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brought here by T. E. Lawrence as a sapling in 1912. He was excavating at Carchemish at the time, and the shoot was presented to him by the Emir of Aleppo, who had taken a fancy to him. They were both buggers, of course. This’ – the old man indicates the corpse with his secateurs – ‘is Commiphora byzantina , related to the myrrh tree. It flourished here for nearly a century despite its Mesopotamian origin, itself a miracle, and it bloomed beautifully each year. And now look at it.’
    ‘Obviously we’re none of us immortal,’ I offer by way of appeasement. ‘I’m sorry, but that tree is defunct. You can’t push a live tree over just by leaning against it.’
    The old man snicks at it with his secateurs and holds up a sprig. ‘What’s that, might I ask? Green, wouldn’t you say?’
    I am beginning to get impatient with this old bore. ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise again for what I vow is the last time, ‘but I had no idea this was a garden. You must be a member of Jardins Sans Frontières.’
    ‘Never heard of ’em.’
    ‘It’s a horticultural society dedicated to abolishing fences.’
    ‘Don’t believe a word of it. You must be blind, anyway.’ The glare intensifies and a khaki-clad arm sweeps the air. ‘What do you think that is? Euphragia monocotylens. Aspergilla trades-cantii there. Dendrofolium physoloides over there. And look there – Vanessa Bell planted that
Forsythia brucei
with her own hands in 1937. “No idea this was a garden”, indeed. Full of rare plants. And very shortly Lytton Strachey’s hollyhocks will be coming up exactly where you’re standing.’
    I take a nervous sideways step with an apologetic glance at my feet. All I can see are nettles and ground elder.
    ‘Not there!’ comes the squeaky bellow. ‘You’re right on top of the hypericums! Duncan Grant used to paint them. He would come up from Sussex each year. He was living with Vanessa by then although of course he was a bugger, like Maynard . Are you a bugger?’
    ‘I really …’
    ‘Thought so. Can always tell. But you’re obviously no gardener .’
    ‘Tell me how to get to Crendlesham Hall and I’ll get out of your garden.’
    ‘Crendlesham? Crendlesham? That where that musical johnny lives? The conductor chappie?’
    ‘Max Christ, yes. I’m a guest of his.’
    ‘Are you just? I suppose he’s a bugger too. They mostly are. Like that Britten fellow. We once gave him an entire floweringbranch of that Commiphora you’ve just murdered. Wanted it for one of his operas over at Snape. Never so much as a thank-you , of course. They’re like cats, you know. All over you until they get what they want, then just walk away.’
    ‘If you point me in the right direction I’ll do the same.’
    A ragged bony arm extends the secateurs. He looks like an illustration by Mervyn Peake. ‘Down there. Hundred yards, there’s the road. Exactly where you’d expect it to be. Turn right. Go on past the crinkle-crankle wall to the junction. Turn right again. Signposted. Only a couple of miles. I doubt even you could miss it. And mind my lizard orchids on the way out, they’re very rare in Bri— No! To your left! To your left , dammit!’
    Eventually the petulant hectorings die away behind me. God, what a place. I’m lost here. This is no longer my country and even to recall that it’s the land of my birth makes it feel like a concession to me that they still speak English and drive on the left. Get out while you can, Samper. Italy was never like this. Strange to think Ovid might have gone home after Augustus’s death and found that in his long absence Rome had become horrid and incomprehensible. He did well to die in exile; there’s nothing so disillusioning as returning to one’s native land. Crinkle-crankle, indeed. But I soon come upon a brick wall that waves in and out with sinuous curves and assume this is it. And the old sod’s instructions do prove accurate and soon I can see Crendleburgh church in the distance.