The Ghost In the Garden Read online

  The Ghost in the Garden

  Jude Piesse is an academic and writer. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia and a PhD in English Literature from the University of Exeter. She has published widely on nineteenth-century literature and culture, including her book about emigration literature, British Settler Emigration in Print, 1832–1877 (OUP, 2016). Though she grew up in Shropshire, she did not discover Darwin’s childhood garden until she moved to Shrewsbury with her young family to take up her first lectureship. She now works as a lecturer in English Literature at Liverpool John Moores University.

  Scribe Publications

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  Published by Scribe 2021

  Copyright © Jude Piesse 2021

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers and the author of this book.

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  9781913348052 (UK edition)

  9781925849943 (Australian edition)

  9781950354764 (US edition)

  9781925938876 (ebook)

  Catalogue records for this book are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.

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  For my daughters, with love

  CONTENTS

  1. Lorum

  2. Doves and Pigeons

  3. Orbit

  4. A Shropshire Pine

  5. Ferns and Feathers

  6. Grapes Out of Rubble

  7. The Hare and the Marble

  Notes

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Lorum

  ‘I often think of the Garden at home as a Paradise;

  on a fine summer’s evening, when the birds are singing

  how I should enjoy to appear, like a Ghost amongst you,

  whilst working with the flowers.’

  CHARLES DARWIN TO CAROLINE DARWIN,

  20 SEPTEMBER 1833, BUENOS AIRES.

  Darwin never stopped thinking about the garden at home. The garden at The Mount in Shrewsbury was with him from the very beginning, when, as a boy, he first examined flowers, and collected birds’ eggs, and fished in the River Severn. It remained in his thoughts when he wrote to his elder sister Caroline in 1833 during his Beagle expeditions: a little patch of Shropshire ground that swelled to the proportions of a lost paradise.

  The garden was there again in 1842, a green glint visible through the windows as Darwin completed his first written outline of evolutionary theory during a visit to his childhood home. And it must have been on his mind during the years when he built a new garden on old plans at Down House in Kent and eventually wrote the Origin.

  If a place can be said to follow a man, then the garden at The Mount followed Darwin to the last. It forms the native terrain of the born naturalist who is the Romantic gatekeeper of Darwin’s autobiographical projects — the boy gardener who collects pebbles, and climbs trees, and invents ‘great falsehoods’ about being able to change the colour of crocuses. Even the soberer Darwin of old age, who wrote as if he were already ‘a dead man in another world looking back at my own life’, chose to return to his earliest haunt.

  It was in ‘the Garden at home’ that Darwin gleaned some of his most foundational insights. The sense of wonder in the natural world that would eventually grow stronger than fear, and the practical knowledge that real, tangible, often ordinary, details must always precede abstraction. The intuition that every one of those details, however apparently distinct, must necessarily be connected to every other: from ‘the flattened and fringed legs of the water-beetle’ to ‘the beautifully plumed seed of the dandelion’. Evolution may have taken wing where the hemispheres meet, but it was born in a Shropshire hedge.

  It was also at The Mount that Darwin first learnt that even the naturalist’s pursuit of truth must be held in check by deeper moral feeling. Only a single egg should be taken from the nest, Caroline explained: curiosity alone will not suffice — a boy must learn to be humane.

  Caroline was not alone in wielding a lasting influence on Darwin through informal garden lessons. Their mother, Susannah, is said to have helped design the layout of the gardens in which she bred doves in the early 1800s before her premature death, setting overlooked precedents for both her son’s botanical enthusiasm and the crucial understanding of variation and inheritance in pigeons that underpins so much of the Origin. Susan, the most charismatic and outspoken of Darwin’s four sisters, posted mixed bulletins of gardening news, local gossip, and editorial advice in reply to the journal instalments Darwin sent home from his post as ship’s naturalist on the Beagle — instalments that, as the published Voyage of the Beagle, register surprising traces of Shropshire life. The devoted, maternal Caroline added updates on the progressive new infant school she had founded opposite The Mount in continuation of her work as Darwin’s first instructress, along with poignant pleas for her charge to come home. And when Darwin did finally come home to settled ways of life, soon falling into a pattern of shire visits that anticipated his move to the Kent countryside, it fell to the young Mount gardener, John Abberley, beekeeper and bean tender, to help with a series of mysterious new experiments. He was one in a long line of green-fingered labourers who helped to carry the greatest theory of their age.

  The stories of The Mount’s less famous gardeners — the mother, sisters, and workers lost in the background of most traditional Darwin biographies — are inseparably connected with Darwin’s own. Uplifting, tragic, revelatory, and frustratingly opaque, each story is also a vital strand in the garden’s larger plot — and the story of a place is always bigger than that of an individual. The garden bears the imprints of all the lives it has known. The squat boot-prints of poor gardeners as well as the narrow trails of ladies. The tracks and root spread of countless wild residents. The soil-deep memories of environmental changes still shaping the common ground below.

