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the Liverpool Botanic Gardens, a place I had never heard of.
It was a Tuesday morning in March 2006 and I was sitting
Together they conjured glasshouses filled with rare orchids,
in the eco-chic minimalist interior of the National Wildflower
the flower shows, the gold medals that were won. It wasn’t
Centre in Knowsley near Liverpool with the Committee of
just orchids, there were dozens of tropical species. The first
the Knowsley Flower Show. I had been invited to Liverpool
ones were brought in through the port, on the ships, said one
for a week to experience the city’s horticultural heritage,
person. That was when the garden was in the city centre, added
of which, at that time, I knew nothing. As an artist, that
another. They built a new garden after the war, said another
connection that comes through people and plants had been
member after the second world war, added someone else
a starting point for my work for a few years. Maybe this visit
I used to visit with the children. Intrigued, I asked where
would spark something for the Capital of Culture year in
I could see the orchids and the tropical plants and this
2008? To be honest I wasn’t hopeful, but there seemed a
garden, an image of which was now growing in my mind,
keen-ness in the air. In advance of my visit I had asked to
only to be told that it was all gone. Destroyed by Derek Hatton,
meet people who had an interest in plants and flowers.
one of the members quietly said.
The Knowsley Flower Show Committee was the first group
There was another moment.
I had met. They were all enthusiastic and very knowledgeable
All the orchids were lost, he said, they’re all gone now.
amateur gardeners, who, now retired, were able to invest
I hadn’t heard the name of Derek Hatton for years, but
time in their greatest love. We had begun by talking about
I was instantly transported back to our living room, at home
the genesis of their flower show and local horticultural
in Maidstone, Kent sitting on the settee with my grandfather
history. Rightly curious, they in turn had asked me about
and watching the television News at Six. It must have been
my interest in plants. I was telling them about a visit to
in the early eighties when I was a teenager. The memory
Colombia I had made and how, through meeting people
of being there with him was as vivid as the image that was
connected to flowers there, a wholly new view of the country
on the TV screen. In my minds eye I could see a man, a
had emerged, one very different from the ubiquitous drugs
politician, giving a speech to fervent applause from the steps
n’ violence portrayed in the media. Now, I can’t recall
of a great hall in Liverpool. Now, twenty five years or so later
exactly how, but one of the Committee who had said very
I was hooked by his connection to a vast and by all accounts
little up to this point (other than that he was the only one
exquisite collection of orchids, all gone, and the strong
who didn’t do any gardening) suddenly surprised his fellows
feelings of those present, which, like my memory, seemed
by revealing that as a young seaman he had jumped ship
undimmed through the passage of time. Not all the orchids
in Colombia and spent a year living near Cali on a coffee
are gone, someone said. A few of them survived. I’ve seen
plantation. As he spoke, a blush spread across his face
them in that small glasshouse at Calderstones Park. And then
along with a wry smile; as if in the telling he was shedding
someone else added: Actually, there are hundreds of orchids
the years. Seated before us, he was that young man again.
still alive. They’re just out of public view. It was in that moment,
There followed a quiet ripple through the company. The
somewhere between Maidstone, Colombia and Liverpool,
seams of a life, presumed tightly sewn, had just loosened
courtesy of the personal revelation of an ex-seaman and the
before our eyes. As his friends paused to recover, I asked
hospitality of the Flower Show Committee that my journey
the ex-seaman with the blushing grin if he had seen many
began. A garden destroyed, forgotten; in my lifetime too.
orchids during his time in Colombia, a stupid question really,
I wanted to discover its story. Just before I left, I gave each of
perhaps asked through embarrassment, with the obvious
the Flower Show Committee members a postcard. On it was
reply that it hadn’t been the orchids that had attracted his
a photograph I had taken of a Colombian orchid grower with
attention that year, but yes, there were (so he had heard)
one of her prize blooms. The ex-seaman read the caption
more orchid species in Colombia than anywhere else in the
which gave her name: Ah yes, Beatriz… he sighed.
world. Ah yes, orchids, said the only Committee member
The next day I stood before a scene of abject desolation.
whose mind still seemed within North West England: the
A yawning earthy scar. I was at the site of the last Liverpool
orchids, what happened to all those orchids? The Liverpool
Botanic Gardens. There was a padlocked glasshouse. Inside
orchids? His voice was strained. The orchids were the stars
were a few jaggedy Yucca plants splitting out of their plastic
of the botanic garden. What happened to them?
pots and a glowering group of ancient standing stones
There was a moment.
known as ‘The Calder Stones’ which gave their name to
And then the Knowsley Flower Show Committee suddenly
the surrounding park. Panes of glass had recently fallen
returned from South America and started to tell me about
from the house and various patch-up jobs had been done;
but the spirit of the glasshouse was undeniably broken.
