The Kitchen Garden - short film (10 mins)

Watch where you're going. Take me down there. Just leave me here. It's a bloody disgrace. Is everything alright? Did you do this? Do what? Destroy this garden. Well, I volunteer here. Then you support this vandalism. I'm not sure what you mean. Vegetables. I'm sorry? This should be a vegetable garden. Well, it is. No, it's not. It's full of flowers and hedges and... things you can't eat. Well, some flowers are edible. It's a kitchen garden. It's supposed to grow food, not... rosehips. Well, we make rosehip syrup. Syrup? It used to be full of real produce. Potatoes, cabbage, spinach. Carrots, celery. My grandfather and father were innovators in soil protection. Early members of the Soil Association. Yes, and they provided food to all the community... throughout the war and after. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you must be the new Duke of Rivermead. Perhaps I can show you around. No, no, no. I don't want to see your flowers. I want to see artichokes and courgettes. You know, this was the first garden in England we'd ever grown. How fascinating. What else do you remember? Don't patronize me. I'm not. I'd really like to know. Those apple trees were here when I was a child. Yes, well, we still grow some fruits. Kiwi, redcurrants, gooseberries. Fool. Gooseberry. I love it, don't you? My mother used to make it every summer. Did yours? No. No? Cook did. Oh. Did you shell peas with her? And broad beans. Me too. Oh, we were so in touch with the seasons then. The rhythm of our lives guided by nature. May I show you something? Do you know what you're doing? My husband was in one of these the last few months of his life. We've been wondering how old these pear trees are. I don't suppose you know. 1962. They were planted on my fifth birthday by father. So these are your trees? He named them Francis's trees. So you're Francis. I'm Bella. What a wonderful crop your trees have produced this year. Would you like a cup of tea, Francis? Cafe looks closed. I have a key. Look what I found. Made with your pears. Nice? I'm a boy of carrots. Food can do that, can't it? And smells like vanilla. And rosemary. Did your cook make a pear tart? She wouldn't know how. I had an Italian grandmother. Well, step-grandmother, officially, but she treats me like her own. She was an extraordinary cook. Taught the women here during the war. Is that how she met your grandfather? It's how they found each other again. They'd been lovers in Sardinia in the 20s. But she'd refused to marry him. Said an Italian peasant wouldn't make an English duchess. And yet, she was the most regal woman I ever met. So they spent years apart? Decades. Until she discovered this garden and all the Italian produce my grandfather grew here. In memory of her. This garden was a huge part of their love story. How romantic. No wonder you wish it hadn't changed. Fine. But things do change, don't they? Nothing stays the same forever. What was her name? Antonio. Antonio? I called her... Nonatonia. Wait there. This was on the kitchen bookshelf. No wonder it tasted familiar. The chef here uses her recipes. That's incredible. Now look on the inside cover. Nonatonia. My Frances. Who is he from the garden? Of Nonatonia. She was the wisest soul I ever knew. Tell me more about her. Aren't you supposed to be picking rose hips? I think this might be rather more interesting. I think perhaps you're right. So the story starts just after the First World War.