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NOTES:

WRITERS' CHALLENGE: SPRING 2008 - HIGHLY COMMENDED

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"Magic Seeds"

by Rosalie Warren - Coventry, England, UK

HIGHLY COMMENDED: "WRITERS' CHALLENGE" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008

‘These are magic seeds. Put them away for now but don’t forget them. When you are ready for something new, sow them in rich, damp compost. Expect results.’

The scribbled note and re-used brown envelope holding six pea-sized, wizened seeds were the best condolence Christine received. The rest – all the carefully-worded letters and cards – were kindly-meant but formulaic, too much alike. The seeds came from Elise, Christine’s mad friend from schooldays, who had lived for years in France.

Christine was fifty-eight. She and Mike had planned a long retirement, filled with gardening, long walks and barbecues. Perhaps, she’d dared to hope, a resurgence of their sex life. Within five months of his retirement dinner, held by the bank in honour of their longest-serving, hardest-working employee, Mike was dead.

Christine felt her face relax into a smile as she buried the seeds deep in her underwear drawer, among the jumble of faded soft cotton. It was a relief not to be frowning. She realised how stiff and sore her neck muscles had grown.

‘You daft lassie,’ said Mike in his hoarse smoker’s whisper.

She’d never believed in ghosts but it hadn’t taken long, after Mike’s death, to be converted. Nothing white, flappy or ethereal, just the certain knowledge of what, on a particular occasion, he would say. Not always a comfort – sometimes he made remarks she didn’t want to hear. That, more than anything, convinced her that his presence went beyond wishful thinking.

But it wasn’t the same. She hadn’t known it was possible to hurt so much, so hard, for so long. Pain in every flavour – from sharp green acid reminders to bitter smarting guilt to that clogging buttery sickening sensation of another evening beginning, the clock hands stalling, the TV mocking and the phone silent. Or the phone ringing when she didn’t want it, piercing the senses she had managed to subdue.

A year to the day. She checked the seeds. Still there, even more wrinkled. A couple had spilled out among her knickers. She pushed them back in the envelope, worrying that she had failed to treasure the gift. Would the magic be broken? Don’t be daft, said Mike.

Too soon. Another month, or two, or seven?

Twenty months on from Mike’s death. First week in March, a crisp, bright day. In earlier years, Mike’s seeds would be germinating now, in their black plastic trays. Christine hadn’t opened the greenhouse door since he died. It would be full of things dead and dying, rotting and collapsing. The smell had escaped on a couple of hot days last summer, tormenting her as she knelt to weed the borders. The reek of neglect, chastising her as though Mike were in the greenhouse, waiting in vain for her to come.

That morning she knew, the instant she woke, that it was time to sow. Something surged in her blood, telling her it was today. She wasn’t ready and never would be, but she couldn’t disobey the call.

The garden-centre was cool and leafy, elegant as a cathedral. Every plant dripped from the early-morning watering. Her nose caught a mingling of scents dominated by sharp lemon disinfectant and spicy ferns. She seemed to be the only customer.

A man who appeared to be in his mid-forties rang up her purchase – a small bag of compost and a large green plastic pot. His name-badge said, ‘Steve Meek: Manager.’

‘Lovely morning,’ Christine said.

‘Beautiful. I think spring’s on the way.’ His voice was warm. And wow – that smile.

Christine’s body jumped to attention in a way she’d forgotten it could. She pictured little green shoots thrusting through her skin. Breaking into flower. Tiny blue lobelia – thousands of them – all over her.

 ‘Six pounds thirty.’ Steve’s voice, though not impatient, had a rising inflection which suggested he’d already said it and she’d not heard.

‘Sorry – I’m dreaming.’ She opened her purse, passed him a note and some coins. Their fingers touched. A rosebud burst open inside her woollen top. Silly woman, she told herself.

It was Christine’s first visit of many. The seedlings, in their green pot on the kitchen windowsill, grew steadily.  As the weeks progressed they produced enormous glossy emerald leaves, like none she had ever seen. Then came the buds, unfolding into pink and purple blooms that might have been orchids but weren’t – were a hundred times more alien and strange. The variety of colours on one stem – was that a biological anomaly? Elise, she recalled, had never been one to be bound by science. Eccentric, crazy, a sorceress.

Christine did not believe in spoiling her plants, had always held to  discipline, modified by the occasional indulgence. But these creatures made demands like clamouring children: ‘Feed us, spray us, polish our leaves…’ She obeyed and they rewarded her with bloom after bloom, each more heavily-scented than the last.

The garden-centre was a half-mile walk from home, a pleasant morning stroll. Somewhere to go, knowing she would exchange friendly words. A place to spend some of the generous pension Mike’s bank had provided.

She and Steve made friends. He told her, as they wandered among the early bedding plants, about his broken marriage, how his wife had left with their daughter, gone to live with another man. How he was now staying with his widowed father. Her heart bled as he spoke, but deep inside her, the blood dried, fed her dreams and nourished hope.

She couldn’t help it – it was his smile. Not just the perfect teeth but the warmth it held. The affection in his eyes – surely she couldn’t be misreading that?

