**8th March Diary Entry**
Stewart cracked one eye open and immediately squeezed it shut. The low March sun was firing a relentless beam straight through the window into his face. He squirmed in the crumpled sheets, trying to dodge the light.
“Awake at last, you drunken fool?” His wife’s voice cut through the room. “Open those shameless eyes—I want a proper look at them. Every other man treats his wife right, brings gifts, flowers. And what do you do? Drink yourself into oblivion. Do you even remember what today is?”
Stewart shrank back against the wall and managed to peel his eyelids open. Through the narrow slits, like rifle ports, he saw Cathy. She stood with arms akimbo, her glare sharp enough to pin him to the headboard.
“W-what day?” he stammered, genuinely lost.
“International Women’s Day, you wretch. My day. And here I was, thinking we’d share a quiet drink together—my daughter even brought me a nice bottle of wine, saved for the occasion. But no, you had to sniff it out and drain it dry. Was the whisky not enough for you?”
Before he could shield himself, a slipper—hurled with deadly accuracy—struck him square on the forehead.
“That’s for starters—”
The second slipper missed, thanks to his hasty retreat under the duvet. Small mercies—there were only two. He poked his nose out cautiously.
“Cathy, love, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it right,” Stewart hiccuped, trying to stand, only to trip over the bedsheet.
She waved him off and disappeared into the kitchen. The furious clatter of dishes told him all he needed to know—this row would last all day.
Better to make himself scarce. He edged past the kitchen toward the bathroom, splashed icy water on his face, gulped down a glass straight from the tap. His hair, thinning at the crown, stuck up in wet tufts. The racket from the kitchen hadn’t eased.
Stewart tiptoed back to the bedroom, dressed, and crept toward the front door. As he tugged on his shoes, he wobbled—hangover and balance weren’t cooperating. The noise brought Cathy storming out.
“Where d’you think you’re off to, you lush?”
“Cathy, love, I’ll just—be back soon—” He snatched his jacket from the hook and shuffled backward toward the exit.
“Oi! Stop right there!” She advanced, formidable as ever, but Stewart was already out the door, slamming it behind him.
“You’d better not come home unless—!” Her threat dissolved into the hum of the flat’s hallway.
Outside, the sun shone. Meltwater dripped from the eaves, and in patches, the pavement peeked through grimy slush. Every other man he passed clutched bright bunches of daffodils or tulips.
“Mate, what’s the time?” Stewart asked a bloke holding a spray of mimosa.
“Time to sober up,” the man tossed over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” Stewart muttered, trudging on. He’d meant to ask where the flowers came from, but his foggy brain misfired.
“Lad, where’d you get those?” he called to a younger man.
“Over there.” A vague wave.
Stewart followed the direction and soon spotted a woman by the traffic lights. A cardboard box at her feet held delicate sprigs of mimosa, their yellow buds bobbing like chicks.
He quickened his pace. Flowers would smooth things over—maybe even earn him a celebratory whisky. But the box held only one sad, straggly branch.
“Take it, love. Last one—half price,” she said, giving him a knowing look.
“Need something proper. For the wife. Nothing else?”
“Nothing,” she echoed. “Wait if you like. I’ll call for more.”
Stewart hesitated. A pitiful twig might insult Cathy more than no flowers at all. The steady stream of men with bouquets suggested other sellers nearby. He checked his pockets—had he any cash left? Cathy might’ve confiscated it.
A crumpled tenner. No idea how much flowers cost. Up ahead, a crowd huddled around a car boot. At the quoted price, his heart sank.
“Just one?” asked the burly seller with a thick accent.
“Only got this.” Stewart flashed the note.
“For that? One tulip. Take it or leave it.”
Pathetic. He wandered off, racking his brain for anyone who owed him. “Dave! He still owes me twenty quid!” Never mind that they’d drunk it together—Stewart had fronted the cash, so the debt stood.
“Who is it?” Dave’s wife, Sharon, barked through the door. A right battle-axe, she kept Dave on a tight leash. When he did escape, he made up for lost time. Dave called her “The Nag” behind her back.
Stewart leaned toward the keyhole. “It’s Stewart. Dave owes me twenty. Need it urgent.”
Silence. Then, finally: “I’ll give you what’s coming!”
The door swung open just enough for a middle finger to jab out.
Stewart yanked it wider. Sharon stumbled forward, off-balance. Behind her, Dave—scrawny in a stained vest and floral boxers—flinched.
“Dave, mate, be a pal—!”
The door slammed.
No luck. Next idea? Rifle through Cathy’s coat pockets—she always had spare change. Too late now.
“Should’ve been summer. Could’ve nicked some from a garden,” he grumbled, shuffling down the street.
He slumped onto a bench, legs shaky. Desperate for a drink, stomach growling. Last proper meal was yesterday. No telling when Cathy would feed him again—if ever—unless he produced a bouquet.
Then he remembered how they’d met. How he’d adored her, carried her home drunk once, brought her stolen flowers almost daily. Got chased by a bobby once. Two kids they’d raised. Son moved away; daughter nearby with the grandkids. Where had it all gone?
Might as well spend the tenner on beer. But then—a bloke with a paper-wrapped bouquet approached.
“Got a fag?” The lad looked miserable.
“Don’t smoke. Drink, aye, but not fags,” Stewart said, eyeing the red roses peeking from the wrapping.
“Girl stood me up,” the lad muttered.
“The flowers’ll freeze out here.”
“Sod them.” He drew back to hurl the bouquet into a bin.
Stewart lunged, grabbing his wrist. “Hold on—give ’em here. For my wife. You’ve no idea what she’s like—”
The lad thrust the roses into Stewart’s hands. “Take ’em.”
Seven. Seven perfect roses.
He hugged them to his chest under his jacket, ignoring heckles on the way home.
“Given up the drink, Stewart?” a neighbour called.
He flashed the bouquet. “Cathy’ll love these.”
Inside, the flat smelled of roast chicken. His stomach roared.
“Back so soon?” Cathy’s voice carried from the kitchen.
He strode in, arm extended with the roses, struck a pose like Churchill himself.
She turned—and gasped, clutching her chest.
“Stole ’em, did you?” she whispered.
“No! Dave paid me back.” A lie, but worth it.
She buried her face in the blooms. “They smell lovely.” Her eyes—soft, warm—sent a pang through him.
“Wash up. Dinner’s ready,” she murmured, fetching their one good vase.
At the table, a steaming bowl of stew waited. Cathy dolloped cream on top, then—miraculously—produced a bottle of whisky and poured him a shot.
“Join me?” he ventured.
“Oh, go on then.”
They drank, watched telly, reminisced.
“Remember when you’d nick flowers for me?” Cathy laughed, suddenly girlish again.
That night, as he tucked the blanket around her, an old feeling swelled—something tender, bittersweet, and long forgotten.
Pity about the lad’s ruined date. But without it, Stewart would’ve come home empty-handed. Some mistakes you can’t undo—but sometimes, luck hands you roses.
