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  Die, Blossom, Bloom

  Copyright 2015 Steve Boseley

  Published by Steve Boseley at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Part Eight

  Part Nine

  Part Ten

  Part Eleven

  Part Twelve

  Part Thirteen

  Part Fourteen

  About Steve Boseley

  Also available by Steve Boseley

  Connect with Steve Boseley

  Part One

  Gripping the pillow in both hands, he placed it over his wife’s face and pressed down. Her weak body writhed against him, her arms flailing feebly, but Ted held his nerve and the pillow. She continued to struggle for several minutes, and Ted began to worry not about his resolve but about his strength. He could hear her voice, muffled by the pillow, which he tried to block out and failed. Her voice weakened and then was silent.

  Ted awoke with a start. For a moment, the world looked strange, and he blinked his eyes. He looked at his hands, both fists still gripping the pillow. After a moment, his hands relaxed, and he flexed his fingers, before resting them on his thighs. Even in sleep, the memories of how things had ended for his wife still haunted him. It had been two years since she died, and he could still not reconcile his actions. He sat up and looked around. He had fallen asleep in his deck chair in the garden. He picked up the newspaper that had fallen on the grass and ran a hand across his mouth. He wiped away the bead of sweat that trickled down the side of his face. The day was warm, but he felt a chill. He looked around, as if someone could see his guilt, could see into his dreams. Chiding himself for his foolishness, he slowed his breathing and sat back into the chair, the dream still present in his mind, but fading fast. He replayed those final moments in his head and winced. It still felt like it had been his only option, and he thought he would have done it again if he had to, but that didn’t stop his heart from feeling the absolute emptiness her absence left.

  He took a moment to look around and blinked his eyes until he came fully awake. Ted sat up again. A deck chair was not the most forgiving at his age, and his spine popped as he stretched. He took a moment to take in his garden. The year had been especially prosperous for all of his plants, the climbing roses in particular. The red petals snaked up and over the front window of his cottage, tethered to the trellis he had put up himself ten years earlier. It had been one of the first things Sissy had asked of him when they moved in, and he had been glad to do it. The roses were the first things that had been planted, and they were thriving. This year, more so than recent years, the rest of his garden seemed to be following suit. The addition of a large compost bin two years earlier had been a stroke of genius. It had taken a year for him to start seeing the results, but his homemade compost seemed to be having the desired effect, not just on his pocket, but also on his garden. Sissy would have been proud, and he was fairly certain that the local ‘Haverly in Bloom’ title was within reach this year, a feat that had eluded his wife in the years since their move to the village. If he could claim the title this year, it may go some way to easing the terrible burden of guilt he felt at how things had ended. He had carried this with him since Sissy had died, and though he would never be ready to move on, the competition had at least proved to be a distraction.

  He knew the competition would be tough, it always was; the village was home to some keen gardeners. Unfortunately there were also those in the village that would do their utmost to ensure that Ted remained an also-ran in the judging. His recent success had not gone unnoticed and with the judging only two weeks away, he knew there were still challenges to be answered.

  Pushing himself out of the deck chair, Ted walked over to one of the climbing roses. Reaching over 3 metres, he needed a stepladder to get anywhere near the top. The topmost stems had been out of his reach for a number of years now, but he contented himself with maintaining the ones he could reach. Opening the stepladders that stood nearby, he took the first two steps. His doctor had warned against climbing too high; in the final years of her life, Ted’s fiercely independent mother had attempted something similar. She had fallen, breaking her pelvis. Though not fatal, this had ultimately hastened her death. At his age, Ted faced the same risks, and he had had his fill of hospitals and had no wish to find himself back in one. He pulled the clippers from his belt and made several judicious cuts to the plant. Climbing down from the ladder, he stepped back to admire the fruits of his labour. The paper-thin skin on his arms had come in contact with several of the thorns, and his yellow pressed shirt showed tiny dots of red. He took a moment to unbutton the cuffs, and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Pulling a large white handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped the blood spots away and returned the handkerchief. He remembered planting the rose when they moved in. It had been his wife’s choice. She had chosen a bright, vibrant red. ‘Happy Ruby Wedding’ was the store name of the variety. We’re nearly there, she had told him, planting a kiss on his cheek when he questioned her reasoning. They had planted the rose together, and like their love for each other, the rose had thrived, making a wonderful focal point for the garden.

  Rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning the cuffs, he looked over the rest of the front garden. Every plant was in full bloom, and with the judging so close this was perfect. His wife had spent almost eight years working on this garden, but the title of ‘Haverly in Bloom’ winner had eluded her. Ted suspected it had more to do with their standing in the tiny village community than it did her skills in the garden.

  Satisfied that there were no more jobs for the day, Ted turned back to the deck chair. He took a moment to stare at it, before easing himself down into it. His arms trembled as they took his weight, before he flopped back. He would worry about getting up later but for now, he unfolded his paper and took his glasses out of his breast pocket. Placing them on his nose, he snapped the paper open.