He’d told her he was forty-eight.

Eleven years, the difference. She had a friend who’d married a man twenty years older. It had worked. But she knew no-one where the gap was this way round. You heard of toy-boys – the magazines were full of them – but they were for the rich and glamorous, film stars and pop divas. Not for women like her.

She addressed herself in the mirror – a smartish woman, in reasonable shape. She could pass for fifty. ‘Christine, do you seriously think…?’

But her body took no notice. Her hormones buzzed and she felt her legs weaken each time she approached the garden-centre. Something had to happen soon. She’d burst if it didn’t.

In the kitchen window, her plants grew still bigger. Their fragrance was heavy and musty, making her sneeze. She was almost tired of them – they were too strident, too demanding. Once or twice, going down in the morning unusually early (she wasn’t sleeping well), she thought she heard them whispering. Sharing secrets, she suspected, about her. They stopped as she approached, assuming a guise of innocence.

She plucked a couple of blooms off the stem with her fingernail, feeling the same prick of guilt as when her trowel sliced an earthworm. Having twisted their stems together with garden wire, she attached them to the lapel of her cream cotton jacket.

‘You smell nice,’ said Steve, greeting her at the door of the garden centre.

She tried, without success, not to blush. ‘It’s these flowers I grew. My friend sent the seeds from France. I’ve no idea what they are.’

‘Me neither,’ said Steve, bending his head towards her for a closer look, inhaling deeply. ‘Never seen anything like them. But that scent is quite something.’

Later, as she paid for her bottle of liquid plant food, he said, ‘You know, you should apply for a job here.’

‘That’s not a bad idea.’

‘We need someone like you, who knows about plants and can smile at the customers, pass the time of day.’

This was a reference to Sophie, the horticulture student who’d recently started working there at weekends.  Purple lips set in a permanent sulk, downcast eyes. Christine had tried more than once to strike up a conversation at the checkout but Sophie had refused to respond. Christine couldn’t help feeling relieved. If Sophie smiled, Steve might notice her. Though she was far too young for him, wasn’t she?

‘Like to come for lunch on Sunday?’ Steve asked a few days later, as she examined the trays of begonias. ‘We could talk about the job.’

Sophie had left. There was a vacancy for a part-timer. Christine would have preferred full-time, but it would be a start.

‘Oh. Are you sure?’

‘Of course. I can’t promise much in the way of food, mind you. I’m no great cook, though I do my best.’

All Christine’s organs were dancing now. Her heart setting the pace, the rest thumping along in time. A catchy low-level vibration down inside.

‘I’d love to come.’

She’d get the bus into town that afternoon, choose some new clothes. A top with a flattering neckline. A scarf – perhaps in light green, her best shade. A touch of pink. A shapely skirt. Eye-shadow – something like the colour Sophie wore, but more subtle.

New undies? Don’t get carried away, she told herself. If anything’s going to happen, it won’t be yet.

They fixed up a time and she drifted to the exit, imagining telling her friends about Steve. They’d be shocked, some of them. Who cared?

She rang Elise that evening .

‘Of course they’re working,’ said Elise. ‘What did you expect? My magic always works, for those who believe in it.’

‘What are the seeds? No-one has ever seen anything like them.’

‘They are seeds of the Love Plant. Candela amoris. I gather them at the full moon closest to midsummer. They only grow if sown by someone in pain. They turn out differently for everyone – according to his or her heart’s desire.’

‘How does that work?’

‘Don’t question, Christine – just believe. But remember – your heart’s desire may turn out to be something other than what you expect.’

‘This is my father, Colin. Dad – please meet Christine.’

Of course – Steve lived with his father. She had known that. How had she managed to forget, to assume that it would be just be Steve and herself for Sunday lunch?

She held out her hand. Colin was an older version of Steve. The same chocolaty eyes and warm gaze, similar well-shaped teeth, not quite as white as Colin’s. Heavier-set than his son, but still in good shape.

Steve served up a passable lasagne with green salad. Afterwards, he left Christine alone with Colin while he cleaned up the kitchen and washed the dishes. She caught a glimpse of chaos on the cooker top, work surfaces and floor. She would have offered to help, but Steve forestalled her.

‘You two sit in the garden for a while. Smell the roses. I’ll bring coffee out soon.’

She’d worked out what was going on. Steve had brought them together – his lonely widowed father and his elderly new friend. He’d recognised that something might happen here. It was a kind and thoughtful act – with, perhaps, a degree of self-interest. She wouldn’t blame him. Living with Colin must curtail his freedom.

‘I’m a magician,’ said Colin. ‘I do children’s parties. It helps eke out my pension but I mainly do it because I love it. The kiddies’ faces! It’s kept me going since Maisie passed away.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Christine. She could see how children would warm to this man. ‘I could do with a new interest myself. That’s why I’m hoping for a job at the garden centre.’

‘Steve has told me so much about you.’

Well, of course. It all made perfect sense. ‘He’s a lovely man, your son.’ It was all right to say that, surely?

‘I’m very proud of him. Have you got any children?’