  This is the kind of story that I believe fits Darwin best, precisely because it makes him less of the protagonist he never sought to be. Though it has only ever been a patch of Shropshire ground, one now forgotten and neglected, the garden has the power to reveal not only the roots of Darwin’s collaborative, domestic methodologies, but a localised section of the ‘complex and radiating lines’ that bind all things together: that ‘inextricable web’ first glimpsed within its range.

  Darwin’s childhood garden is not just Darwin’s after all. It is a tangle of experiences that both shaped and exceeded him; a hatchway of intercrossing pathways — both man-made and natural — that lead into the future and back to the past.

  *

  Now, just as it once haunted Darwin, the garden is unexpectedly haunting me too.

  I discovered it on my doorstep in 2015, when I returned to Shropshire after an absence of twelve years. I had been offered my first lectureship at a new university centre in Shrewsbury, close to the town in which I grew up and where my mother still lives, and just around the corner from my sister.

  My elder daughter, Hazel, had been born shortly after I’d completed my doctorate at the University of Exeter in 2013. Since she’d turned six months, and with my PhD scholarship at an end, I had been working insecure and poorly paid sessional university teaching contracts while finishing my monograph about nineteenth-century emigration literature and the Victorian novel. I had also been mentally preparing for the move that I knew would have to come if I was to get a more stable foothold in the cut-throat academic job market that seemed much more accommodating to thrusting young men from Oxford than women in their thirties with toddlers in tow. I hadn’t expected the job to crop up back home in Shropshire because, though I had ended up moving back twice since originally leaving at eighteen, and though I missed living close to my family, I was of the persuasion that nothing ever cropped up in Shropshire. That was one of the reasons I’d had to move away.

  Yet there it was. A lectureship with my name written all over it: three days a week but progressing to full time, allowing me to juggle an academic career with motherhood, ideally aimed at someone who could bring both literature and creative writing experience to the programme, and who wanted to be part of a new intellectual centre that would reinvigorate the region. For once, I didn’t need to pretend in the interview. I really wanted all of these things.

  So we arrived in Shropshire, with a two-year-old in a buggy and an academic book in press, ready to take a shot at bridging worlds. If this worked out, then the jumbled components of my overstocked life might finally come together. If it meant a little compromise on the career front — no glittering spires or glamorous American research institutes just yet, and only a two-year contract initially — then, really, that was fine.

  I didn’t know then that I would be leaving Shropshire fifteen months later with a new baby, and the seeds of a new kind of manuscript stirring in my imagination; seeds that would develo
p at a pace with my growing daughters in incremental, interruptible steps propelled by their own form and pattern. I would be leaving with the stronger family ties I had hoped for, but also in the knowledge that this return, and many subsequent ones to come, were part of a new journey rather than any paradise regained. I didn’t know any of this because time runs in one direction, until you learn to pick its seams. But I felt a rare and reassuring conviction in the pit of my stomach that taking the job was the right thing to do.

  I certainly didn’t know that I was looking for a garden as part of my have-it-all relocation package; especially not one linked to Darwin, whose work I admired but hadn’t paid much attention to since undergraduate days. Not even enough to insist that we had a decent plot at our new rented house: a pretty cottage tucked away on the enticingly named Hermitage Walk, very close to where my sister lives above her antiques shop in the thick of the picturesque cluster of old streets and buildings that make up the smart, now gentrified neighbourhood of Frankwell on the River Severn’s banks to the northwest of Shrewsbury’s centre. The cottage seemed to have everything going for it, aside from its paving — and much more than I’d supposed.

  My flashes of horticultural ambition over the years had been curtailed by too many changes of house, city, and direction. Most recently, there had been my Devon raspberry bush, a fat, scone-seeking beauty that we’d had to relinquish when the landlady wanted to move back in unexpectedly. My husband, Robbie, and I had walked past the windows of our former house, ruefully imagining her enjoying raspberry daiquiris behind the net curtains we had washed in order to reclaim our deposit. Further back still was the memory of our guerrilla sunflower. It had sprung up like a magic bean from the scrap of earth around a city tree after we had taken the whim to brighten up a concrete neighbourhood by sowing seeds. In the end, we hadn’t stayed long enough to meet any of our neighbours. The sunflower’s is the only face I recall.

  I hadn’t known I was looking for a garden, but perhaps I was. At any rate, that’s what I found. Go beyond the fence at the end of the road next to Hermitage Walk, down the uneven worn stone steps, follow the riverside path, and you will find it too. But do not walk too quickly, or you will miss it altogether. Darwin’s description of the garden as a haunted paradise lost in his letter to Caroline has proved prophetic, and the site has fallen into a state of evocative obscurity. Its vertiginous situation on a slope down to the river makes access as difficult as it is desirable; its partial vanishing act whenever the Severn floods becomes a suggestive act of self-concealment. There are no carefully tended flowerbeds to see any more, just self-seeded foxgloves and tangles of ivy.

