A ROSE FOR MY LOVE

The bush Henry planted when his wife died was more than just a memorial. Its battle to survive the seasons was his own. And like his broken heart, everyone was waiting for the day it would bloom.

Henry planted the rose bush almost four years ago. He bought it nine days after his wife died. It was his daughter Donna’s idea.

“You should plant something in the garden, Dad, to remember Mum by. She’d love that,” said Donna as they were sorting through his wife Lil’s clothes.

Well, it was more Donna sorting through things and him standing there feeling useless.

“I don’t know what flowers she liked,” he said, holding up a bright hibiscus-pattern dress for Donna to look at.

“Jeez, that dress is horrible, Dad,” said Donna. “Chuck it in the charity bag.”

His hand trembled as he put the dress into the overflowing garbage bag.

“I read about it in the grieving book,” said Donna.

“We can plant something and remember her whenever we look at it. It’s a beautiful idea, right?” She didn’t stop for him to reply. “Mum loved pink. Get her something pink.”

He’d obediently walked to the local gardening shop, eager to escape. He purchased a rose bush. It promised bright pink flowers on the label.

He’d never planted a rose bush before. Never thought to, though his wife would have probably loved one. He grew vegetables – potatoes, green peas, cucumbers, golden pumpkins. There was always something that needed tending in the garden and it brought him great satisfaction to produce some of their food. The backyard was devoted to the vegetables.

But no flowers. He wondered why he’d never thought to add some flowers.

He planted the rose bush in the front lawn, between the verandah steps and the mail box so he’d always see it. Donna decided on the location.

He worried for months after Lil was gone that she might have wanted a flower bed. That he hadn’t known, nor cared enough, to discover this about his wife. She’d never asked for flowers.

He tended the rose bush and waited for it to flower.

In the first year, it almost died. “It’s the heat,” said Bob at the garden centre. “Roses don’t like this extreme heat.

The next year it almost died. “It’s the frost,” said Bob. The next year, powdery mildew covered its leaves. The year after, black spots appeared.

It never produced a bloom. It sat there looking sickly and dejected, despite Henry’s fertilising, watering and the books he reading on tending roses at the library.

He worried over the plant. Its battle to survive was his own. He sat on the verandah and looked at it, some days for hours.

‘‘Never known a plant so difficult to grow. Four years and it still looks awful. I think something is eating it now,” he told Donna when she came over. “The leaves look bad.”

He went inside and put the kettle on. Then set the pink china teacups out, the porcelain shell-thin, on the table. Lil loved those teacups. He carefully tucked teabags in them. Donna came over and gently placed a hand over his own. He was startled to see age spots on his youngest daughter’s hand. When had those appeared?

“I think you need to get out more, Dad,” she said, giving him a serious look.

“I get out,” he protested. “You go to the supermarket and the garden centre once a week. You should go out properly, meet someone. Mum wouldn’t want you rotting in the house all day.” She started wiping the Formica surfaces, more for something to do, rather than cleaning it.

Henry was tidy. He kept the house like Lil had. Well, close to. Maybe the toilet should be cleaned more often, but he’d done a decent job taking over the domestic duties when she got ill.

“She’d want you to find a nice lady to go on holidays with, eat meals out,” Donna said, putting down the sponge and looking at him.

Henry bit his thumbnail. A nervous habit. His mother used to slap his hand when he did it. Lil took over that duty when they married. He could see Donna would’ve done the same thing if she were a bit closer.

“I don’t think I’m ready, love,” he said softly, unused to disagreeing with his daughter.

He tended the bush and waited for it to flower. In the first year, it almost died.

“Mum’s been gone a long time now,” said Donna.

“Your mother would come back and haunt me,” he joked.

“She wouldn’t. She’d be delighted to see someone make you clean that bathroom once in a while. Just … think about it,” she said. “It would do you good to get out more.”

Donna looked out the window at the front yard. The rose bush looked like it was waving in the breeze.

“The lawn needs mowing,” she said.

“I’ve got it on the to-do list,” replied Henry.

“I’ll get Scott to come round and do it,” said Donna.

“I can do the lawn,” he said. “John Matthews had a heart attack mowing his lawn five weeks ago, remember?” said Donna. “He’s your age.”

He’s actually younger, thought Henry, but didn’t dare say it aloud.

“It was just lucky Bev was at home. Otherwise he would have died. Everyone said it. I don’t want you dying like that.”

He wondered how she would like him to die ... in the arms of some senior-citizen lady lover? The thought made him almost giggle. He stifled it and Donna gave him a sharp look.

“It’s too quiet in this house,” she said. She looked through his fridge, while he made their tea, his hand trembling slightly as he the sugar spoon hit the saucer.

Thankfully Donna didn’t notice. She was too busy tidying ancient carrots out of the crisper. It was a relief when she was leaving. “Think about it, Dad, there’s lots of senior-citizen events I can sign you up for.” She gave him a peek on the cheek.

“I’ll go to one when that rose bush finally flowers,” he said.

She smiled and the frown between her eyes lifted. He could see the little girl who was bossy even then. She made Lil’s life a misery as a toddler, then as a teenager. But Lil and Donna had loved each other fiercely. Donna had been there at the very end.

