Absent friends

Crushed after yet another dating mismatch, will Sophie Fraser ever find happiness? Find out in Miranda Dickinson’s captivating short story written exclusively for P.S

TThe Great Glasshouse stood, proud in the midst of beautiful formal gardens, its elegant sweeping arcs of glass and iron soaring skywards from ornate pillars of sandstone that, even on cloudy days, appeared to glow.

Around it, the first signs of spring abounded – brave shoots of new, verdant life, springing awake from winter sleep and the beginnings of blossom peppering bowed branches. Manicured lawns stretched away from its foundations into the distance as far as the eye could see, while ancient trees, dotted across the expanse of morning dew-soaked green like old creaking soldiers, silently observed a single figure moving quickly through the gardens towards it. To Sophie Fraser, the Glasshouse was an old, dear friend. And this morning she needed its reassuring presence more than ever.

She shivered as she ran, her boots splashing through puddles on the path. It was much later than she’d planned to be there and she cursed her alarm clock for failing to wake her this morning. Oversleeping had meant a dash to work and a lengthy lecture from her boss. With less than 20 minutes left until the heavy iron gates would be swung open to admit the public, Sophie sprinted up the path to reach the grand double doors of the Glasshouse. Struggling to regain her breath, she pushed an old brass key into the door lock. Even though she had done this most days of her eight years working at Edinburgh’s Royal Botanic Garden, the thrill of letting herself into the famous building rippled through her like the first time. Hearing the click of the key in the brass lock, she pushed the door open with a familiar groan of aged hinges, releasing a rush of humid air that prickled her face. She walked in, gazing at its verdant interior. For this moment, the Great Glasshouse was hers alone. Inside, everything was still.

Sophie paused in the doorway, breathing in the rarefied air.

This is my dream, she reminded herself. It’s always been my dream.

Nothing could steal it from her – not this morning or any morning. And neither the hangover threatening to crush her head, or the too-sharp reprimand from her boss, or the old familiar ache deep within her heart, could change that.

If only she hadn’t accepted that invitation last night. Sophie let her sigh rise to the glass ceiling high above the tops of the ancient palms. Her friends had meant well, inviting her to dinner with a mutual single friend. She loved them for still trying. But taking solo refuge from the mismatched date in a bottle of red wine was not the answer.

Would she ever learn? Remembering the time, Sophie moved carefully along the paved floor that edged a central run of intricate ironwork grills, conscious of every step, as if scared to disturb the reverent silence within. She followed the same route as she did every morning – a slow circumnavigation of the beds planted with exotic plants and trees from around the globe: towering palms, delicate ferns and vivid-hued blooms that contrasted startlingly with the marshmallow-white winter sky beyond the Victorian panes of the Glasshouse roof. At the end of one of the pathways, Sophie stopped by a small bench.

“Morning, Albertine.” She patted its cast ironwork affectionately and removed a stray leaf from the brass plaque fixed to it, which bore an embossed name:

IN LOVING MEMORY OF ALBERTINE MARY SIMNEL (1873-1901) WHO LOVED THIS PLACE

The benches were placed throughout the grand walkways of the Great Glasshouse, each one carrying the name of a benefactor of the Royal Botanic Gardens, or beloved relative of one of its visitors. Sophie knew them all by heart and could chart her morning walk by the names on the benches she passed: Henry Wallis, Millicent Avery, Margaret Hipkiss, Charles Gadwell, Stanley Brigworth, Gideon Chesterton, Amy O’flaherty...each one conjuring up an image in her mind. All the benches bore a dedication except one: a new seat that had been placed in the central walkway between two ceiling-high palms three weeks ago, but was yet to receive its brass plaque. This morning, Sophie paused by the new addition.

“I wonder who you’ll be dedicated to,” she mused out loud, confident that nobody was there to hear her talking to an inanimate object. With a smile, she set off again, towards the bench by the foot of one of the Great Glasshouse’s cream-painted iron pillars. When she reached it, she checked her watch and sat down.

“Morning Gladys,” she said, nodding at the plaque.

GLADYS SIMPSON (1891-1926) My heart is yours forever

Of all the benches in the Great Glasshouse, Gladys Simpson’s bench was Sophie’s favourite and had been so since her very first visit with her parents when she was seven years old. She liked to imagine Gladys as a confident flapper girl, breaking the hearts of her many suitors all over Edinburgh, but faithful only to the man who stole her heart. How sad that her life had been so short – but how full that life must have been!

Sophie allowed herself a moment to relax, inhaling the jasmine-like scent from the trachelospermum blossoms surrounding the bench as she did so.“i overslept this morning,” she whispered. “Sedgwick went ballistic at me – I thought he was going to have a coronary.” Behind her, a leaf fluttered to the ground. It was the best reply.“i wouldn’t mind, but it’s the first time I’ve been late since...” Her voice trailed away as the old familiar pang hit. She swallowed and looked up through the palm canopy to the pale sky beyond the glass roof.“i got drunk last night, too. You’d have been proud. A whole bottle of red while the Dullest Man in Edinburgh droned on. I just wish...i wish I’d never met Isaac. Despite everything, I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone I could love like him.”

