Seventy odd years agrowing – some of them odd indeed

I entered this world within the hallowed confines of Queen Charlotte’s Hospital the then favoured natal clinic for Royalty and keeping within my theme - on the 657 trolleybus route.

Quite how my parents managed the feat has been lost in the mists but suffice it to say that I narrowly missed the more rural nativity of a tied cottage in the depths of Berkshire. It was my father’s constant search for work as a first fixing carpenter that had us lodging in two rooms of my nan’s (mum’s mother) house in Hounslow – not far from the starting point of route 657. My maternal grandfather had been employed by London Transport in the paintshop at Chiswick Bus Works and the fact that trolleybuses terminated close to affordable housing in Hounslow was fundamental in his choice of residence. Sadly, he departed for the great workshop above six months before my appearance, though l gather he was one of those quiet heroes that plod on resolutely mundanely, working, fathering a small family and surprisingly for an hourly paid man – paid a mortgage and bought a house.   

That small back garden, overhung by a Lane’s Prince Albert apple, with its bemossed brick path first introduced me to Nature – I was hooked immediately by the other worldliness of woodlice, slugs and snails, their pneumostomes fascinating long before I knew the term and I’m afraid that I anguished many by probing their tentacles and eyesprouts – but torture far from my mind. Not the least intriguing addition was the horrified faces both my mum and nan put on when I ventured into the kitchen festooned with my garden pals. Thus discovering the joy of being considered un enfant terrible – then spent a goodly part of my youth proving the point. I have preserved a bedroom window view to where I was sent in disgrace for attempting to cut down said apple tree – though later the oozing wounds healed and the scars occupied by woolly aphids gave opportunity for further study.

One bright morning, I soon picked up my mum’s summery aura and earnest appeals to ready myself – we were off on a trolleybus! Our destination an airy fairy mention overawed by brute motive forces. I sat in the front seat so I could see our driver operate the controls and joy of joys – the conductor had to change direction of the pickup arms before we set off. Mum kept up an itinerary of our path, The Bell and Hounslow High Street, then my first sight of a wonderful impossibly large building – Pears House, “that where I went to school” mum said in a whisper, in case listening passengers thought her boastful. Busch Corner and the first whiffs of a distinctive niff, it grew stronger as the colours drained from the scenery until all was blackened brickwork and windblown litter. Suddenly a blast of heat penetrated even the dust laden air, smoke and fire issued above a tall wall – “that’s the gas works” said mum “they make coke there – the funny smell results.”  Happier days when coke was neither a drug or a fizzy drink.

Little did I know that day moves were afoot to clean the air, the coking plant would shortly close and along with burning nutty slack in homefire grates, would become a thing of the past. Brentford and its environs sank into industrial dereliction reminiscent of Iron Curtain countries – remaining so for decades. That such a wasteland could be swept away and the skyline transformed into a Sci Fi landscape of gleaming high rise apartments would have seemed an impossible fancy – though one old thing that remains – is the traffic snarl up approaching Kew.

Our trolleybus trundled along, its arms negotiating the tangle of conductors and straining supports at the junction. Finally it slowed to a stop, for here we alighted and walking began with yet more excitement crossing a huge bridge – would the tide be ebbing or flowing?

But in those days I needed a lift to see over the parapet, assistance that was not forthcoming “come on” said mum “there’s a way to go yet.” And so there was, my Startrite sandals skipping over the cracks in the paving slabs thus avoiding witches. Our destination loomed ahead of me before I realized as I’d been so absorbed looking down at my feet.

And now another pair of feet, large feet, in big shiny boots. Gazing up, I could see they belonged to a kind of policeman – a big jovial looking policeman – the very chap I imagined when listening to the Laughing Policeman on our wireless. Mum handed this policeman a single penny for our entrance fee and for the first of many times I pushed the revolving turnstile all by myself. We had reached Kew Gardens – a Royal Garden – expectancy was high to meet the Queen “she’s probably very busy dear” said mum.

Of course we were faced then by the same dilemma all visitors face at Kew’s gates – where to go first! And I must admit to not clearly remembering everything I did see on that first visit – it went by in a whirl of confused senses and blurred images which blurred even more over the intervening years. I know we made it to the Palm House as I traced out the letters Decimus Burton with a lazy leg over the dedication plate “that’s a funny name” said I. “People had funny names in the past dear, he was the man who built this wonderful greenhouse.” I knew my dad built things and wondered whether he’d ever have his name in a floor. We even toured the upper walkway despite my mum’s dislike of dizzying heights and steamy heat to marvel at being in the tops of palms bearing flowers and fruit puzzlingly called dates that I had imagined to be strings of numbers!

Much later we sat and ate sandwiches in yet another greenhouse before the original Sherman Hoyt painted desert backdrop – probably kindling my love of cacti – I later asked Father Christmas for some plants and he obliged – quite remarkable given the cultivation difficulties posed by living at the North Pole.

All too soon it seemed another jolly policeman on a bicycle rode passed calling “Closing Time” - I was fit to drop and perhaps the burning sensation in my feet and trembling knees seared the nearest tree’s shape into my brain – whatever the reason the Stone Pine remained a firm favourite – a must see on most other visits and like many others, I shed a tear or two at its demise some sixty years later.

