“If I were to be so bold,”
I said to the man behind the counter at the herb plant sellers on North Cross Road in Dulwich,
“So bold, sir, as to buy thirty plants of rosemary.
Not to flavour my well-known risotto,
but to plant my late mother’s middle name in my back garden,
which is in dire need of TLC.”

“Come round, dear boys,” my message read.
“Let’s tend to my garden.
First, we’ll clear the flowerbeds and replace the weeds
with herbs and plants that commemorate our mothers.
By sunset, our muscles will be sore,
and I’ll reward our efforts with pink champagne on the newly cut grass lawn.”

For we were, and still are, in our minds at least,

the Bloomsbury Boys.
Each one of our mothers now passed away.
Rupert the poet, me the painter, Max the architect,
Harry the sculptor, and Charlie the composer.

We met twenty-five years ago as students at UCL.
We shared a love of gardening, Derek Jarman,
and sometimes—shared quiet moments of reflection in each other’s company.

I can still recall the comfort of Max’s presence beside me,
the way he’d always quietly observe before speaking,
as though deciding what part of himself he could share.

 

If I were to be so bold as a garden,
I’d soon be full of plants of bravery, hope, and courage—
full of borage, geraniums, thyme, rosemary, and daffodils.

I’ve witnessed the changing of seasons,
the steady, often unnoticed passage of time.

Yet, each time these five friends return,
it feels as though no years have passed.

They come with their hands full of memories,
their words heavy with love, grief, and nostalgia,
their feet soft against my earth.

Rupert, with his words that float like whispers through the air.

Max finds comfort in my wildness.
He speaks of me as though I am a place where time bends—
where the past and present come together in soft collisions,
a place that feels both familiar and elusive.

Perhaps he sees me as a space where his own contradictions meet.
To him, I am a space where nature takes its course,
where things aren’t always neat or expected.

Harry sees me as a space to sculpt.
Charlie’s music fills me in the stillness of the afternoon.

And Lee, is simply a witness to it all

 

"Right, boys. Toot ta toot!" I instruct my friends to get to work,
and we make good time until midday.

This is the first time in many years we’ve all been together—
each of us now with wives and children, except for Max and me.

The garden is finished around four o’clock,
and we lie on the lawn, sip champagne, and reminisce
about our time as the Bloomsbury Boys.

“Oh, remember the flat we shared?” Max begins.
“What fun we had, I loved all those all-night parties.”

“I just remember how you’d always blush, Max, when Johnny walked into the room,”
Harry says, with a smirk.

Max laughs it off,
“Dear boy! Don’t you remember Lee’s paintings of Johnny?
He was more than just his muse or the boy Lee shared space with.
Does anyone know what happened to Johnny?
I bet he’s lost his looks.”

A photograph falls out of Max’s denim jacket.

“Oh my, your sister Phoebe now,”
I say to a confused-looking Max.
“How pretty she looks there,
considering she was so awkward when we were the Bloomsbury Boys.”

“That’s Lucy,” Max utters, quickly putting the photograph away.

The others leave, and it’s just me and Max, with one bottle of champagne left.

I smile at him. He smiles back.

“The forget-me-nots you planted look beautiful in my garden,” I say quietly.

Max replies,
“Lucy’s just texted. She’s in the car outside waiting with Matilda and Noah.
The children are missing their father.”

I smile back, and he doesn’t look me in the eye.
But that’s okay. I’ve learned that some things are simply left unspoken.

His smile, faint but genuine, feels like a secret pact—
a shared shelter from the world’s noise.

He turns and walks away,
a lingering silence between us like a thread
that’s almost been severed yet still holds its weight.

If I were to be so bold as a blue-petaled flower with yellow buds,
and self-seed without need of tender—
in this garden, our hidden selves bloom—
unseen by others but thriving in the light we give each other.

If I were to be so bold as forget-me-not,
Max’s departure, with him giving me a quick peck on my cheek,
silent as it is, was proof enough for me
that he never did.