Yellow roses for mother

My reflection, dark and slightly haunted, looks back at me from the train window. We pass into a tunnel, completely black, just me and the dark, and an image of myself that I could almost like.

I don’t know why I chose this train, it’s too busy. A steel tube filled with joyless people avoiding eye contact. I keep my eyes focused on my own, until we pull in at the next station, where I look out across the platform. There’s one spare seat next to me. I’m going to have company soon. I keep my eyes fixed. The alien world on the other side of the window may as well be a photograph of a place I’ve never been.

A weight settles in the seat next to me. Instinctively, I press myself and the small bunch of roses further towards the window. I glance, briefly, then look away as the train moves off and a strong scent of old lady perfume fills my nostrils.

I reckon she must be in her seventies. She’s dressed smartly in a woollen coat, excessive for the mild weather, with a thick blue scarf and matching glasses. She must have slipped with that perfume this morning because it’s making my eyes water and reminding me of my old high school English teacher. Not sure which is worse.

“Nice flowers.”

“Oh, thanks.” I turn from the window.

“For someone special?” A warm voice, like honeyed milk.

“My mother’s birthday. She’s always liked yellow roses.”

“She’s lucky to have a son who’s so thoughtful.”

“Yes.” We enter another tunnel.

Mum, I made this for you at school… I’ll look at it later. Jim will be here soon… But mum… Don’t argue Andrew, make yourself scarce for a bit. Got to get myself ready… But mum, it took me ages… Crack… 

“My mother loved roses too. Pink ones were her favourite.”

“To be honest, I’m just guessing with the colour. But I still buy them every year.”

“That’s nice. Tradition is important. I’m sure she appreciates it, whatever colour you choose.”

I nod, fiddling with the rose’s paper wrapping. My eyes pale in the window as we pass sheep filled fields.

 Mum, are you okay..? Her head tipped back on the arm of the sofa, mouth slightly open. An empty glass on the floor, lipstick smudged around the rim. Shake her shoulder, eyes opened, unfocused, red, angry… What are you making such a racket for..?

“My mother would always put roses in a beautiful old vase that had been my grandmothers. I have it now. It’s a nice vase.” She shifts in her seat. The scent of perfume feels stronger. What was the name of that teacher?

Andrew, why haven’t you completed your homework..? Sorry miss… Sorry is not a reason… Sorry miss, my mum, she wasn’t well… That’s not an excuse Andrew…

“I don’t think my mother ever had any nice vase like that… she’d more likely use an old milk bottle.”

“In the war we had to do things like that. ‘Make do and mend," they called it.”

“Not like nowadays hey? So much waste…”

The lushness of the fields has given way to grime and the grim dishevelled outskirts of the city. All manner of rubbish tangles amongst the bushes and brambles. Graffiti sprawls across every available flat surface. All is grey.

“It’s a disgrace isn’t it?” The old lady looks across me. Sad eyes taking in the squalor. “I don’t understand what sort of people let things get like that.”

“Some people are just… I don’t know.” I look out at the desolate view. The backs of rundown houses, depleted, dismal existences. “It’s just really sad.”

Mum, it’s me, Andrew. Becky’s with me. Remember Becky? We got engaged mum... Mum won’t open the door… I’m just tired, Andy. Go away will you? Don’t you have better things to do..? Becky squeezes my hand… Come on Andy, she’ll be okay…

I stare at the roses in my lap. The petals new and tight, still curled and firm at the edges. Bright and clean. Nothing like mum. Not really.

The train begins to slow, the sign for my station approaching. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. The woman starts gathering her bag, tugging her scarf around her neck.

“This your stop too?” I ask.

“Oh no,” she smiles. “I’ve got a few more to go yet.” She moves out of her seat to let me pass. “I hope your mother likes the flowers.” She takes the window seat as I stand in the aisle, preparing myself.

Early Sunday morning, a knock at the door. The boys in blue… Mr Andrew Fitzpatrick..? Yes, erm. Sleep still muddles my mind… Son of Kathleen Fitzpatrick..? Yes. Is something wrong..? Can we come in for a minute Mr Fitzpatrick..?

My mother’s funeral had been a miserable affair. A handful of the local smack-heads and dealers turned up. Just me, Becky and them. I’d insisted on a church service and burial. After the life she’d had, mum needed all the help she could get on the other side. Whatever that looked like.

The train brakes jolt me forward. I catch the headrest, steady myself to get off, a short walk to the graveyard. It’s just another year, another bunch of roses by the headstone. I hesitate, look down at the old lady, her reflection looks back at me.

I sit back down in the seat next to her. It’s still warm. It still smells of old lady perfume.

“For you,” I say, handing her the yellow roses.

“Oh, I couldn’t. What about your mother?”

“Please. I’d like you to have them.” I pause. “She won’t even notice.”

She smiles, takes the flowers, fingers curling around the stems.

“Thank you,” she says. “That’s very kind.”

“You’re welcome.”

The train sets off again, the dirty old station moves out of view. We enter a tunnel. Darkness. The old lady’s face mirrored deep within the brickwork on the other side of the glass.

“Of course, my mother loved roses,” she says, watching her reflection in the window. She inhales the flowers scent, turning to me, framed by the blackness. Then in a voice more molasses than honey. “But, you must understand. She was a complete and utter bitch.”