‘My daughter, Nicki. She’s in Canada.’

‘That’s a long way. Grand-children?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t see much of little Sarah – not since Steve and Katie split up.’

‘That’s such a shame.’

Steve appeared with three mugs of coffee on a paisley-patterned tray with rust-spots. Christine drank hers in gulps, hoping the heat would dissolve the lump in her throat that was hardening by the second, as each little fantasy in her brain received an update and adjusted itself to the new reality.

They discussed the job. It would mean doing a full day Saturday, and Sunday from eleven till five. She found it hard to focus on Steve’s words. She didn’t want to work there any more – the proximity to him would choke her. But she couldn’t bring herself to say.

Back home, she gazed at the blooms on her kitchen windowsill. Had some of the buds dried out a little, begun to go brown? Perhaps the sun was too hot? She moved them into the shade and topped up the compost with water from a small green jug she and Mike had bought years ago, on holiday in Devon.

Your heart’s desire may turn out to be something other than what you expect. That’s what Elise had said.

Could she accept something other? Could she fall in love with Colin, who, it seemed, liked her a lot and was looking for romance?

No, of course she couldn’t. She shook her head to banish the thought, together with all her dreams. A bud on the point of opening popped off its stem and fell to the floor.

‘I’ve been worried’ said Steve. ‘I phoned but you didn’t answer. Were you away?’

She found it hard to lie to him. ‘I’ve been under the weather. Sorry, I should have let you know. I’ve been doing some thinking. I’m not up to the job. Not yet. It’s too soon.’

‘What’s happened to change your mind?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’ve just been down in the dumps, like I said. You know, it comes and goes.’

‘I know. I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘I’m like that, too. Over Katie leaving.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

It was quiet in the garden centre – Thursday morning. She could hear rain on the glass roof, like fingers drumming. They were standing beside the fuchsias, the rich blooms like giant drops of blood. She bit her lip, sniffing back tears. If Steve noticed, she would say it was hay fever.

‘My dad said how much he likes you.’

A smile, half-genuine. ‘I like him, too.’

There was a long silence between them.

‘Did you think…?’  Steve raised a hand to scratch his cheek.

‘Did I think what?’ She didn’t want this conversation. If only she had the courage to run away.

A big sigh from Steve. ‘I’m sorry, if you misunderstood.’

‘Don’t be silly. Not at all.’ She bent to examine a fuchsia. ‘I’ve never seen them in this colour.’ Her face, she knew, was brighter than any of the flowers. She willed him not to see.

‘Christine. I’m useless at this. It’s one of the reasons Katie left.’

‘Surely not?’

‘If only you were a plant…’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know what to do with plants.’

‘I don’t understand. Your dad – Colin…’

‘What about him?’

She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion. ‘I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t hurt him. He’s very nice.’

‘Of course you haven’t hurt him. How could you have?’

‘Well, if he was expecting… you know. I  can see why you introduced us. It made a lot of sense. Both of us recently widowed. Common interests.’

‘Christine…’

‘It’s just that I’m not ready. It’s too soon. I can’t bear…’

‘You’re crying.’ His hands were on both his cheeks now, the nails scraping down. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Let me go, Steve. Please. I must get home.’

‘Wait. I need to say something.’ His hand was on her arm.

‘No, I’ve been an idiot.’  She pulled away, turning to leave.

‘Christine. I love you.’

The fuchsias were singing, all of a sudden, their rich harmonies filling the cathedral.

‘But I’m so much older than you, Steve. Eleven years.’

They were in her kitchen, that evening. He was drinking tea, in slow sips, from one of her floral china cups.

‘That’s nothing. Not when you’re in love.’

‘I could almost be your mother.’

‘Of course you couldn’t.’

‘Steve, let’s be realistic. It can’t possibly work. When you’re sixty-five, I’ll be…’ The arithmetic temporarily defeated her.

‘Seventy-six. That’s OK.’

‘No, it’s not. I’m probably as near to your dad’s age than yours. That’s why I thought…’

‘That I’d set you up to meet him? No way! I asked you home when he was there so you wouldn’t feel pressurised. Never crossed my mind you’d think I was playing Cupid.’

She could hardly get the words out. ‘So – he knew?’

‘How I felt about you? Of course he did. I was so excited about you, I couldn’t hide it from him. He knows me too well.’

They embraced. As they kissed, another half-open bud plopped onto the dresser. The kitchen filled up with its fragrance, wafted by a breeze from the open window. Neither of them noticed.

The seeds had done their work.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Rosalie Warren - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
 

COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
Expertly brought to life, this renewing of the spirit! The ebb and flow was perfection, leading the reader through a variety of emotions, misunderstandings, hopes, hopes dashed, and lifted again. A joy!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Rosalie Warren was born in West Yorkshire but lived much of her adult life in Scotland before moving to Coventry seven years ago, where she lives with her partner, Paul. She has two grown-up children and was a university lecturer before taking early retirement to pursue her lifelong dream of being a writer. She has just finished her first children’s book and started work on a second. Rosalie’s website is at www.rosalie-warren.co.uk

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