Yellow Roses

By Janet Baldey

         The day after the funeral I knew I would have to leave the village.   Its crooked streets, that I had once thought quaint, were now sinister, as if dark secrets festered around each bend of the road.

George, of course, didn’t understand.  But then, he couldn’t be expected to.  He had no idea of the part I had played in Harry’s death.

         ‘What do you mean?  I thought you liked it here?’   With an irritated shake of his newspaper, he stared at me over the top of his spectacles.

         I lowered my head in a mute and miserable silence.  I couldn’t meet his eyes and I couldn’t explain.   Things had changed.   Every day, the scent grew stronger and now it permeated the whole house.   I clamped my lips together, fighting an urge to scream.   Abruptly, I turned away, staring out of the window at the maze of streets that seemed to have a single purpose.  They all led to the church on the hill.   The place where I had first met Harry.

*  *  *

Arriving back in England after many years spent abroad, George and I both fell in love with the small village, nestling in a valley surrounded by wave upon wave of forested hills.  Too far away from the coast and lacking a river, it was largely ignored by tourists.  It was, we agreed, a forgotten jewel and both of us thought it was our lucky day when we managed to find a house that suited our budget.

A few days after moving in, we decided to take time out from unpacking to explore our surroundings.  Eventually, our wanderings led us to St Etheldreda’s, the church on the hill.  As we pushed open the heavy oak door, its quiet beauty delighted me and suddenly I felt so happy, it was as if I’d come home at last.

‘It’s idyllic.’  I said.  ‘I swear I shall go to church every Sunday.’

George laughed but I was determined to play my part in the life of the village, after all, this was where I intended to end my days.

True to my word, the next Sunday surrounded by the swelling chords of the organ, I sat lost in the music as the service ended.  Gradually, I became aware of the congregation rustling as they rose, shuffling along the uneven stone aisle towards the entrance and the waiting vicar with his outstretched hand. When it was my turn, I found his handshake firm, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me and I walked out into the chill afternoon insulated by the warmth of his greeting.

 I stood looking at the gravestones tilting towards the earth. Encrusted by lichen their lettering was difficult to decipher and as I bent to peer closer, I felt a light touch on my arm.

‘Excuse me, madam.’

The voice was soft and as I looked up, I saw it belonged to the verger who had been standing in the porch when I arrived.

‘May I?’  He extended a hand.

Blood rushed to my head as I realised I was still clutching the hymn book he’d handed to me as I entered the church.

‘I’m so sorry!’

He smiled.  ‘Not at all.  At our age, we tend to get a little forgetful.’

Taken aback, I looked at him.   A pair of baby blue eyes met mine.  Although his face was unlined, it had the translucent quality of either the very young or the very old.   A light breeze set his fine, white hair dancing about his head like thistledown and, at a rough guess, I calculated his age to be at least eighty.

‘I look forward to seeing you next week.’  His eyes twinkled into mine.

 As I walked down the hill, I thought again how lucky we were to live here.  As if agreeing, the sun came out for the first time that day and the mellow stone houses glowed in the sudden light.  Surrounded by lush green hills, the village reminded me of a drop of honey in an emerald spoon.  Strolling on, I became aware of light footsteps tapping along behind me.  I resisted the urge to turn around but the sound intruded on my thoughts and I couldn’t help wishing my follower would take another route. As I reached our gate, the footsteps slowed a little and just before I turned, I heard a familiar voice.

‘It seems that we are neighbours.  Goodnight my dear.’

Recognising the soft voice of the verger, I stood watching as he trotted past me and vanished up the overgrown path of the cottage next door.

* *

A few days later, the weather turned hot and humid, perspiration trickled down my arms and my shopping bags chafed against my sweaty hands as I struggled home from the Wednesday market.   

‘Wine, garlic, rosemary, scallops, pasta, chocolate, candles….’  I ticked off the items in my head as I puffed along. Then, I stopped dead. ‘Damn and blast!  I’ve forgotten the flowers.  There must be yellow roses.  They’re Jenny’s favourite.’

  Tonight, was a special occasion.  My daughter Jenny was coming to dinner, together with her husband.  They had some special news and I had guessed what it was, there could be no other reason for their excitement.  At long last, I was going to be a grandmother.

But now my heart sank. I would have to go back for the roses. That would mean a rush to prepare the meal and I wouldn’t have time for the long, cool bath I had promised myself.  Irritated, I pushed open the front door and rushed into the kitchen feeling hot, sticky and thoroughly out of sorts.  Dumping my bags on the table I made for the sink and filled a glass with water.  Just as I began to drink, the doorbell shrilled and I started, spilling water all over myself.

