
Flowers
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A Southampton florist who remembers the bouquets that went wrong more fondly than the perfect ones.
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For Margaret
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Margaret studies a photograph beside her hospital bed. Behind the climbing rose is the old shop door, painted a green Arthur insisted was blue. On her first Saturday in business, a bride arrived while Margaret was still untangling the ribbon drawer. There was no ivory ribbon left. The bride chose yellow instead, the colour of her bicycle. Margaret had spent the morning trying to make everything correct. Years later, she could not remember the expensive bouquets. She remembered that yellow bow, and the bride pedalling away with her flowers in the basket.
The rose in the photograph survived Arthur’s elaborate gardening system: water anything that looked disappointed. This included a wooden bird box. Margaret laughs, then points out the small ladder he built when the rose climbed beyond the fence. He could not tell a weed from a seedling, but he always noticed when something needed support. From her hospital window, she can see a groundskeeper wheeling an empty barrow. It reminds her of Arthur transporting one tiny pot with the solemn care of a grand piano.
On the visitor chair is a blank card brought by Margaret’s daughter. Margaret has been deciding what to write beneath her sketch of the pink rose. A grand quotation seems too much. A list of gardening instructions would be worse. She settles on a memory: yellow ribbon, a bicycle, a Saturday morning. Then she leaves half the card empty. Her daughter might remember that day differently. Margaret puts the pen down on the bedside table. A story, she thinks, can make room for another version.