Roses

The house on McKellan Street was what the holiday brochures like to call a ‘character property’. Loosely translated that meant it was a quirky little place, tucked into an odd corner that no one these days would consider building a house on. It was a throwback to a time when even a small space to live was a luxury, and hard working men and women considered themselves lucky to have food to eat and something to burn in the fireplace. It had tiny doorways, wonky stairs and the kind of bathroom that would send any plumber running. Lovely to stay in for a short break of course, but no longer the kind of place that people wanted to call home.

When the ‘For Sale’ sign went up outside I resigned myself to a life watching people come and go.  Glynnis had told me all about the cottage holiday crowd, as both of her neighbours had turned their houses into holiday lets. Noisy people apparently, inconsiderate types who abandoned their cars without a thought for the people who lived nearby. Plenty of couples having affairs too if Glynnis had it right, and she had an annoying track record for exactly that, although I’d never tell her. 

My little garden was on the hill overlooking the back of the house, so parking was never likely to be a problem for me at least. Providing those couples didn’t get too frisky in the garden I’d probably not notice a thing. I wouldn’t want any inappropriate behaviour spoiling my morning tea, that would be quite unpleasant.

It was about three weeks before I saw any movement at the house. I saw the little boy first, his blond head poked out of the patio door with a slightly wary expression. He didn’t look much older than maybe six or seven, and I assumed he’d jump straight into exploring the rocky garden like any adventurous little boy. He didn’t. He sat on the patio step and just looked, taking in the overgrown plants and the steep rocky steps with a solemn expression on his face. He sat like that for hours, never moving, never looking up. He was gone when I came back out with my evening tea though, the house dark as if I’d imagined him. I saw him twice more that week. He never ventured off the patio step, never looked up, just stared at the tangle of weeds in front of him for hours on end. 

It was another two weeks before I finally saw the man. He was a big thing, not tall but solid. His face was etched with lines that looked like he was permanently frowning and his eyes were dark with deep circles. He looked like a rough man to me, yet when he put his hand on the boys shoulder as he stepped onto the patio, his actions were gentle. That was the first time I saw the boy look up.

It took all summer for the boy to venture further into the garden, slowly making his way up the stone steps whilst trying to avoid the brambles that had started to encroach on the path. He didn’t notice the nook to start with, not until he found the first of the little patio areas and finally turned around to look back at the house. His curiosity seemed to come out then, as he turned and tried to lift the brambles to see the tiny stone seat hiding away. I think he must have scratched himself though, as he quickly pulled away and went back into the house. He never made it further than the first patio that year. Sometimes sitting and pulling the weeds from between the stones, sometimes just sitting and staring at nothing. He never really looked up.

He didn’t come out at all that first winter, although he did throw crumbs into the snow from inside the warmth of the patio door. I found I missed his solemn little face, and my tea breaks were less enjoyable sitting watching an empty garden.

He appeared the next year around the same time as the snowdrops did. Peeking out to watch the snow melt and see the little flowers by the path. He started to come out more as the weather warmed and would often sit pulling the weeds from between the cracks. He did not attempt to tackle the brambles again. Apparently this was a boy who learned his lessons. He did explore a little more around the lower part of the garden though, playing with the old pots and digging with what looked like an old bent spoon. He only took a few steps past the first patio but was confronted with a thick mat of brambles blocking his path so turned back to play amongst the pots. He still never looked up. 

I saw the man only once that year. He was sitting on the step late one evening, well after the boy should have been tucked in bed. He sat with a cup in his hand staring up at the stars, I thought I might have seen a tear on his cheek but it was too dark to really tell. I think he stayed like that long after I’d retired from my evening tea.

The boy spent the next summer in much the same way as the last, weeding and digging with his spoon, sometimes using his hands when he got frustrated with the spoon and his slow progress. He looked up more that year, trying to see further up the garden, clearly frustrated that there was no other route to investigate. He fetched the man with him at the end of the summer, pointing at the brambles with a question on his face. The man shook his head and the boy’s shoulders slumped before he turned and wandered back to the house.

I looked in my little potting shed that year, digging through my old tools to see what treasures I could uncover. I didn’t see what happened when they found the parcel waiting for them just before Christmas, but I did see the boy come to the patio door with some snips in hand before the man guided him back inside. It was far too cold for gardening that day anyway.

