I HAVE lost count of the number of plants in our garden that began as gifted cuttings, bulbs or divisions.
When in flower or fruit they invariably bring back a memory of the person who gave them to me.
I've been growing one rather beautiful tree phlox (P. paniculata) with rich-pink flowers for almost 50 years, regularly pulling apart and dividing the clumps to create new ones or simply to give away.
And each time it flowers it never fails to bring back memories of a rather sad but enlightening experience years ago.
I used to be a kind of wandering, freelance gardener-landscaper during the late 1950s.
It involved going around pruning roses, fruit trees and giving advice and help where needed.
I loved the work, but occasionally was forced to deal with some strange customers.
On one occasion I called to a home, screened by a large fence containing two doors. One was marked "Tradesmen's entrance", which gave me a fair idea of the snobs who lived there.
My instincts were proved correct as I was ushered into the presence of Mrs P. - a very large, over-dressed woman sitting near a window. She was having her long, grey hair brushed by a smiling woman aged about 40.
"This is Molly, my cleaning lady", Mrs P. gushed, "and she is my best friend."
I didn't believe her. In fact she and her spoilt 20-year-old son openly treated Molly with patronising contempt.
Her job was to not only clean the large house, but wash up accumulated dishes and cooking pots and even harvest vegetables.
I never saw Mrs P. move from her position near the window from where she could watch every move I made.
Even as I worked I could hear her constantly calling out to Molly to make tea, bring magazines or carry out other little jobs.
I felt sorry for Molly who was hired for a half a day three times a week and paid a pittance for her efforts.
One day I arrived to find Molly digging some potatoes.
"I'll do that Molly," I said.
Suddenly she looked up, saying, "my name isn't Molly, it's Frances, but Mrs P. didn't like it."
She also mentioned she was a deserted wife forced to look after her five children.
Some time later I casually asked Mrs P. why she insisted on using the name Molly when it was incorrect.
She gave me a cold, hard glance.
"She is my cleaning lady and my best friend. But one couldn't possibly have a cleaning lady with a name like Frances , so I've decided to call her Molly, which is much more suitable," she said.
One day Molly needed an urgent lift home as one of her children was sick.
The son refused to drive her because "she'll probably fill my car with her cheap scent."
So I drove her home and made a point of doing this whenever I could.
I was also working in a large garden much closer to Molly's home. When the owners mentioned they were looking for some household assistance, I told them I knew of someone named Frances, ideal for the purpose.
And she got the job with better pay and was treated with respect.
That's where the flower comes into this true story.
Molly gave me a little parcel containing part of her favourite plant in her own small garden. All this was more than 50 years ago, but the descendants of the same tree phlox flowers magnificently in our garden.
Huge masses of clear pink blooms on metre-tall stems every summer. And even though it's the wrong name, I still call it Molly's flower.