Henry sat outside after Donna left. He dozed off reading the newspaper. The sound of the lawnmower woke him.

There was his grandson, Scott – head down, broad shoulders hunched, mowing. He had the same frown as his mother, same as Lil’s.

He suddenly remembered Lil pushing Scott on his bike in the driveway as a little kid. He’d managed to find the camera and taken a photo of their matching frowns of concentration.

He wondered where that photograph was. Lil would know. Maybe Donna would know.

“Grandpa?” said a voice. He was startled awake. He’d dozed off again.

There was Scott, sitting in the wicker chair next to him, waiting for him to awaken.

Almost 20, his baggy Hi-Vis work clothes made him look somehow larger.

“I dozed off,” said Henry, smiling then rubbing at his stubble, checking he hadn’t drooled in his sleep. “The lawn looks great. Thank you, son.”

“No worries,” said Scott. “I’ve put your dinner in the fridge. Mum’s made shepherd’s pie. There’s milk and bread, too. She said you were almost out.” He paused. “The rose bush looks good. It might bloom this year.”

Henry didn’t correct him by pointing out something was destroying the leaves.

“I hope it does: Not one flower yet,” said Henry.

Scott nodded. His eyes looked at the newspaper on Henry’s lap. It happened to be open on the lonely hearts page. Their eyes met.

Same eyes as Lil’s, too. Hazel with big, long eyelashes. Henry could see why Scott was Lil’s favourite grandchild, even though she insisted she never had a favourite.

“Mum was saying you were after a girlfriend,” said Scott.

Henry snorted. “She doesn’t waste any time. I’m not after a girlfriend. Even the word ‘girlfriend’ sounds silly coming from me.”

“You sure?” asked Scott. “Maybe not a girlfriend then. I mean, if you are lonely, there’s apps. I can put them on your phone. Just, you know, if you feel any …” he floundered for the right word. “If you have needs.”

Henry’s face must have looked as alarmed as he felt. Scott held his hands up in a gentle way and laughed.

“Just a thought. Forget I mentioned it.”

They lapsed into silence. “But you get lonely without Grandma here, right?” asked Scott.

“Some. But not enough to need apps.” He could barely use his mobile without apps that catered to his ‘needs’.

Henry continued: “Maybe when your grandma is ready I’ll find you a new grandma.”

Scott smiled. “How will you know she’s ready?”

Henry shrugged. “She’ll let me know.”

When Scott left, he worked in his vegetable patch. There were always weeds to pull out.

Henry paused to stretch his back and then looked at the passionfruit flowers covering the vine on the fence. Lil had always liked those flowers. But he thought she may have just liked them as the flowers meant fruit would arrive soon.

He pulled off his hat and scratched his sweaty head.

He tried for the millionth time to remember a bunch of bouquets and Lil commenting on a particular flower. He would have bought her many over the years. Yet he did not have one memory of her saying which flower she liked best. Maybe she liked them all.

He shook his head. Don’t worry about it Henry, he told himself. It shouldn’t matter. Lil knew you loved her. But still it worried at him.

That night he sat in front of the TV, balancing a dinner plate on his lap.

He still sat on his side of the couch, not Lil’s. They always sat side-by-side to watch TV. Even on blistering hot days he never moved to one of the armchairs. He didn’t know why.

Her elbow would often hit him as she knitted or crocheted whatever she was working on, usually something in a pink hue that wasn’t to his particular taste, but he never said he disliked the colour.

He began to eat. The shepherd’s pie was good. He would remember to praise Donna on her excellent cooking next time she popped in.

The news was terrible. He switched it off.

The grandfather clock ticked painfully loud.

He dared himself to look at it. Only 7.20pm. It was at least three hours before sleep would come to him.

Three hours.

He ate in silence. The clock ticked on.

He wondered if he could stop it ticking so loudly.

He got up, his knees cracking in protest, and washed the single plate, fork and knife. His left hand barely shook. He carefully put foil over the rest of the pie and put it in the fridge for tomorrow. He flicked the kettle on for the fifth time that day, listened to it rumble and blow as he wiped his plate dry. He exhaled loudly.

The plate made a loud clatter when it went on top of the plate pile. It was a smaller pile now, only five dinner plates, a lot less than when Lil was around.

He had insisted that his daughters take almost all the dinnerware. Henry wasn’t planning on having afternoon teas and hosting dinners again. He had reassured them he’d never need a gravy boat or whatever it was again. He wiped the knife and fork, then poured the water into his mug.

A frog made a noise outside. Lil liked their croaking at night. He remembered that. She would never let the girls get a cat for fear they’d hunt the frogs.

The clock kept ticking. Two-and-a-half hours until bed.

He picked up the paper and looked at the crossword. The first clue stumped him. He and Lil had always done the crosswords together. She was better at them.

He picked up a pen and put it down. He breathed in deeply.

“Lil,” he said, looking at the photo of her on the wall.

“I think Donna’s bloody right again. Is it time? What do you reckon, love? Could you stand another lady in your house?”

The next morning when he went to get the mail he noticed the rose bush had a bud, smaller than a baby’s nail, on it.