better to look at from upstairs”.
The happiness I got from beheading those beauties, following the Titchmarsh trajectory was almost childlike. I dipped and planted six twigs that I’m hopeful one day will become my rose babies. I felt pure, planetary and responsible. Also, perhaps, pathetic. And, dare I say it, a bit green.
Since then, I’ve painted the shed, planted some hanging baskets, repaired the old bird house, refreshed the feeder, jet-washed the patio, restored a table, planted begonias, chrysthanthemums and a purple flower I don’t know the name of. Last year’s carnations have been given some love (fertiliser and egg shells) and are out in pink force. The latest supermarket basil has had a repotting and is now on week four.
Who knows what shall (or shall not) bloom for my death fingers, and for how long? With the help of Titchmarsh, who I’ve since found out has a rose named after him, and encouragement from my sister, who has her own incredible gift of floral blessings, I can only hope the rose twigs will sprout roots and that one day I’ll be the one with the beautiful, nosey roses peeking over from next door.
Julie Hamill is a novelist, a radio presenter and more. Follow her on X/Twitter. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.