  Only two acres of the original seven-acre Mount site retain something of their identity as Darwin’s childhood garden. These were purchased several years ago by Shropshire Wildlife Trust and have since been semi-restored as part of ongoing efforts to enable educational work and scheduled public visits. But the site is primarily kept as a wildlife reserve, dominated by overgrown ashes, sycamores, and hollies, and by bushy clusters of nettles that spill out of the wire fencing erected to enclose them. A section of the Terrace Walk, along which both Darwin and his doctor-financier father Robert used to take constitutional strolls, is located in there amongst all the leaves, along with the now crumbling walls of the little round icehouse. New steps have been put in that lead up to nowhere — a place that once was and may be again.

  Steps in the garden © Gaynor Llewellyn-Jenkins.

  The rest of the garden is buried beneath the houses, fields, and contemporary gardens of the Frankwell and Mountfields suburbs. Two-thirds of the original lawn remains intact around the large red-bricked Mount House, which has long accommodated the workers of a local government land valuation office. The one-and-a-half acre walled kitchen garden was absorbed into a 1930s development of nineteen properties, known as Darwin Gardens. Somewhere beneath these handsome suburban houses also lies the coiled form of the spacious circular flower garden that Darwin dreamt of on the Beagle, its radial paths running in counterpoint to the street and its rows of wheelie bins. It turned out that our rented cottage directly faced one of the old kitchen garden walls, onto which Darwin climbed to steal peaches and plums as a boy.

  An unobtrusive placard in the neighbouring Doctor’s Field, also once owned by the Darwin family, provides the only clear indication of the garden’s presence. It supplies some brief information about the site’s history along with a portrait of Charles and his youngest sister Emily Catherine, known as Catherine, as children, sketched in 1816 by Ellen Sharples.

  I discover this placard on one of my first walks by the river after moving. It is a bright autumn morning at the beginning of October 2015 and I have just learnt that I am pregnant with my second daughter, Esther. I have the familiar yet strange sensation of giddiness that results from the pressure pregnancy puts on a circulatory system that is not yet making enough blood for two. The sun is having a last blast in a blue summer’s sky and the leaves are wheeling down in the breeze. Apple trees that date back to Darwin’s time have produced heavy yields of small green and golden fruits that gather amongst the grass, and which taste both sharp and earthy.

  The placard is positioned at the perimeter of the field next to the pastureland where the dairy cows graze, just as they did when Darwin was a boy living in the house that still stands at the top of the steep slope behind us. I stop to study the portrait for a few minutes, examining the composition and trying to read the signs. A boy in dark blue breeches, jacket, and a white frilled collar clutches a potted plant with tubular yellow blooms: the South African Lachenalia aloides, or opal flower, as I learn later. A girl in a white dress seated to the right of him holds a posy bound with sky blue ribbons. Both have the same short, androgynous haircut, her dusty blonde hair a few shades lighter than his nut-brown. Both share the same intelligent eyes and neutral half-smile. Their expressions don’t give much away, but intrigue me all the same. I take a photo of the portrait to consider closely later. Then I put some apples in my handbag and start the walk back home. I feel wonderfully giddy, not quite in my weight, as if I might blow to the top of the mount.

  Ellen Sharples. Portrait of Charles Darwin and Catherine Darwin, c.1816. Down House, Downe, Kent. Darwin Heirlooms Trust. © Historic England.

  *

  I started to organise a study day about the garden in collaboration with Shropshire Wildlife Trust a couple of months into my new job at the university. Ostensibly, the event was about bringing scientists, humanities scholars, and members of the public together to explore the garden from inclusive, interdisciplinary angles, and to discuss options for its future restoration. I scheduled talks from historians and a botanist, planned a guided tour of the site, and made heavy work of mulling over my own workshop on the young Darwin’s imaginative and literary life.

  In part, I wanted to give something to the university to sweeten the news of my unceremoniously prompt pregnancy. But I was also creating the event for myself. I wanted an excuse to read up on both Darwin and The Mount: to understand more about the site’s history and to decode its power. Soon my what-to-eat-when-pregnant guides and first-year literature syllabus texts were keeping company with an intimidating selection of door-stopper Darwin biographies, works by Darwin, and forensically detailed local histories. I was squaring up to the challenge of the place: the possibilities, the obstacles, that itch to dig.

  But I did not find as much on the garden itself as I had been expecting. I discovered that the Mount plot was purchased by Darwin’s wealthy father Robert Waring Darwin in 1796 as the site for a residence for himself and his new wife Susannah, of the Staffordshire Wedgwood family. The garden’s layout dates back to the construction of the house between 1798 and 1800, and this can still be seen in surviving surveyor’s maps dated 1866 and 1867, when the house, its contents, and grounds were put up for sale at two auctions. Enabled by the shared riches of the Darwin and Wedgwood families, the garden incorporated a range of impressive features, such as the unusual geometric flower garden, a forty-foot vinery, a glade, and spacious pleasure grounds. Robert Darwin’s interest in exotic plants led him to invest in expensive gardening equipment, including a hothouse from which he grew pineapples, most probably with the assistance of John Abberley’s predecessor as gardener, the elusive Joseph Phipps, and rare plants like the opal flowers sketched by Sharples. Remarkably, on Christmas Day 1839, the garden produced enough home-grown Shropshire grapes to fill ‘a large plate’.