“Katie, forgive me…”
Frederick cracked open one eye and immediately squeezed it shut again. The low March sun pierced through the window, its merciless beam striking him square in the face. He wriggled on the crumpled bedsheets, trying to escape the glare.
“Awake at last, you old sot?” came his wife’s voice. “Open those shameless eyes—I want to look into them. All the other husbands know how to act proper, bringing flowers, gifts for their wives. But you? You drank yourself half to death last night. Do you even remember what day it is?”
Frederick shrank toward the wall and managed to pry his eyes open. Through narrow slits, as thin as arrow loops in a fortress, he saw Katie looming over him, hands planted firmly on her ample hips.
“W-what day?” he croaked, genuinely baffled.
“International Women’s Day, that’s what! A day for *me* to be celebrated. And what do you do? Drown yourself in drink. I can’t stand the sight of you. Aren’t you ashamed? I’d planned a quiet evening—just the two of us, a nice bottle of wine our daughter brought over. But *you*, you wretch, sniffed it out and drank the lot. Wasn’t the whisky enough for you?”
Before Frederick could shield himself, a slipper, hurled with terrifying precision, smacked him square in the forehead.
“Take that!”
The second slipper missed its mark as he ducked beneath the blanket. Thank heavens she only had the pair. He peeked out cautiously.
“Katie, love, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it right,” Frederick hiccupped, struggling to rise—only to tangle himself in the duvet.
She dismissed him with a wave and vanished into the kitchen. The clatter of dishes followed—an ominous sign. When Katie made that much noise, it meant her temper was truly up, and the row would last hours.
Frederick, knowing better than to poke the bear, decided a tactical retreat was in order. He edged past the kitchen toward the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, emptied the toothbrush mug, and gulped down what remained. He smoothed his thinning hair with a damp hand. The clanging from the kitchen continued unabated.
Silently, he crept back to the bedroom, dressed, and slipped into the hallway. As he struggled into his shoes, he wobbled, nearly toppling over. The noise brought Katie to the kitchen doorway.
“Where d’you think you’re off to, you old drunk?”
“Katie, love, I’ll just—I’ll be quick—” Frederick snatched his jacket from the hook and backed toward the door.
“Hold it right there!” Katie commanded, advancing like a battleship, but Frederick was already out, slamming the door behind him.
“Don’t you dare come back unless—!” The rest was lost as he hurried down the stairs.
Outside, the sun shone bright. Droplets drummed cheerfully on the eaves, and in places, the thaw had exposed the weathered tarmac. Men passed him, arms laden with bunches of bright daffodils or tulips.
“Excuse me, mate—got the time?” Frederick asked a man clutching a spray of golden mimosa.
“Time you sobered up,” the man muttered without stopping.
“Wouldn’t mind that,” Frederick grumbled, shuffling on. What he’d really meant to ask was where the flowers had come from.
“Young man, where’d you get those?” he tried again with a passing lad.
“Down there.” The boy jerked a thumb behind him.
Frederick nodded and trudged in the indicated direction. Soon, he spotted a woman by the traffic lights, a crate at her feet brimming with fluffy mimosa branches like little chicks peering out.
His pace quickened. Flowers would smooth things over—maybe even earn him a celebratory tipple. But when he reached her, only a thin, sorry-looking sprig remained.
“Take it, love—half price for you,” she said, eyeing him knowingly.
“I wanted a proper bouquet. For the wife. Haven’t you any more?”
“Gone, ain’t they?” she mocked. “Wait if you like—I’ll call for more.”
Frederick hesitated. A single sprig would only insult Katie. Yet the steady stream of flower-toting men meant there had to be another stall nearby. He wandered on, patting his pockets. He hadn’t a clue if he even had money—Katie might’ve confiscated it to curb his drinking.
Stopping, he rooted through his coat and unearthed a crumpled fiver. No idea what flowers cost these days. Up ahead, a crowd clustered around a van. At the quoted price for tulips, his heart sank.