Beneath, Dave’s bullet points continued with the
I remember thinking: there is nothing more broken than a
geographical origin of the garden’s plants, listed like an
broken glasshouse. I was with Dave Kelly, Senior Horticultural
imperialist’s mantra – Europe, North America, South
Officer, at Liverpool City Parks Department HQ in
America, the Middle and Far East, the Pacific Islands,
Calderstones Park. He said: people think that once the last
Australia and Russia – the world, in fact. The first botanic
botanic gardens closed in the eighties, all the plants were
garden was so successful that it outgrew the facility, Dave
lost. They have forgotten that this vast collection exists. He
said. So they built a bigger one further out of the city at a place
added: The plant collections are thriving, they just don’t have a
called Wavertree.
permanent home. It was cold and we went back to his office. I
On the next page of his presentation, headed ‘Botanic
asked if there was a book or history about the gardens or the
Garden at Wavertree’ came reproductions of picture
collections, but Dave said none existed. He had photographs
postcards, images of Victorian splendour showing a great
though. First he produced a CD of dozens of images of
domed glasshouse flanked by huge gleaming wings, bearing
plants, each isolated against a primary coloured background.
the legend ‘Palmhouse, Botanic Gardens Liverpool.’ Here
It looked like a psychedelic nursery catalogue. There were
Dave’s bullet points highlighted royal visits from Queen
pictures of little pots of leafy Coleus some palms and orchids.
Victoria and Czar Alexander II, of the change of hands of
Nothing to set the heart racing. One picture showed a white
the gardens from private ownership to a public popular
orchid with bright pink spots. To me, it looked as though
attraction and in capitals ‘IN 1850 ALMOST 40% OF THE
it was a victim of some vicious orchid pox, the colour of its
POPULATION VISITED’ as though tempting prospective
affliction heightened by the intense sky-blue backdrop.
funders of today with the potential visitor numbers that
Dave then got out a power-point presentation of the history
might be attracted by any future garden. The last bullet point
of the gardens; he had put it together a year before to try
read ‘The Collection continued to grow until 1941, but the
and raise awareness amongst local community groups.
glasshouse was destroyed in the blitz.’ What happened to the
The first page said ‘City of Liverpool Botanical Collection
plants? I asked. They were taken into safe keeping, Dave said.
1803–2005’ and featured the Liverpool crest – a Liver bird
I asked if there were any remnants of either garden. The
rampant with a sprig of foliage in its beak. For a moment
first one’s all gone, built over, Dave said. There’s a footprint
I wondered if the sprig was symbolic – was it a plant from
of the old glasshouse and garden at Wavertree.
one of the former botanic gardens? On the second page was a heading ‘Origins of the
Turning the final pages, Dave showed me images of the third and last garden, styled ‘Harthill Botanic Gardens’.
Collection’ beneath which Dave had posted a portrait from
He pointed to a black and white aerial photograph of a vast
the nineteenth century. It was of a noble man of about 60
range of low industrial looking glasshouses. Dave told me
years, seated cross-legged in a red armchair with quill and
that this futuristic, yet functional sequence had been built
paper to hand, turning toward the viewer as if momentarily
after the war as the Council’s plant propagation nursery, but
pausing from his work. All around him were ranged the
the mundane municipal bedding stock (the salvias of civic
presumed articles of his labour – books, a globe and behind
pride) had slowly given way to the exiled tropical plants from
him a swathe of lush red curtaining artfully drawn back to
the earlier bombed garden. There was an interior scene – a
reveal a library strewn with sunlight. That’s William Roscoe,
beautiful ferny greenhouse and a map of the site, orientated
said Dave. He founded the Botanical Collection. It was his vision.
to match the aerial photograph. Two final bullet points were
Dave then said, quietly: we seem to have lost some of his original
on this page, the first again in capitals:
ideas. He turned the page: this was the first botanic garden, he said, pointing to a beautiful engraving of a long low Georgian glasshouse framed by magnificent trees. Beside it was a delicate plan of the layout of the garden, a triangular shaped plot, bounded by streets named, it seemed, after the plants of biblical times – Myrtle, Laurel and Olive. With its neatly divided rows of botanical ‘family’ beds, stove-house, ponds and curator’s lodge it reminded me of plans I had seen of the early botanic gardens of Padua and Pisa. It was as if a
THE CITY REPRESENTED BRITAIN AT INTERNATIONAL SHOWS INCLUDING PARIS, COLOGNE, VIENNA AND THE FLORIADE AMSTERDAM, AND ALSO EXHIBITED AT HARROGATE AND CHELSEA.
And last of all: The glasshouses were demolished in 1984. Dave said: People are under the impression that when the
template of renaissance Italy had been lightly placed upon
glasshouses were dismantled at Harthill that the plants were
this corner plot of northwest England.
thrown away too. But it wasn’t the orchids that were being put
into rubbish skips, it was the glass and the wooden frames.
was tantalisingly whitewashed obscuring the view within.