The atmosphere within the Glasshouse was soothing, wrapping itself around her soul like a warm blanket. She had always felt its calm, but in the year since Isaac left she had come to depend upon it. Home wasn’t home without Isaac: the walls bore his paint strokes; the air carried the whisper of his presence. Memories crowded the rooms, jostled for position on the sofa, pushed Sophie from her bed in the dark hours of night. Her peace was here, where Isaac had never been. He couldn’t understand her fascination with her workplace. They pay you to like it, Soph: why give them time for free? Another disconnect between them she should have recognised. If he’d loved her, he’d have known that it was only when she was here, surrounded by abundant life and her imagined personas of the bench dedications, that she ever felt at peace.

Outside the Glasshouse, the world kept spinning, pulling everyone along at breakneck pace: no time to listen, understand or feel. In here, she was safe.

A cloud of starlings passed by overhead, their noise and energy a rude interruption to the stillness.

“I thought we would always be in love,” she confessed to her imagined companion. “I never thought it would end. And now – now I think I might be alone forever.” Dismissing the thought, she rose quickly to her feet.“time to go. Thanks for listening.”

As Sophie slowly walked away, a beautiful flapper girl seated unseen on the arm of the bench lifted her hand to wave.“you’re very welcome, my darling.”

A Victorian lady in an ivy-green hat appeared by the side of the flapper.“the poor girl is so sad, Gladys. It breaks your heart.”

“It does. But, dear Albertine, what can we do?”

“What, indeed?” agreed a bushymustachioed gentleman in a pinstriped suit, as he stepped out from the middle of a vivid pink Brazilian bougainvillea.

A puff of pipe smoke billowed through the fronds of a tree fern, as a 1940s-suited gentleman joined them.“i fear there is nothing we can do, Charles.”

“Nonsense, Henry, there is always something to be done,” barked a matronly woman dressed in a high-buttoned black mourning dress as she materialised beside him.“you are impossibly defeatist. The girl’s heart is broken, but it is by no means irrevocably so.”

“Quite so, Margaret,” Charles replied, winking at Henry. “But the question remains. How is one to make a difference?”

“Ah, the tribulations of youth,” mused an elderly, splendidly white-bearded man, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Charles Darwin.“i remember it well.” “A dashed fine memory you have, Stanley, old chap,” a young man in a red and white-striped blazer grinned, tipping his straw boater at the ladies.“damned if I can remember a jot, besides the mischief.” “My memory is indeed fine, Gideon,” Stanley replied sternly, sitting shakily as Gladys and Albertine shuffled along the bench.“one finds solace in the great works of one’s earthly years.”

“Or the fun, eh gals?” Gideon replied, only slightly chastened by Margaret’s stern expression and Stanley’s world-heavy sigh. “Whatever raises your flag, I say.”

A burst of excited laughter echoed high above them and Henry looked up to the old balcony nestled between the curving arches of the roof.

“What, in the name of all things curious, is going on up there?”

The bench residents lifted their eyes to see three figures flitting between the cast-iron panels of the walkway.

Margaret gave a loud tut.“millicent and Amy. Is there no decorum left?”

“Shameful,” Stanley agreed, shaking his head with disapproval.

“Oh piffle,” Gideon rebuked them.“allow the two spinsters a bit of fun, won’t you? They had precious little of it in life.”

Two breathless ladies appeared at the top of the balcony – one dressed in 1960s Biba, the other in an Edwardian evening gown studded with pink silk rosebuds. As they descended slowly, it was clear that someone else was with them, although the group were only afforded brief glimpses between the large palm branches that obscured their view.

“Look who we found in the roof!” squealed Amy, the ends of her Mary Quant bob bouncing about her ears.

“A new chum!” Millicent, reaching the ground now, looked back up at her companions.“come down, William – they won’t bite!”

A middle-aged man in a modern city suit walked hesitantly into view. He was paler than the others – opaque, like a reflection in a shop window – and he appeared a little disoriented, as if he had just emerged from a quiet train into the bustle of Edinburgh Waverley station. He stared unblinking at the assembled group that hurried to greet him.

“Everybody, this is William Mcallis. He’s just arrived.”

“Ah, splendid!” Henry stepped forward, extending his hand.“being dedicated today, eh?”

William appeared to look right through him.“i – don’t know why I’m here…”

The others fell silent. Because, what could be said? Each one of them had arrived in the same manner: suddenly there, in the timeless air of the temple of glass, iron and stone.

Memories were slow to return here, hidden between leaves and buried in the temperate brown soil that gave everything life, except them. But when the reminiscences did come back, they were altered, as fine and transient as the mists of moisture that sustained the Glasshouse plants. It was a peace of sorts, the kind you learned to lean on in time. That was what the bench residents knew – and that was what they would teach their new companion, who gazed glassily at them now.

“Fret not, dear heart,” smiled Gideon, slapping the newcomer smartly on the back. “You’ll get used to it.”

When Sophie returned to the small Operations office, she found a note on her desk, scrawled in Reginald Sedgwick’s unkempt handwriting:

Bench dedication at 3.30pm. Contact name: MCALLIS. DON’T BE LATE.

She sighed, trying to ignore the knot of irritation in her stomach. Reg was never going to let her forget this morning, was he?

But at least the dedication meant discovering the name that the newest bench would carry. That gave Sophie a thrill: the first new bench to be allowed in the Great Glasshouse for years. Ordinarily, new