Angus Wilson
TWO STORIES:
LIFE AND LETTER S
It had rained heavily the night before and many of the
flowers in the herbaceous border lay flattened and crushed upon the
ground. The top-heavy oriental poppies had fared worst; their hairy
stalks were broken and twisted, and their pink and scarlet petals were
scattered around like discarded material in a dressmaker's shop. But
they were poor blowsy creatures anyway, thought Mrs. Searle, the
vulgar and the ostentatious survive few blows. Nevertheless she chose
sticks and bast from the large trug which she trailed behind her, and
carefully tied the bent heads, cutting off the broken ones with the
secateurs. It was at once one of the shames and one of the privileges
of gardening, she thought, that one was put in this godlike position of
judgment, deciding upon what should live and what should be cast
into outer darkness, delivering moral judgments and analogies. It was
only by a careful compensation, an act of retribution, such as pre–
serving the poppies she had condemned, that she could avoid too great
an arrogance. She fingered the velvety leaves of the agrostemma sen–
suously, there were so few flowers of exactly that shade of rich crim–
son, and how gloriously they lay against their silver foliage. There
should be more of them next year- but less, she decided, of the scarlet
lychnis, there was nothing more disappointing than a flower spike on
which too few blooms appeared. Ragged, meagre and dowdy for all
their bright colours, like the wife of the Warden of St. Jude'S. How
depressing that one still remembered that dispiriting little woman
sitting there talking in her slight North country accent, and dressed
in that absurd scarlet suit.
"Your signature on this petition, Mrs. Searle, would be such a
help.
If
we University women can give a lead.... I mean we've all