The place was rotting. It was falling apart. I asked if we could
Gerry unlocked the door. As we stepped inside we instantly
see the Liverpool Orchids. He made a phone call.
left the cool of that northern spring behind and with one
Within a few minutes we were driving through south
step entered the warmth of the tropics. Before us stretched
Liverpool to a place called Greenhill Nursery where Dave
a long vista divided centrally in two by a path. And either
said that the majority of the Botanical Collection was now
side, sitting on benches was row upon row upon row of lush
held. On the journey we talked about the 1980s and what
bromeliads, a tropical plant, relative of the pineapple, all
had happened at the closure of the last garden. Dave said
400 species (as Gerry told me) of which were neatly ranged
the perception was that the decision to close the gardens
as if set out like a feast. Each plant was separate, in its own
was purely political but that in truth the glasshouses had
pot, its roots thus discrete from its neighbour, yet oddly, it
also reached the end of their life. It was resolved at the
seemed that as we entered the house, the plants turned to
time to store the plants safely, albeit out of public view,
look at us, collectively. Later, much later I thought about that
thus safeguarding the collection until a new home could be
look that those plants had given; defiant, slightly suspicious.
found: It’s just that no one had envisaged twenty five years later
I realised that over the last twenty five years they had
the plants would still be at Greenhill. I asked if there had been
clearly seen it all before; the visitors come to gawp; be they
any plans meanwhile to find a new home and Dave told me
consultants assembling a feasibility study on a possible new
there had been numerous. For one reason and another none
garden or politicians trooping in, making concerned noises.
had been successful. It’s a complex issue, he said. There’s a
Over the next hour, maybe it was an hour, I don’t really
lot more to it than just building a glasshouse and filling it with
know, we walked the three of us between, it seemed, all
the plants.
the zones of the world, from one greenhouse to another,
I noticed that we had suddenly turned off the main road
our sense of place punctuated only by the chill March
and were driving slowly through a post-war housing estate.
moments between each house. We entered the dimly lit
I could see a dead end ahead but just before it we turned left
damp green of the tropics, and saw Cycads, Nepenthes
through a gate and swung into a big yard. At first I thought we
and great banana plants. A pitch-perfect bird of paradise
had arrived on an industrial estate. Then I realised that the
flower grew imperiously high, as if cocking a snook at the
vast complex of low, utilitarian looking buildings were in fact
lower growing figs and sugar cane. In many places plants
dilapidated glasshouses. It seemed an incongruous place for
had found numerous ways to rebel against their cloister,
the home of a historic Botanical Collection, bordered as it was
as though staging a silent sit-in protest. Some had jumped
on three sides by the humdrum of domestic life – washing
ship and made new bed-fellows; ferns were growing in with
lines, distant sounds of children playing, dogs barking – and
orchids, Spanish moss draped itself round the glasshouse’s
on the fourth by a railway, upon which trains rattled past to
regulatory thermometers. In the ‘Jungle House’ plants had
and from the city centre. Around the yard were a number of
run riot and grown out of all proportion, crashing against
buildings; a redbrick house, long abandoned (which I later
the low roof or rooting down so deep that they could never
discovered used to be the former Nursery Manager’s house)
be dug out. Here we came across the voices of Gerry’s
and a little brick hut – the gardeners’ mess room. Leaving
colleagues, Peter, Alan and Jeff who, he informed us, were
the car we stepped inside for a moment. Pinned to a notice-
hacking back bamboo. They emerged to say hello wildly
board, along with numerous health and safety certificates,
brandishing machetes; like Victorian plant hunters slashing
was the same picture of William Roscoe that Dave had shown
their way out of virgin Brazilian rain forest.
me earlier. This time attached to a brief biography, clearly downloaded from the internet. We were joined by Gerard Weaver, who Dave had told me
Next stop was the succulent house. In the clear arid air, a giant aloe spread its fleshy leaves across our path like some great comic book monster, whilst two huge potted
was one of five botanic gardeners, all working on this site
Yuccas leant like drunken dukes against the glasshouse
and dedicated to maintaining the collection. Gerry took us
wall, as if refusing to fall over completely. Health and Safety
out in the direction of the glasshouses, en route passing five
notices warned us to ‘Beware of Spiky Plants’ as though the
padlocked shipping containers which he said served as the
cactuses had been sharpening their talons over the years.
gardeners’ tool shed. It was one of those damp March days
As we walked, Gerry’s passion for the collection emerged.
