Sunday in the Gardens  

By
Paul Golden

“Anna, 2^nd wife to Dr Gibson, 6^th Daughter of Richard Cromwell,
 Granddaughter of Oliver Cromwell, 1659-1727”

It was a Chest tomb, with a rectangular pyramidal top and two Heraldic crests on either end. Clearly it had suffered the ravages of the weather over nearly 300 years, but one of the advertised features of these Gardens.

The last Sunday in September, a chill in the early morning air though the sun was valiantly heating up and gradually grew stronger as it forced its way through the massive ancient London Plane trees, still full of their summer leaves. These trees were scattered, along with newer additions, throughout the gardens, which, although not large, possibly only about one hectare in total, seemed to have been ultimately designed so that there were several distinct spaces – affording light & shade, exposed & secluded – but wherever you looked there were scattered ancient tombs – mainly of the chest variety, but the odd Obelisk and monument.

I slowly wandered round, casually looking at some of the inscriptions. Although, many were so weather-beaten at this stage it was impossible to make out the identities of what remained of the inhabitants. There was a quietness here which you felt was cultivated over hundreds of years, each year the trees grew more majestic, each year the tombs faded a little – it was that stillness you encounter whenever you stumble into a long unused ancient graveyard – or was it merely an early chilly Sunday morning in September and not many people were up? Unlike most squares or Gardens in Bloomsbury these were not boarded by any busy roads – rather they lay at the end of three walkways – you had to walk here to get here, it wasn’t somewhere you blundered into, somewhere you generally had to get through to get somewhere else.

An egg-timer shape, which afforded a tardis-like feel to the Gardens as you progressed through them, though still not large. Well tended, with beds neat and tidy – but still retaining a naturalness, planted so that a minimum of maintenance but maximum effect would result, with winding beige pebble stone footpaths meandering and overlapping throughout the central grasses which ran the length of the place. It was generally shades of green rather than big bright colourful flower beds – perhaps a function of the time of year and perhaps a function of the amount of shade afford throughout because of the massive London Plane. Your eyes were drawn to a female statue, of yellowish stone, standing alone just off a side footpath in the grass centre, clad in greek/roman style garments surrounded by a bed of red flowering plants with large green leaves and encased by the same stone in a circular fashion in what appeared to be a giant lotus bud. The effect was very striking, dense green and red encasing this ancient faded dirty-yellow goddess, a burst of colour surrounded by forty shades of green.

I took a seat on one of the nearby benches to sit awhile. The odd jogger passed by, earphones plugged into some device concealed about their person. An OAP or two, shopping bag in hand – as yet unfilled by a visit to the shops - and an occasional biker passed by. None of which disturbed the majestic silence of the place.

The sun was heating up now and I closed my eyes titling my face toward it to feel the full benefit – it felt  indulgent as you knew it would be gone soon for the dreary onset of autumn was beginning and then winter and goodness knew how long it would be before warmth again…

“Alex! Alex! Alex!” a urgent voice pierced into the calm. It was one of the mobile phone infantry brigade – a man approx. 28yrs, his dress and appearance gave the impression he lived close by, and had just stumbled out to make/take this phonecall. Clearly trying to get Alex to listen to him, and by the sound of it Alex was in something of a state.

“Alex! Alex!  get a taxi I’ll pay for it, they will understand, the tubes are always a mess on the weekends. You’re not that far from Farringdon you can make it”

I raised an eyebrow at this, with the volume of the conversation I had assumed Alex to be in another county at the very least!

My garden-companion continued his telephonic advice, wandering aimlessly around for a time, sitting, strolling and finally lying on the grass in the sun. By and by the crisis was averted, doubtless Alex was successfully negotiating the confusion of public transportation early on a Sunday morning, he smoked a well-earned cigarette and headed off out of the Gardens.

It was a clear blue sky and the nippiness was rapidly abating with the sun encouraging more life into the gardens. Gradually, more and more dog walkers came through – the upper age group seemed to have smaller fatter dogs by and large, whilst younger owners had larger breeds or puppies. What surprised me was that, in the main, none of the dogs were on a lead once they entered and for the duration of their stay in the gardens, but no trouble ensued which led me to think they must come here often to engender this familiarity. I noticed at the far end of the Gardens on one of the grass centres there gathered a group of owners chatting and the dogs played with each other as various owners intermittently threw something for a dog to retrieve.

The foot traffic now started coming from the other direction as people returned home from early morning grocery shopping in the local Waitrose. Those OAPs seen earlier with empty bags, now passed through laden with provisions. Various couplings now began to sit on the benches, strewn throughout, some with coffees or snacks in hand , and had their conversations. I decided to wander around again and see what else I could discover.

I noticed, although the area was enclosed by ancient brick walls, approx. 2 metres high, against every part of these walls ancient gravestones were propped. It was as though they had removed all the headstones from wherever they were originally and laid them side by side against the walls – for the most part the inscriptions has been washed away over time, although some, evidently of a better standard and stone, had lasted and were clearly still decipherable. The more you noticed about this place the more you wanted to know. It was then I came upon one of those Information Boards – finally I could see the fruits of my lottery donations for all those years.

St Georges had opened in 1713 to serve two local parishes, although there was an initial reluctance to bury one’s people so far from town the first burial was in 1715 – a one Robert Nelson. Gradually it became increasingly popular with upto 20 burials a month at one stage. And apart from Anna and Robert the other notables included 8 officers in the young volunteers who were executed in 1746. By 1855 the graveyard was overcrowded and shut. It fell into rapid decline but by 1885 had been rejuvenated and reopened as St George's Gardens for the public. And what of the Greek goddess – Apparently this was Euterpe and until 1898 had adorned the Apollo on Tottenham Court road. In 1961 she was donated to the Gardens. In 2001 the Gardens were further revamped by lottery money to the pristine state it is today.

It answered a question I had been pondering – when does a graveyard become a Garden – when it’s full, falls into disrepair and is revitalised by public money.