The English Exhibition Garden seems a tribute to tradition: a book of hours in its flowers, it is quintessentially exact. And yet, amid these pergolas of pretty convention, there is a surprise or two. Plaques on a pair of benches recall heroic radicals who dedicated their lives to freedom and socialism. One of them died fighting in Spain as a volunteer, the other was a Liverpudlian girl of seventeen when Franco took over as fascist dictator. Ralph Fox from Halifax, "Writer, Friend of the People, Soldier for Liberty", and Hilda Baruch, who as a woman didn't go out to fight but dedicated herself to supporting those who did and to a life supporting freedom. Unlikely people to be commemorated here, perhaps, but it's good to know that they are, a speaker's corner of their own in the arbours. I was once part of a group launching a revival of Ralph Fox's memory around that very same bench, then in Bull Green, in the late seventies. We have often wondered where it went from there. Now we know.
Ralph Fox was born in 1900 and educated at Manor Heath and Oxford, where he gained a first in modern languages. He was a founder member of the British Communist Party and was one of the first to join the International Brigade to fight Franco. Sadly, it seems that after only six weeks, he was also one of the first to die, aged only thirty six but after a very active life as a writer, journalist and radical figure.
As it says on Hilda's bench, we should reflect on what we owe to these lives.
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.