The Market of Flowers

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 134, 27 August 1927, Page 10

The Market of Flowers

Long before London Wakes, Florists are Busy at Covert Garden

(Written for THE SUN by B. E. HOLDSWORTH — “Anemone.”)

/✓ra-1 IPPENCE a bunch! Nice berI ries, tuppence the lot, Miss.” * The appeal was irresistible. “Where does it come from?” 1 asked, standing on the edge of the pavement and fumbling for coppers. “Jersey, Miss. We buy It at Covent Garden packed like this.” lie indicated his •rates, straw and mistletoe, showing between the bars. “Thirty shillings a case, or two pounds if you like to give it. Yes, the market’s a great sight; but they’re keeping the flowers back for Christmas just now.” Christmas had come and gone and 1 had left the respectable environs of Brunswick Square and crossed the

bridges to more crowded areas before the opportunity for which I waited came my way. In the noisy Jamaica Road I have a florist friend on whom I called shortly before Easter to buy daffodils. “I’ll take you to market,” he offered readily. “Saturday’s a good day. Be here at five o’clock in the morning.” So it was arranged and at five o’clock I waited outside the shop. It is a very small shop with a counter that lifts to allow one to pass up two steps into the living-rooms beyond. Thore came a tap-tapping sound, the patter of feet down the steps and across the wooden floor, the door opened and the yellow-haired florist emerged, followed by a shaggy pony we went, clattering through the empty streets. “Laddie” was fresh and ready for iny fun. He positively pranced ilong the echoing streets, in spite of i firm rein. Up the rise and onto Waterloo Bridge he hurried. I wish l could sav that the usual river-

very little taller than a large dog. With a word of greeting he picked up a brand new nose-bag and led the way to a side street. “This is my shed,” he said, opening a door and revealing the second surprise of the morning. Within, look ing absurdly like a large box on wheels, stood a little red wagon such as one expects to see pushed along the street by a small hot-faced boy. With many playful pretences of biting his master and many a toss of his shaggy head, the diminutive pony was harnessed to the large red box, my friend and I mounted to the narrow ledge that served as a seat and off

haunting gulls circled gracefully against a blue sky above the historic bridge whose very stones are all numbered, awaiting removal; but no, it was a grey and watery scene. Rain poured down with dismal persistence, the ebbing tide washed flap-flop against a line of barges pushing steadily up stream; and there was not a gull in sight! Not far beyond loomed a building of vast dimensions, with many doors pink and blue, yellow and white; azaleas of many colours and hydrangeas; great heads of mignonette, scented mahogany wallflowers and primroses of pure simplicity. There were violets, too, fragrant Neapoli tans, with stalks so long and firm I thought at first they were stiffened with wire; perfumed freesias, largefaced pansies, and cyclamen in all their range of colour. Propped against the wall stood well-filled bags of moss torn from shady Devon woods and ungaingly bundles of budding Pussy Willow broken from wayside hedges. English neonle call it “Palm ” I

—Covent Garden Market, the centre of England’s flower trade. Gloom, depression, and rain without; and within—flowers and yet more flowers; a wealth of varied colour startling and unforgettable in their vivid beauty. The entire range of England’s floral gifts was represented there, from the rich display of perfect hot-house flowers to hardier garden favourites and unpretending wild things that grow without care or cultivation. Cinerarias flared on their stands, tier above tier, each pot enveloped in protecting blue or white paper that added a new tout’ tc the colour scheme. Magnificent hyacinth blooms,

I suppose because the fluffy catkins ■ appear just before Easter in time to be used in the churches for Palm Sunday. Across a dripping yard in a smaller building innumerable flat reed baskets were being opened. Flowers from the Continent, daisies and sweet* i scented stocks from the sunny terraced hills above Nice, and violets, blue as the sparkling sea beside which they budded and grew. Without haste my florist friend and ■ I strolled from stall to stall, stopping nj buy carnations and stocks, freesias and jonquils, piling our arms high with flowers and making frequent trips to the crowded street where, looking very diminutive among the gigantic vans and puffing lorries, “Laddie” stood tied to a cart-wheel unconcernedly munching his breakfast. Flaring long-stalked tulips were carefully wrapped in paper, but spotless arum lilies, to my surprise, were put all unprotected into the red van, from which they later emerged perfect and unbruised

In the French portion of the market the buyer’s tactics changed in the most amusing fashion. Basket after basket vras opened for his inspection, and he lifted the top flovrsrs and most critically examined those underneath, rejecting this line and that with an air of great disdain. He bargained in a dissatisfied voice with the French agent behind the barrier of baskets, and for some unaccountable reason “shilling” became for the time being “Shillong.” Threading their way through the throngs about the stalls, sure-footed and erect, came and went the familiar much-caricatured figures of the Covent Garden Porters, market baskets balanced high upon their heads. At that hour the market was busy but not excessively crowded. The keen buyers who are willing to pay for good stuff that will last appear early. Later come the hawkers to stock their barrows. They are satisfied with flowers of poorer quality that can be sold quickly, because cheaply, in the street. Still later come casrsal buyers—people who, like myself, wish to see the wonders of the early morning market, and who think they can buy flowers cheaply there. Cheaper than in the shops they certainly can buy; but, needless to say, there is no fixed price in the market, and the great bundle of fragrant freesias and the bunch of heavybeaded Neapolitan violets that were my purchases would have cost me at least three times the price had_l not been accompanied by an experiences buyer. Are there ever other and unseen visitors in the market, I wonder? Do black-robed Sisters of the Convent of Westminster peer in awed trepidation from shadowy corners, wondering at the strange sights and sounds that were not of their day? Do they shrink aside as the laden porters pass? Do they flee in panic as the crowds thicken and the noise increases and the bustle, seeking f he peace of the cloisters that will not come again? At last ail our buying was done, the van was full inside and on its roof were several bo-xes of bedding-out plants. “Laddie” had finished his breakfast and was ready for home. The rain had ceased, clouds were breaking and scattering and in the air there was the freshness of the still young day. “It’ll take us five-and-twenty minutes,” said my companion as we crossed rhe river. And before Jamaica Road had yet quite awakened to its noise, the florist's wife, her fingers busy over a wr-sath, was calling us a cheery walo-vm* from tbo little short