  “Oh, Mister Harris.” Ted sighed and continued to hold up his paper. He recognised the voice and took a few moments before he peered over the top. After a second or two he put the paper down and removed his glasses, acknowledging the speaker. She was dressed in a brightly coloured blazer, fastened with gold coloured buttons that looked like they were doing entirely too much work. Flat-soled shoes and a sensible skirt completed the ensemble. In her late fifties, the woman seemed to have at least twenty years of makeup on her face, and Ted marvelled at how it hadn’t started flaking off. She wore her hat at a jaunty angle, which Ted thought made her look ridiculous. He chose not to share his musings.

  “Mrs Butler-Thompson, how nice to see you.” Ted spoke courteously, hoping he had managed to hide his dislike for the woman, but he suspected she knew well enough. “What brings you to my little corner of the world?” He made an effort to get up as he spoke and grunted with the strain.

  “No, no, please don’t get up. I just happened to be passing and saw you at work on your,” she paused, looking for a word, “garden.” In total contrast to Ted, Mrs Butler-Thompson failed to hide the disdain in her voice. She tugged on the blazer she wore and brushed an
imaginary piece of lint off the padded shoulder. “I do think you have done ever so well with your entry again. I’m sure you will place in the top five again this year.” She tittered at the end of the sentence, making Ted grip the sides of the deckchair tightly. The muscles in his jaw stood out as he clenched his teeth. He took a moment to compose himself before he replied.

  “I hope you’re right. It’s a lot of work, but I enjoy it.” He managed a smile.

  “Well, yes. It’s nice to have a little hobby, isn’t it? I imagine it was a great comfort to you following,” There was another pause as she chose her words, “your wife’s departure.” She clasped her hands together in front of her chest and tilted her head to the side. “I’m sure you must miss her.” She steepled her eyebrows, and stuck out her bottom lip as she spoke

  “Yes, of course.” Ted’s wife had been gone for almost two years. The circumstances surrounding her departure were the subject of much speculation in the village, where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business. Ted and Sissy had been private people – not always by choice – and Ted, now on his own, saw no reason to break that habit. He saw no good reason to speak of it to anyone. But in a small community, tongues will wag, and wag they did; she ran off with a younger man; she had gone to the coast to care for her elderly mother; she had an affair with the parish priest. None of these were close, and Ted lived in fear of the day that someone would fit the pieces together and discover the truth. The last few months of their life together had been difficult, trying times. No one cared enough to come calling, so Ted let the talkers talk, and offered no evidence for or against any of the theories.

  “Well, don’t let it get you down. You keep pottering in your little garden.” She tugged down on her jacket again and walked away without waiting for a response. Ted smiled nervously and leaned back, closing his eyes.

  Part Two

  It was a full day before Geraldine Butler-Thompson returned. Ted knew she wouldn’t be able to stay away. He was sitting inside reading a book when he saw her throw his garden gate open and come marching up the path. The bang on the door – and it was a bang – made sure that if he had been sleeping, he wouldn’t be anymore. Ted pulled himself to standing, and slid his feet into his slippers. By the time he opened the front door, she was already nosing around his roses, fingering the blooms. “Can I help you?” he said.

  Mrs Butler-Thompson spun on her heels. She was sporting a red beret today, still at an odd angle, still ridiculous-looking. “Mister Harris, ” She brushed her hands together, removing any traces of dirt that she may have picked up. “Your roses are looking wonderful today.”

  “Yes they are, thank you.” Again he was polite, but offered little in the way of conversation; she had come to see him, after all.

  “You really must let me have the recipe for your success!” There was that titter at the end of the sentence. Ted smiled and said nothing. Mrs Butler-Thompson stepped back and looked up and down at the rose climbing its way around his window. She looked around, almost as if to check they weren’t being observed and leaned in close, speaking directly into Ted’s ear. “You do realise that the use of artificial growth stimulants will remove your eligibility?”

  Ted had been holding the doorframe, and he gripped it tightly. “What makes you think I’m using anything artificial?”

  “Come now, Mister Harris,” She smiled and pulled on one white glove, shaking her head slightly. “We both know that your wife was the architect of this,” that pause again, as she swept her hand behind her, “lovely garden. With the greatest of respect,” although Ted suspected a comment to the contrary, “your garden declined following your wife’s disappearance. This year, I’ll grant you, you look to be having a modicum of success. In fact, I would say that your garden has made tremendous progress in the lead up to the judging. Some may say the turn around was miraculous.” She let her comment percolate with Ted for a moment. “If, as you suggest, your methods are without reproach, I would like to discuss them with you,” Again, she waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she continued, “gardener to gardener”.

  Ted removed his glasses and wiped them on a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. He held them up to the light before replacing them. Keeping Mrs Butler-Thompson waiting was a small victory, and his response was terse: “My secrets are my own. Please save your worrying for your own garden. Goodbye now.” Leaving the woman no opportunity to reply, he stepped back inside his house and closed the door.