when the ubiquitous brown of winter is still upon the world
He told me of a vanilla orchid that in the ten years he worked
and spring seems impossible. The air was chilly. We now
in one house never flowered, but once moved, bloomed; of
approached the nearest of the houses, the glass of which
cycads that after fifteen years he was still waiting to see in
flower. He pointed out some of the oldest plants: Dracaenas,
blesses and curses. As I look through the garden’s two
the Dragon’s Blood tree possibly thirty to forty years old, the
hundred years, his name is ever present – to be spoken of
national collection of Coleus. He told me about the endless
as a lament ‘imagine what Mr Roscoe would think if he could
propagation the gardeners entailed, to keep the collection
see the garden/collection/glasshouse today…’ or, when there’s
alive as parent plants became pot bound and died. So that
something to celebrate, mentioned in pride. Mr Roscoe
the plants became ceaseless rows of distant cousins once,
is the ever-present ghost at the feast and famine that is
twice, three times removed. Gerry spoke of the frustrations
Liverpool’s botanic story.
with the limited height of the houses; the impossibility of
As I have come to know, in my search for him and his
bringing some plants into maturity. Of falling glass panes,
garden, Mr Roscoe was one extraordinary man. He was born
rupturing structures. And the constant feeling that people
in Liverpool in 1753 of humble origins, the son of a market
had forgotten about the collection. We have become invisible,
gardener and inn keeper. Through the efforts of his parents,
Gerry said.
his mother in particular, he learnt a love of books. After a
And then at last in the final house we entered were the
fairly unhappy time at school, he clearly decided to follow
orchids, the Liverpool orchids. Row upon row, pot upon pot –
his own path. He learnt joinery and made a bookcase and
pink cattleyas with frilly edges, brown paphiopedilums, some
bought his first book, a group of poems which he duly placed
large, showy and bulbous, others discrete, their flowers
upon his self-hewn shelves. He learnt Greek, Latin and
minute. These were the flowers that the Knowsley Flower
Italian. He worked alongside his father in the market garden.
Show Committee had most lamented when I met them a few
He found his own mentors, unusual friends from different
days before. We stayed with the orchids for the longest, in a
networks reflecting the fluidity of Liverpool’s social life at the
house that stretched to a distant vanishing point, these show
time: there was Hugh Mulligan, a poet and painter employed
girls of the plant world protected from excess sun by swathes
in the Reid’s China factory next to his father’s inn and William
of green netting swagged along the overhead watering pipes.
Clarke, whose friendship led him to the study of the classical
We paused by a bench and Gerry conjured the image of the
world. Later on Mr Roscoe, who cultivated a deep faith all
former orchid grower, Olly Maguire who once worked there,
his life, also eschewed the established Christian Anglican
silently, day in day out, propagating.
church of his youth and became a ‘Dissenter’, a member of
The abiding image for me of that day was in the orchid
the Unitarian movement which was flourishing in Liverpool at
house. It was like the feast laid out for Miss Havisham’s
the time. Originally born from the Protestant reformation in
wedding in Charles Dickens’s ‘Great Expectations’. Except
mainland Europe, Unitarians questioned religious orthodoxy
here there were no cobwebs, just the perfumed smell of
and demanded, amongst other things, the right to read and
earth and growth and of an air, not of decay or melancholy,
interpret the bible themselves – to seek a direct relationship
but of expectation. In that strange half-way glasshouse,
with God, not one mediated by priest or church. It came at
caught between worlds, the orchids seemed to be waiting
a social price. In denying the deity of Christ and the ‘trinity’
for something.
of father, son and holy-ghost, Dissenters were barred from
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public life. I’ve often thought that in a way this probably saved Mr Roscoe from the worst indulgences of civic duty.
I have often thought of gardening as a form of
As a local-boy-made-good, which is what he became, Mr
autobiography, as the story of a life written through the
Roscoe could easily have been swept up in small town life,
soil. The kind of gardens we make, the character they
become a puffed up burgher, an ermine clad mayor, or a
take, become a reflection of self. Now, a year on, having
be-ribboned alderman, but instead, it seems to me, he kept
spent time with the people who hold the history of the
a little distance and set his own compass. It also allowed
botanic gardens in Liverpool, I have come to think that
him to hector his fellow townsmen from the sidelines for
this is certainly true of Liverpool. The botanic gardens are
practices which he strongly opposed – most significantly the
places where the city has written herself over the years,
transatlantic slave trade. Mr Roscoe shared his convictions
for good, for ill. Possibly more than any other institution
with a close group of fellow Dissenters. They worshipped at
they reflect the city’s changes and moods. Mr Roscoe
a place called the Renshaw Street Chapel in the city centre.
was the person who began this story. It is the character
The chapel is long gone but the faithful descendants of Mr
of the garden that he built that has, I think, haunted all
Roscoe’s congregation worship on in a resplendent new one
the gardens; his name, his image, as possibly Liverpool’s
on Ullett Road. They continue to hector – this time for the
greatest son, the ‘father of Liverpool culture’ no less, both
memory of Mr Roscoe and what he did for Liverpool.