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
