Nine Red Roses…
That afternoon, my mother-in-law came round for a few hours, and as soon as she settled in, I realised I couldnt bear it. I told my wife I was off to the bathhousea little escape, as Englishmen often need. I gathered my things, set off down the familiar street, but another irritation awaited: the old bathhouse was shuttered, closed up for renovations. My spirits, already low, crumbled completely. Going home was out of the question.
So, I wandered aimlessly through the streets, lingering here and there but never mustering the interest to slip into a shopshopping never did seem a mans business in our time. Eventually, I sank down on a park bench, feeling sullen and out of sorts.
As I sat brooding, I spotted a couple ambling down the path, arm in arm, clearly no strangers to each other. They looked to be near sixty, dressed neatly, strolling as if the whole world moved at their pace. She held his arm, and they spoke quietly, words flowing easily between them.
I watched and thought, There, they still have things to talk about. My wife and Iweve been together fifteen years. Weve talked every subject dry. Most evenings, we just sit in silence.
Just then, I noticed the husband pause, turning gently to adjust her scarf with a tenderness that lingered in the air. Then, hand in hand, they drifted on. I thought, Remarkable, that after all these years, theyve managed to preserve their affection. My wife and I, these days we barely notice each other.
My own wifesmall, always brisk, endlessly tiredseemed to me in that moment one of those women whod long ago given up fussing over herself. She worked at the textile mill, juggled two children, and never gave herself a moments peace. Rarely did she pause to rest; there was always something to scrub, sweep, or set right. Barely a smile on her lips now, her face ever intent, expression fixed in gentle worry. The hairdressers saw her only when her hair got too wild for comfortby then, it was well past the time for a tidy-up.
Sitting there, I asked myself, How did we let it all slip away? We loved each other fiercely, once. Where did it go? I strained to summon up just a flicker of that long-forgotten fondness. And then, suddenly, I felt a gentle warmth inside me, a wisp of tenderness not quite lost to the yearsits trace lingered, and I felt a surge of regret and longing.
I realised then, I had to do something good, anything, but it had to be now. I got up quickly, not entirely sure where I was heading, letting the sudden urge guide my feet.
In a flash, I walked almost straight into a flower stand. Should I buy her flowers? I hesitated. Shed laugh, call me daft, scold me for wasting a tenner on a bunch of bloomsbetter set it aside for little Marys trainers, she needs new ones for PE. I stepped back, caught between doubts.
But the feeling insidesweet and heavyurged me on. I shrugged to myself, why not. Inside the flower stall, the young woman behind the counter greeted me, waiting for my choice. It had been fifteen years or more since I last bought flowers. One rose, perhaps? Yet, that felt too little. Dont be daft, something inside me whispered, one flower says nothing at all.
On impulse, barely trusting myself, I said, Nine, please. My heart banged stupidly in my chest at my own extravagance. Too late now, the words had already escaped my mouth.
Outside, carrying the roses, I imagined every passerby giving me a second, curious look. I phoned the house, checking to see if my mother-in-law had left.
Climbing the steps, I felt a strange flutter of nervesI thought, Shell scold me, or worse, throw the flowers away with the rubbish. My wife stood in the kitchen, a packet of flour on the worktop, her hands clean for once. I stepped in, the roses hidden behind my back, her face turned towards me, unsuspecting. I hesitated, then said, breathless, Sarah, these are for you. I just wanted to.
She paused, uncertain, as if she couldnt believe the flowers were truly meant for her. For you, Sarah, honestly. Slowly, she took them, lifted them to her face and managed a trembling smile. In that moment, the years of millwork, the ceaseless chores, the faded laughterthey all fell away.
Almost whispering, she said, Thank you.
The vase stood in the centre of the kitchen table, nine red roses shining, casting a gentle light through the little room. Sarah stood, brushing her fingers across the petals, then caught her reflection in the old mirror and smoothed back her hair.
Her face softened, the cares of daily life giving way to something lighter. I stepped over, wrapped my arm gently around her waist. We stood there in the hush, just holding ona single, silent moment to remember. Only for a moment, but it was enough.