Fuming, I started to dab at my blouse.  Stalking towards the door, I wrenched it open.

‘Yes?’  I said.

 Shivering in the doorway was a huge bunch of yellow roses, their perfume wafting towards me.  Then the flowers shifted to one side and a pair of sparkling blue eyes appeared.

‘Sorry to bother you, but my rose bushes are running riot this year and I wondered if you would like some.’

I recognised the soft voice of the verger and gasped in disbelief.

‘This is amazing. How did you know I needed roses?  You must be a mind reader,’

Overcome, I took him by the arm and drew him into the house.

For the next half hour, he sat in my kitchen as I plied him with tea and told him all about my daughter and the dinner party and how his gift would make all the difference.

He said little, but sat perched on a stool, his head on one side, looking for all the world like a benevolent sparrow.

At last, I ran out of steam and realised that I had been monopolising the conversation.

‘I’m so sorry.  I’ve been gabbling on.  You must be bored to tears but thank you for listening. Now it’s your turn.  Tell me about yourself.  Do you have a family?’      

‘I did, my dear. I had five beautiful children.  They are all dead now.’

I stared and my mouth opened, but no sound came out.  Through the stunned silence, the tick of the kitchen clock counted the seconds.

In shock, I couldn’t think of a thing to say and he didn’t elaborate.  Instead, he slipped from the stool.

‘I feel I have outstayed my welcome.  Do have a very pleasant evening.’  With an inclination of his head, he lifted the latch and let himself out.

I sat at the table for a long time after he’d left, trying to make sense of what he’d said.  I felt crash and boorish, I had rabbited on about yellow roses to a man who had lived through tragedies that would have broken most people.  To lose one child was bad enough.  To lose five was unimaginable.  I wondered what had happened.  A house fire maybe?  He hadn’t mentioned his wife.  Perhaps she was dead as well.  I eventually roused myself but his words nibbled away at my mind; I prepared the meal as if I was an automaton and all through the evening what he’d said cast a shadow.

Jenny had clapped her hands with delight when she entered the dining room and saw the table. Its centrepiece was the huge bowl of yellow roses gleaming in the candlelight, with  its double reflected in the polished mahogany.  My guess had been right and as we raised our glasses to the baby the sparkle of the wine mirrored our jubilation. But, even when I should have been so happy, my mood was depressed.  Jenny’s baby was just starting its long journey and I couldn’t help thinking of Harry and all the things that could go wrong along the way.

As the days passed, I thought about Harry more and more. I felt desperately sorry for him and worried that he was lonely so I invited him around for tea. To my surprise, I found him good company.  He’d been a verger at the church for many years and knew everyone connected with it. Garrulous and witty, he regaled me with spicy bits of gossip and offered to introduce me to the Ladies’ Circle, extolling the stimulant properties of flower arranging and tea making.  He also started to talk about his family and I encouraged him in this because I had noticed that he seemed to float around the periphery of the church society and was mostly a solitary figure seemingly with no close friends. I also learned a great deal about his children, Arthur, Tom, Mary Jane and Louise, although I never pried into the causes of their deaths as I didn’t want to re-open old wounds.

Gradually, with Harry’s help, I began to carve a niche for myself in the village and rarely had I been more content. My main worry at this time was that George had not taken to Harry.  At first, he was polite, then icily polite then he made himself scarce whenever Harry called around. On hearing the doorbell, he’d glance out of the window and then look at me sourly.

‘The boyfriend’s here,’ he’d grunt and bury himself back into his book or decide the garden needed weeding.

***

Just before Harvest Festival, I picked the last of our home-grown vegetables to donate to the church. Harry helped me and also raided his allotment so that now the table was laden with knobbly potatoes, carrots, squashes, beans and ripe tomatoes.  The low rays of the sun slanting through the window highlighted our efforts and I smiled with satisfaction.

‘Right, now for a well-earned cup of tea.’

As I turned towards the sink, Harry perched himself on top of a stool.

‘Would you like to see a photo of my children.’  His voice was barely audible over the rush of water into the kettle and I froze for a second before turning off the tap. This was a breakthrough.

‘Of course.’ Wiping my hands, I went back to the table and sat down.

