Roses

Those windows had been opened early today, welcoming the warmth as it grew and the tall metal frames threw long diagonal slices of darkness across the floor at his feet.

He reached the narrower hallway running away at right angles to her room, and the deep carpet swallowed his footsteps so that he reached her open door unannounced.

He stood on the threshold and looked in, beyond the single bed, to where she sat silent before the window. The long net curtains billowed and swept soft light backwards and forwards across her legs.

He cleared his throat lightly and she looked to him, her face moved a little and she remained facing towards him.

He took a step inside the door and said, “Hello, isn’t it lovely to see the sun?”

She smiled softly as he moved further into the room. He took the other chair from where it stood outside the small bathroom and moved it across so that he could sit near her, near the window, and he sat down.

“You should be at work dear”, she said.

“Not today, I wanted to see you.”

“You never take time off”, she replied, holding his gaze. His father had worked a six day week his whole life, and sick days were for malingerers.

Wisps of long grey hair moved lightly across her face and she would tuck them away behind her ears, smiling absently at their tickling touch.

“It’s a great day for a walk I thought”, he said, “would you like to?”

His mum looked slowly around the room, almost as if she thought she was forgetting something.

“I think I would, yes, I’d like that”, she replied at length.

She rose and he noticed that she had her slippers on. He wondered if she would change into her shoes which stood behind the door but she simply picked up the small handbag that stood next to her bedside table and turned back to face him, ready to leave.

As they turned to go he saw the broad blue hat that he had given her for Christmas hanging from a hook at the back of the door. He stepped to one side and she led the way out the door, and he took the hat down as he passed.

They moved silently down the narrow hallway, passing the doors that stood partially open so that he caught glimpses of the rooms beyond, beds with the heads raised holding narrow bodies with the green blanket and white sheet pulled up under impassive arms.

As they reached the far end of the hall the quick clitter clatter of sensible shoes announced a nurse who turned into their hallway while looking down towards the dining room beyond and pulled up short as she realised his mum was close.

“Hello there”, she said. “Off for a walk?” “Lucky you, your son is very kind.”

His mum turned a little and regarded him, looking down to the hat that covered his hands.

“Yes, I am going for a walk”, she said. “But I’ll be back for lunch. Won’t I?”

“Oh yeah, we won’t be that long”, he replied, smiling at her and then to the nurse beyond.

When they reached the door that would lead outside to the gardens he held the door open for her and then passed in front and held his hand out as she regarded the small pair of steps down to the path. She held his gaze and then lightly placed her hand in his and stepped down. “Thank you”, she said. “That’s not like you.”

As she moved ahead he thought of his father. She was right of course. His father held the door for a lady always. But never her hand.

Whenever they had walked as a couple he would take up a position one pace behind over her left shoulder, as if slightly on guard.

The gardens teemed with rose bushes and the blooms threw themselves wide in the heat, basking. Bees busied themselves from one to the other and back again.

“You’ve always been a man for the deepest reds haven’t you”, she said at last.

Ben had never gardened. He had planted shrubs that no one could kill and run drip irrigation hoses to them just in case. Once a year he remembered to make a show of pruning this and fertilising that but his father would have shaken his head in disgust.

The home his mum remembered had whole regiments of rose bushes down both sides of the path that neatly dissected the front lawn. The rows turned in perfect right angles at the front gate and marched away along the low brick wall that marked the front edge of the immaculate lawn.

Ben looked over to her and said, “I thought the reds were your favourites?”

She turned to him quizzically. “You’re teasing me now. You put the white ones, my favourites, at each corner. Just for me you said.”

He remembered them then. The whites so bright you had to look away, perfectly framing the edges of the front yard.

He remembered a Sunday in the middle of one of the school holidays. His mum brought toast to the table and said, “Dad is taking you down to the park after your breakfast.”

This never happened and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He usually spent all day dodging wearing shoes but this seemed important so he dug his trainers out of the wardrobe and found some socks.

When he came back through to the front of the house he could see dad waiting at the front gate. They walked the short distance to the park side by side, walking in silence, but it was a good silence, not like one when dad was at the breakfast table and just wanted his paper and absolute quiet.

They had moved across the field and lobbed kicks to each other, gradually moving further and further apart. His dad roared his delight when after launching a huge spiralling bomb into the air Ben had stood his ground and waited and waited, and then heard the unmistakeable ‘Clump!’ as the ball hurtled into his chest and he clutched it tight, collapsing backwards onto the grass.

They ran at each other, mimicking their favourite players and he threw himself at dad’s legs attempting tackles. Dad would fend him off roughly, push him down to the ground, and then reef him back up in as much of a hug as Ben had ever known.

He was exhausted when his father finally lobbed a kick towards the archway leading back towards their street. They walked home with their silence matching the stillness of the late afternoon, Ben clutching the ball under his arm and looking up to his dad every now and again.

His dad was busy the week after that. Each day Ben would put his trainers on and sit on the bed just in case. But his dad would come home and take the paper and sit in his chair as he always did, and Ben would put the trainers away and help his mum with the tea.

Towards the end of the week he had taken his ball out to the back yard as he always did. It was later in the afternoon than normal because he and mum had spent the day visiting relatives. The shadows of the tall conifers that lined the back fence covered the lawn entirely and the warmth of the day was gone so that the grass nipped at Ben’s feet.