  Returning to his kitchen, he made himself a pot of tea. He pulled out the china tea set that he had bought Sissy when they moved in. The cups were white with a floral design, a pink rose in the centre; the saucers were similar. He filled the teapot with the water and tea and placed it on the table in front of him. He laid two cups and two saucers and then sat down. He rotated the handle of the teapot so that it faced away from him, towards the empty seat. He had been doing this as long as he could remember; he would make the pot of tea, and would offer his wife the first cup. Since her death, Ted had continued the tradition of rotating the pot, only now he waited a moment, as if expecting his wife to pour herself a cup. He would listen to the kitchen clock tick five times, before rotating the handle back towards himself. He poured the steaming tea and took a sip.

  Mrs Butler-Thompson’s visit had rattled him. He knew his garden’s secret, and it wasn’t artificial. Ted worried what she might find if she probed too deeply. Sissy had indeed been the architect of the garden, and he could only ever hope to have a fraction of her expertise; however, she was no longer here, and not a moment passed that he didn’t regret his actions of two years ago.

  The anniversary of her death was approaching, and Ted drank his tea, staring at the photo that stood on the table. It showed the two of them in their garden. The grass was around their knees, and there were no flowers. It had been the first full day in their new home, and Sissy had wanted to go outside and get on with the work. The moving boxes remained unopened and stacked inside the cottage, but she needed to be outside. Ted had laughed and completed the unpacking himself. The photo was in an old wooden frame, but he wouldn’t replace it. He moved it closer to himself and ran his fingers over his wife’s face, before taking another sip of his tea.

  Part Three

  If asked, Ted and Sissy would both agree that city life had been hard going. Monetarily rewarding, but soulless. The regular grind of the daily commute followed by eight hours in an office had taken its toll on the couple. Never having any children, they had both devoted the best years of their life to their careers, but as retirement loomed, Ted and Sissy made a decision to get out of the city, opting for a rural existence and a slower way of life.

  Married for almost forty years, they had a tidy sum of money in the bank; enough to buy a cottage in the sleepy village of Haverly. Significantly bigger than their city apartment, Sissy had worried about the maintenance and upkeep of such an old house; Ted was energized by the idea of a thatched roof, and crumbling bricks and mortar screamed retirement project to him. Sissy, conversely, could see vermin in the thatch and she knew Ted’s enthusiasm to tackle the project would be outstripped by the limitations of his aging body. Sissy’s doubts melted away when she saw the cottage, and any vestiges of uncertainty that remained, evaporated following their first night in the four-poster bed.

  The cottage was not without its idiosyncrasies; creaks and groans as the original timber beams expanded and contracted each day, and doorways that required Ted to stoop to pass through. There was damp in the cellar, and dry rot in some of the timbers, but it was their cottage, and that made it special

  It came with a decent sized front garden; a square of knee-length grass bordered by deep flowerbeds. Like many of the others in the village, it was restrained by a sandstone dry stone wall which was home to a variety of mosses and liverworts, which Sissy thought added to the ambience. Ted had wanted to hire a pressure washer to clean them off, but Sissy had stood firm, and so they remained. There was a small
back garden with a patio, a strip of grass, and a small tool shed.

  Sissy adored being outside and all aspects of work associated with maintaining a country garden. Living in a tiny one-bedroom city apartment for so many years had deprived her of the chance for a garden of her own. As a young girl, she had watched her father care for their garden at home, and she longed to put into practice the things he had taught her all those years ago. As it turned out, Sissy was a natural. Her garden drew admiring remarks from even the staunchest locals, who had to agree that for an outsider, the woman had a talent for horticulture, although some of them did it through gritted teeth.

  Their garden became an oasis of colour in the sea of sandstone and concrete that was Haverly. Sissy’s compulsion for gardening grew, and what seemed like every minute of her day was taken up with the garden. She could usually be found on her hands and knees in the soil filling the borders with annuals, or pruning the shrubs, although she did not shy away from the heavier jobs and had created a remarkable, sprawling rock garden, that took up almost a quarter of the useable space. She had hauled the large chunks of rock in a wheelbarrow through the village streets, which drew disapproving looks from some of her more sedentary neighbours. When she wasn’t in the garden, she had her head in a book, consulting on some aspect of soil care, or looking up one plant species or other. The garden was a testament to her endeavours.

  To Ted, the garden was Sissy’s domain. Initially, it was all she could do to get him out of the house and away from the TV. We’re in the countryside now; we should do countryside things she would tell him.

  When finally coaxed out of the cottage, Ted would watch her for a while, before returning indoors. Never one to admit defeat, Sissy purchased a blue and white striped deck chair, which she opened out on the front lawn one day. She placed his newspaper by the side of it and dragged him out into the open. Once he had lowered himself into the seat and had his paper open, he had to admit it was quite a pleasant experience.