For many years I resisted the growing of roses. My mother, a passionate rose grower, employed a gardener whose name, extraordinary to recall, was Budd. Mr. Budd was my introduction to the professional horticulturist. I do not remember seeing him busy with spade or hoe. As with my father’s relationship with Peter-who-cleaned-the-car, work seemed to consist of employer and employed standing side by side, gazing at potential problems, in my mother’s case perhaps a grandiflora (of which she later grew an impenetrable 10- foot hedge, not as difficult as it looks) that needed to be shifted, or for my father, an engine requiring carburetor adjustment, my mother’s loquacity occasionally interrupted by a gruff Hampshire “argh” or “um,” my father’s silence only broken by the cough of partial combustion.
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