He ran down the side of the house ducking under hanging branches and the sunlight called to him from the front lawn.

He burst out onto the glowing grass and dived theatrically to score a try in the corner.

He stood up twirling the ball and then began to recreate the games he had played with dad. He kicked the ball straight up, a little higher each time, bringing his leg right through as his dad had shown him. He made each catch easily and finally leaned back and kicked the ball as hard as he could, watching it soar into the cloudless sky, marvelling that he had done this.

A little breeze played in the hedges and the ball seemed to move away from him a little so that he took a step, and another, and as he was about to take a third he realised how close he was to the rose bushes and the tall hedges behind.

The ball plummeted down, smashing into one of the bushes with a cymbal crash, white petals cascading everywhere. The ball cannoned off the bush and struck him hard in the face, sending him sprawling.

He got up on all fours and saw the roses strewn everywhere and thought that he should pick them up and put them back, they made the lawn look so dishevelled and unlike itself. He touched his chin and there was a little blood, a petal came away stuck to his hand. He got half way up and then felt a huge, sharp pain course across the back of his head and he went down, rushing forwards.

His father stood over him, turned him over roughly using one strong arm so that Ben looked up to the face hidden by the sun behind and saw the blackness of the balled fist rush down to him, again and again.

He looked at the hat he still held and as his mum turned to him he held it out, and she took it with a smile. Brushed her hair back with one hand and put it on.

“How do I look dear, you always have been such a one for hats on a woman?”

“You look wonderful, as always”, he replied.

“Listen to you, you charmer”, she said and her face lit up.

He remembered the hallway cupboard with its neatly hung raincoats and umbrellas, and her hats. His father had always taken a coat when he went out, even if just to drape across his arm.

When they went out as a family he would take one of the grey coats for himself, and one for her. He would turn and she would point to the hat she wanted for the day and the outfit, and he would take it down from the hooks carefully, and pass it to her as they turned to the door. She loved hats and would put it on just so, and look up to him, she would beam at him, toss her head a little, and then slowly the smile would leak away, as his father simply nodded and held the door.

They continued on down the gentle slope of the path, the unseen coast beyond marked by the gulls that lolled in the currents of warm air above.

She tired so easily these days and soon he found one of the benches alongside the path, dappled in shade. The timbers of the bench were worn and coloured with age, the small plaque on the top rail illegible now. He waited as she came up to him and then slowly took a seat. He sat down next to her at last, close but not touching.

They nodded hellos to people passing now and again, and the morning passed.

“What vegetables do you think you’ll put in next?” She asked out of the silence.

“What would you like?”

“Claire loves broccoli now.”

His sister had always loved broccoli. He could imagine her now, ordering it on the side with pork belly in some super chic New York diner.

“Broccoli it is.”

“You usually don’t stand for being told what to grow.”

“Leopards can change their spots.”

She looked to him then and smiled. “Elisabeth likes broccoli too I think.”

He looked at his mum. She had not seen his daughter in so long now. Yet the Elisabeth she had known, the little girl, had loved broccoli. Had loved to sit up on the bench next to the chopping board and eat tiny slivers raw as he cut up the pieces for dinner.

The sun stood high above them now and their shadows hid in underneath the bench.

“I think it must be about lunchtime”, she said.

He squinted into the glaring face of his watch and saw that it was a few minutes before midday.

“It is indeed”, he answered.

He stood up and looked away over her head towards the buildings. She rose slowly and took a moment to straighten her skirt, reset the hat on her head.

They moved slowly back up the gentle incline with him slightly behind her. She slowed and took a last look at the roses but did not stop. He moved ahead at the last and held the door open and with his other took her hand as she negotiated the steps back up into the shade.

They made their way back to her room, where she took off the hat and placed it on the bed, and then went into the bathroom. He could hear her brushing her hair slowly, splashing water across her face. She came back to join him at last and he stood to one side so that she might lead the way back out to the corridor.

A young woman was coming towards them with a trolley laden with linen and soaps, cleaners. She smiled and said “hello”.

Ben looked at the name tag high on her uniform and said “Hi, Janelle, I don’t think we’ve met?”

“No, I’m quite new, just a week or so, so far.”

His mum looked to him then and he stood up a little straighter. “Janelle, this is Mrs Eloise Johnson. She is in room 404.”

His mum turned and said “hello”, to Janelle.

He had always loved the sound of his mum’s name. His father had such a strong, deep voice when it rolled over its vowels, it was something special to listen to him introduce her just so.

She seemed happy with the introduction. Not his best nor his worst. Janelle looked at him and smiled and said “I’d better let you get past to lunch.”

They made their way out into the corridor and a woman came towards his mum, a usual lunch time companion he guessed.

He longed to hold his mum then, hug her right in close as he had when a little boy.

But he stood as his father would have, hands clasped in front of him, nodding a hello to the woman when she paused at his mum’s side.

“Would you like me to walk you down?” he asked.

“No, I’ve taken up enough of your day dear, they’ll need you at work.”

He nodded and then took a step back, clearing the way for them to begin.

His mum stepped over to him then and pushed her arms in under his, her head against his chest.

She looked up, then kissed him on the cheek, holding his face close to hers with one delicate hand. She lowered her arms at last and stepped back, taking the hand of the other woman without ever taking her eyes from his.

“You don’t ever have to change your spots.”