“Just the one?” asked the bearded vendor in a thick accent.
“I’ve only this.” Frederick brandished the fiver.
“Eh, for that, I give you one flower. Want it?”
A lone tulip would hardly atone for last night’s sins. Defeated, he moved on.
He racked his brains for anyone who owed him money. *”Alfie! He’s still got that tenner of mine.”* Frederick set off toward Alfie’s flat. Never mind they’d drunk it together—it was *his* money, so Alfie owed him.
“Who’s there?” came a shrill voice through the door.
Alfie’s wife, Maud, was a harridan who kept her husband on a tight leash. His rare escapes led to legendary benders. Alfie called her “the Nettle” behind her back.
Frederick leaned toward the keyhole. “It’s me—Fred. Is Alf in?”
“What d’you want?”
“Tell him I need that tenner he owes me. Desperate, I am.”
Silence. Frederick pressed his ear to the door, imagining her weighing his words.
“I’ll give you something you *won’t* forget!” she shrieked.
Frederick recoiled. The lock clicked, and through the crack, a hand shot out—middle finger erect.
“There y’are!”
Seizing the moment, Frederick yanked the door open. Maud stumbled forward, the obscene gesture whiffing past his nose. Behind her, Alf’s scrawny frame hovered in a stained vest and oversized boxers.
“Alf, be a pal—” Frederick began, but the door slammed in his face.
He trudged away, cursing. *”Should’ve checked Katie’s coat pockets—she always keeps spare change.”* Too late now. *”Bloody Women’s Day in March—who’s idea was that? If it were summer, I’d just nick some from the park like the old days.”*
But he couldn’t return empty-handed. Frederick plodded on, avoiding the triumphant gazes of flower-laden men. Lost in thought, his foot slipped on a patch of ice. His legs wobbled violently. Heart hammering, he collapsed onto a nearby bench.
Thirst clawed at him, and hunger gnawed his gut. He’d had nothing since yesterday. Who knew when—or if—Katie would feed him without flowers as peace offering?
Then inspiration struck: beer. With his fiver, he could buy two bottles. But just as he rose, a dejected young man approached, clutching a paper-wrapped bouquet.
“Got a smoke?” the lad asked.
“Never fancied it. Drinking’s my vice,” Frederick admitted, eyeing the crimson roses peeking from the wrapping.
The boy scowled. “Waited forty minutes. She never showed. Won’t even answer my calls.”
“Flowers’ll freeze out here,” Frederick observed.
“Sod it,” the boy muttered, raising the bouquet toward a bin.
Frederick lunged, seizing his wrist. “Hold on—don’t chuck ’em. Give ’em here. My wife—you should see her.” He didn’t elaborate before the boy thrust the flowers into his hands.
“Keep ’em.” The lad stalked off, hands jammed in pockets.
Frederick gaped. Seven roses—proper ones, not wilted tulips! He glanced after the boy, half-expecting him to reconsider, then tucked the bouquet inside his coat.
“Matthews! What’ve you got there—warming a bottle?” teased a neighbour at the doorstep.
Frederick flashed the flowers. “Given up the drink! Katie’ll be chuffed.”
“Happy Women’s Day—blasted thing,” he grumbled, darting inside.
Climbing the stairs, he felt twenty years younger, each step lighter. Katie would never expect this. He’d only given her roses twice before—when he proposed, and when their daughter was born.
Savory scents wafted from every flat, making his empty stomach growl. His mouth was parched as desert sand.
Inside, he toed off his shoes—Katie wouldn’t forgive muddy prints, roses or not.
“Back already?” she called from the kitchen.
He strode in, bouquet extended like an offering, and froze mid-step.
When no answer came, Katie turned. At the sight of theWith trembling hands, Katie took the roses, her eyes glistening as she whispered, “You silly old fool,” before pulling him into a tight embrace.