It’s an easy matter for folk viewing my life with hindsight benefit – that my first Kew visit was instrumental in forming my horticultural future -  the truth of which, as can be said of many popular conceptions – is both yes and no. I reckon that my nan’s mossy bricks, resident invertebrates and the heady scent of Philadelphus (only ever called Syringa in our house) set my course and whatever its direction, my love of earthy connection would see my hands in soil.

I am forever grateful that my mum taught me to read and personifying  precociousness I quickly graduated from Janet & John to the daily newspaper – its litany of worldly disaster juxtaposed by a strip cartoon of an old mustachioed Mr Digwell in his veggie patch; however; my reading prowess often belied childhood innocence that had me bewildered how funny little stamps converted into petrol. My dad brought home a book and waved them at my mum – “Look, dear – it’s happening again” and thus introduced the bane of the modern era – dependence upon oil.

Avid, doesn’t fully describe my ravenous appetite for the written word – I read morning, noon and night – consuming text and bombarding my poor mother question after question. She couldn’t always answer but I owe her another extraordinary debt that she never failed to say “but I know how to find out.”  It was such quests that took us off on further trolleybus journeys to the museums of South Kensington where I learnt to memorise and pronounce Diplodocus carnegii discovering that Life was millions of years old rather being created bright and beautifully in six days – I’ve been profoundly interested (some would say obsessively absorbed) in the subject ever since!

My progress through the halls of academe was generally a fraught affair – my pre-war vintage teachers not taking so well to the frank opinion I was used to expressing at home.

As a case in point – I was soundly thrashed for propounding Continental Drift to my deskmate when I should have been paying attention to the monotone drone that memory failed to record. Being a fanatic jigsaw puzzler – I couldn’t fail to notice that most of Earth’s land masses might well fit together. Cutting up a school atlas and arranging the pieces on a suitable ball only engendered my tutor’s facial horror and a bill for 6/6d.

Much of my time in one class was spent watching the fruit of Malus sylvestris x John Dowie fall to the ground and reaching another “Eureka!” moment – in that I realised Mr Newton didn’t discover gravity by so doing – but scientific method – dropped items ALWAYS fall – no apple ever jumped back on the tree! He looked for the cause.

To be fair, that teacher wanted all 57 children ( yes, 57!) in her class to do well and sought to prepare us for the Brave New World we were all headed for – she thrashed and beat us merely to quell the near riot so often reigning; however; she also praiseworthily, arranged to visit museums - the Horniman  (a favourite for us evolutionists!) and interesting stuff at the Wallace collection.

Understandably – I often travelled there in a 657 trolleybus.

Mr Pears was one of the first industrial magnates, making a fortune from soap (ironically humourous to think that the great unwashed earned him the cash to splash out on this luxurious pile!) However; his builders didn’t break new ground as a house already existed – put up by a certain Mr Joseph Banks – a name much associated with Kew Gardens. The whole edifice has been thoroughly, yet tastefully refurbished and is now encompassed by West Thames College who graciously gave access for a short voyage of nostalgia recently.

As career choices beckoned, I oscillated by the day - the laboratory or the great outdoors like a cat between two fires – it seemed impossible to combine both - two things affected my choice.

The first was a visit to a Mainframe Computer – I capitalise the name because everyone did so in speech. It was the size of a small house, was the temperature of the Kew tropics, hummed and whirred while white and brown coated men attended as drones in a hive. Then another to a big Pharma company where men in perfect suits showed us drug packets while hordes of giggling girls exited their packing line. There – staringly before me were lives laid out – programmers, wiremen,  execs and worker bees - my contemporaries, all allergic to rain and mud eagerly signed up. On my way home I called into our local nursery and to quote a phrase said “Gisuss a job!”

Kew or more precisely – an unknown Kew Gardener, had advised me to foster somewhere that could offer me practical experience of a professional nature as growing veggies in our 20ft x 30ft back garden didn’t quite cut the mustard Horticulturally. Mind you, by this time, I was no stranger to mind-numbing agricultural slog as I’d often joined the casual labour force on a nearby farm, where I was known universally as “Lad” in recognition of my 12 years of life. In fact, the Ganger was reluctant to engage me at first as “thisus men’s work tha’noes” however; he relented and very soon the Gang were telling me to slow down! We’d all set to thinning acres of saladings with an onion hoe – only unbending when our heads hit the opposite fence. The upside being allowed to exercise their heavy horse (I’m an incurable Horsey!)

Did turns on a primitive combine harvester that filled 1.5 cwt sacks dumped in the field – then picked them up by hand with a carter and similarly unloaded at the granary. Probably the origin of my arthritis!  Spud and other pickings in seasonal piecework – I’ve filled nets of Brussels sprouts Christmas week for 3d a time and cut 6d boxes of straw forced Rhubarb in February on land now under Heathrow’s runway. Notwithstanding the poor wages – I was often the highest paid – one thing my dad taught me – “don’t come home till you’ve earned your keep!”  Compared with that – nursery work was a doddle!

Back to London Road, Isleworth - the wall below the magnificently spreading Oak, mostly hid Thomas Kember’s Kingsley Nurseries that tried, and for the most part succeeded, in keeping itself secret – the owners seemingly  embarrassed by being “in trade” to strongly advertise commercial enterprise - thumbed  their noses at the thought of attracting too many paying customers in preference to preserving the air of an interwar years cricket match – during the tea interval.

(I trust you noticed the trolleybus.)

They were in for a bit of a shock!

Alan Clarke, 2025.