CONNIE'S PLOTTING
ONE
Connie feels like the past - her past - is now her present. Is this why she wants to be here? To plant herself on this island?
Connie had grown tired of London: the parties, the people, her work. There, she had spent her time arranging flowers for the landed gentry (including royalty, those gilded lilies). She had enjoyed lovers, one fine rose in particular (you know who you are, my darling!) But she had come to crave something else. She had come to crave a view (of the sea/sky), and a small garden of her own to cultivate.
Which is what has brought her to this small island off the west coast of Scotland. An island replete with palm trees, giant ferns and other magical plants, such as the Crocosmia (Fire Queen) that was already flowering in a corner of her plot, unquelled by the previous owner's gravel. (What suburban mouse could quell a Fire Queen?) Has Connie found her ultimate home?
TWO
First problem: a layer of gravel.
Second problem: a layer of thick black polythene under the gravel.
Connie cries to herself: "Oh, how the suburban mentality hates nature in all its variety!”
The first flower to be grown is a transplant, courtesy of one of the wise women of the village (of whom there are many). This wise woman of the village pointed to another wise woman's garden and said: "You can take one of those. She won't miss it."
So Connie pulled the roots gently from one garden adjoining the sea and gently pushed them - not without a lot of blunt-trowel-on-thick-black-polythene action - into her own bit of paradise.
Verbena bonariensis is its name. Or 'Tall Purple-top’.
Two weeks later. And Connie has to admit that her garden has got off to a false start. The tall 'poppy' has been laid low. It was lying uprooted, colourless and dead on the gravel, the killing gravel.
Connie's desire for a garden is having to be put on hold as result of those unexpected layers of black plastic, of which there are several. She would accept this delay. She would be patient. She would allow herself to be diverted.
For it was more than a matter of polythene and gravel. How could she cultivate her garden until she had taken the landscape on board? What chance was there of creating the perfect 'part' when there was as yet so little apprehension of the 'whole'. She realises that she must set to work afresh.
THREE
Connie is ready for a day's excursion. Where will she go? What shall she do?
The appearance of a rainbow inspires her when she looks up from her iPad. She will walk to the rainbow's end and sniff the air thereabouts.
She could silver swim directly to it, but by doing so she would miss out on the conjunction of land and sea. The waves rippling in over the shelly sand… and rolling back out again… time and time again.
In, out… in, out… Push; pull… push; pull… Connie feels the sea gently teasing the sand all afternoon.
When she gets home she wonders how she can do justice to what she has seen and felt.
She doesn't have to wonder for too long. She lays down layers of colour in tribute to a land and sea environment that has existed throughout the lives of thousands of generations of her ancestors.
Then she strips it right back, in acknowledgement of the natural process she has been observing.
Then she starts again. She doesn't dilute her juicy inks with water. She just washes the ink out over the paper, echoing the sea lapping the shore.
Day, night… Sea, sand… Sky, land….
Again she has diluted the image with process… Introducing sea swirl and sea shell… high tide and low tide… black night and a Milky Way…
Come the evening, Connie pours herself a glass of wine with her meal-for-one. She has made herself a roaring fire - so warm that she has to let her hair down, strip off her thick jersey and sit there in her 'NOT DEAD YET' t-shirt.
So carried away with her inking has she become, that she has made a start on painting the walls of her room. Teal: the perfect combination of blue and green, sea and grass. And, what's more, a coded tribute to her darling Gluck.
It is not yet clear how her day's excursion will benefit her garden.
What's clear is that there needs to be more excursions before she can settle down to anything that might be called 'gardening'.
Kate Clayton