The boy came out early the following year. There had been no snow, and hints of life were already starting to break through all over the garden. He was definitely bigger now, starting to show hints of the awkwardness that boys have before they begin to grow into themselves. That year he came out with a purpose and got straight to work carefully clearing the brambles from the little nook he’d found. It took nearly three weeks before they were all cleared and he stacked the twigs neatly to dry out for the fire. He fetched a small brush and carefully swept the little seat before sitting down. He looked up. That was the first day I saw him smile. I raised my teacup in salute at his efforts. He quickly disappeared back inside.

He spent that summer making good use of those old tools, dealing with the weeds and brambles throughout the lower garden. The earth left largely bare, aside from the odd pretty weed or flower that he rescued and replanted. He cleaned and emptied the pots he found lying around before stacking them neatly, no longer toys, but tools to be cared for. It was late autumn before he made his way back to the bramble covered path leading away from the first patio. The snips weren’t much use to him here, although he did try. He swept the path as far as he could and went back to the house. That year the parcel had a small saw and a number of packets of seeds.

The following year he beat the snowdrops. It was cold but dry that year, and he set straight to work on the thick stems blocking his path. It took him nearly three months to clear all the way to the second little patio. He laughed that day as if he’d found buried treasure. He hadn’t, not yet, but he was getting closer. He planted his seeds carefully in the lower garden throughout the summer, making sure not to spill a single one. Not all of them grew, but he checked and tended every seed. The old dead honeysuckle that shadowed the nook started to grow again, renewed from his efforts the previous year. He sat there often, whenever he wanted to take a rest or a drink. He looked up. Occasionally he smiled.

It took a few more years before he tried to venture past the second patio to the very top of the garden. In those years the lower garden flourished, helped by the occasional parcel of seeds, and an old planting almanac which appeared just in time for Christmas. The boy smiled freely as he tended his garden, working hard throughout the summers and feeding the birds on the patio in the winters, occasionally glancing towards the hedge at the very top of the garden. He often returned to his little nook, looking up and enjoying the day. Sometimes I would raise my cup and he would nod and smile. The boy had a beautiful smile.

I watched closely the year he fetched his tools to the top of the garden, carefully cutting back the overgrown hedge to reveal the little stone path snaking underneath. There were more tangled thorns here, but those were not brambles. I wondered if he knew, as he cut them so carefully. He rounded the corner and stepped onto the top patio, slowly turning to take it in. Tangled sticks surrounded the whole area, threading through the old trellis and across the garden wall. He saw the chipped stone basin covered in green slime and full of dirty water, and the little stone bench carefully carved into the rock. He turned and looked straight up. I could see the question in his face. He’d finally found it. This was the real treasure in his garden. I raised my cup and pointed at the roses behind me, he smiled and nodded. Understanding and yet not really. He turned and started to work.

It took all of spring and most of summer to restore the rose garden. He cleaned and scrubbed the stone bench and the basin, and carefully cut back the roses and weeded the beds that lined the space. The work seemed easy for him, years of working in the garden lending him a strength and confidence that had grown alongside his plants. By late summer new shoots were starting to appear, and the roses were slowly starting to return.

I wasn't watching the day the new furniture arrived on the second patio, I was resting that day. It was a simple little set for two, a lovely place to share a pot of tea and relish the simple joy of a well tended garden. It fit perfectly.

The boy spent less time in the garden the following year, but he made sure to tend to his roses. I watched as he found the first blooms. He realised then, turning to see the exact same flowers blooming behind me, that these had been grown from the same stem. He put his hand on his heart and smiled up at me. This time the tear rolled down my cheek.

I saw the boy less over those next few years, although I knew he was there as I watched his garden flourish. I saw the sweet young girl who came for tea on the patio, and took my rests knowing that she loved his rose garden too, as they would visit often. I saw him carefully choosing stems to cut and take to her, turning occasionally so I could suggest a better one. I came out from my rest one summer evening to find him waiting at the little bench, staring at a tiny box as if it was the most terrifying and precious thing he’d ever seen. He looked up. I raised my tea and smiled and his shoulders dropped with relief, sending that beautiful smile right back at me. That was an excellent year.

I saw the girl more and more over the next few years, smiling as the boy showed her how to tend the garden he’d restored so well. She rarely looked up, but he always did. Sometimes I would return from my rest to find them laughing amongst the dirt, or sharing tea on the patio. Sometimes I would see only tilled soil and flourishing roses. I was very grateful the house on McKellen Street was never turned into a holiday let.

The boy climbed the steps in his garden. No longer really a boy, but a man grown, bigger than his father. His suit was black and well made, his expression solemn. He made his way up to the rose garden and sat at the little bench, placing a flask in front of him. He poured himself a cup of tea, a single tear escaping as he sat back and looked up, waiting.