Shyly, Harry handed over the photograph.  The edges of the small snapshot were curled and its surface was creased, it was obviously very precious.  I peered at it and groped for my spectacles. As the blurred outlines swam into focus, I gasped and sat frozen to my chair, listening to the blood pounding through my veins. Then I felt sick but I still couldn’t tear my gaze away.  The faces of five children stared back at me. But what faces and what children!

With misshapen limbs and lolling heads, they sat limply, slumped against one another as if propped up by the photographer. Drool decorated their chins and their eyes  were vacant. I dropped the photo as if I’d been burned.

‘Aren’t they lovely?’

The sound of Harry’s voice brought me back and I stared at him. I thought of all the times we’d talked about his children. He’d told me that Mary loved to read, Tom drew like an angel and Louise ran with the speed of a gazelle. He had painted a picture of lively, happy children but he’d lied.  I felt a surge of anger as I looked at his bland enquiring face. What I had taken for shyness on his part was obviously slyness. The children in that picture were obviously totally helpless, clearly incapable of living independent lives. Then a new horror occurred to me, was this kindly man, who had taken me under his wing, actually a hopeless lunatic?  My head began to drum.

‘I think you had better go now, I’m getting a migraine.’ Unable to look at him any longer, I blundered out of the kitchen.

For weeks, I had nightmares about that photograph. I stopped going to church and didn’t answer the doorbell, indeed I hardly dared leave the house for fear of bumping into Harry. I couldn’t confide in George, partly out of pride that I had been so wrong about him and also because I didn’t want to explain the picture. So, I moped around the house, mourning my happy life which seemed to have disappeared forever.

Eventually, my depression lifted. After all, I was soon to become a grandmother. Jenny’s pregnancy was now well advanced and early in December George and I decided to throw a small drinks party before it became too difficult for her to travel.

The night was fine and dry, with just a hint of frost, the guests had arrived and the party was in full swing when I heard our front bell chime once more.  I looked around for George but he was weaving his way around the room, a plate of canapes in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ I called.

I looked at the wavy outline pasted against the frosted glass and without a thought, pulled open the door feeling the rush of cold air freshen my cheeks.  I’d already had a glass or two of wine but the alcohol evaporated in an instant as I stood staring at Harry. 

‘Good evening Rose.  I haven’t seen you in a long time and wondered if you were well?’  He started to rummage in his pockets. ‘I’ve brought a small gift for you both.’  He brought out a small package.  He peered at the crowd and then looked back at me.  ‘Tell me, is that lovely young lady your daughter?’  He stood expectantly, obviously waiting to be invited in.

Fury consumed me.  How dare he try to gate-crash our party?  I glared at him as he stood cringing on my doorstep.  Dread replaced my anger as I guessed what he had with him and I imagined what would happen if he were to join the party; at some point in the evening he would invite my daughter aside.

‘I see you are expecting a happy event.  Would you like to see a picture of my family?’

The very thought made me feel ill.  Jenny’s peace of mind would be destroyed when she should be at her happiest.

 

I stepped towards him, slamming the door behind me.  With the thunder of blood in my ears,  I pushed him backwards down the steps.  He tripped and fell on one knee and  the pale glimmer of his face staring up at me fanned the flames of my rage.

‘Go away.’ I hissed, ‘you are not welcome here.’

‘But….’  He scrambled to his feet and raised his hands entreatingly.  Suddenly I saw it.  A small scrap of white peeping out of his pocket.  A scarlet tide almost completely blotted out my vision. I made a grab for him and snatched the photograph, flourishing it wildly.  Never again would it destroy someone’s peace of mind.

‘See’ I screamed.  Shredding the picture into confetti, I threw it at him.  Then I turned and marched back into the house.

Of course, the party was ruined for me.  After a while, I pleaded a headache and went to bed where I lay staring into the darkness, seeming to hear the faint sound of sobbing.

I never saw Harry again.  Months later I came across a knot of women gossiping in the High Street.  Their faces were shocked.  It seems that Harry’s body had been found in the outside privy of his cottage.  He had hung himself months ago.

George was puzzled when I refused to attend the funeral.

‘I realised you must have fallen out,’ he said, ‘but you were great friends once.’

I didn’t answer.

It was on the morning of the burial that I first noticed it.  Faint, at first, daily it increases so that now the whole house reeks of it.  When I first recognised the smell for what it was, I scoured the whole house searching for its source.  Not one fallen petal could I find but daily I am suffocated by the suffocating perfume.  Yellow roses.  Jenny’s favourite.

Copyright Janet Baldey