Flower People!

“Oh yes!” the elderly neighbour said to me, beaming her beautiful big smile. “We are BIG flower people!”

She was showing me some gorgeous flowers in pots. I can barely remember the names of most of them now, but I think she mentioned hydrangeas and kalanchoe, and pansies of the brightest pinks and reds. They are all so vivid and pretty. I brushed my fingers over dry soil, feeling the brittleness of it.

Mabel tutted to herself, commenting that they needed some water, and she busied herself, filling up a huge metal watering can from the big sink at the far wall of the utility room we were stood in. She referred to the space as her ‘little greenhouse,’ and always chuckled about it. She didn’t care that she was something of a southern belle cliché, and I loved that about her. She utterly and wholeheartedly embracing who she was and what made her who she was.

We hadn’t long moved in next door, myself and my husband Ben. We didn’t feel that young, being in our thirties, but next to these elderly adorable ladies, we really were youngsters. And I loved that. The main boxes had been unpacked for the key rooms; the kitchen, and the bathroom. There was a mattress on the bedroom floor that we had ordered a double bed for, but in all honesty, with the cloying heat, a mattress was just fine for now. At least we could cook, get drinks, and wash. Those were the deal-breakers right now. And the sweltering summer temperatures made rushing around impossible.

Most importantly, it felt to me, that as an outdoor girl, I could enjoy the garden, which was a home from home for me, a place to sit and collect my thoughts, and snatch an iced coffee and attempt to sit and cool down for a few moments here and there.

It was hard trying to unpack so many boxes, AND function in 35 degrees Celsius heat. But we loved this neighbourhood, and the neighbours on either side – both elderly widowed woman – were incredibly genial, bringing over home-cooked casseroles and apple pie in earthenware dishes that had probably existed longer than we had. Goodness knows how they coped with cooking at the moment, when it was all that I could do to heat up a bit of soup, or make cheese toasties and throw a bit of salad on the plate.

It was just too hot.

I knew I had to make the most of Ben, who would be starting his new finance job in the city in a week or so. I wanted us to get the house as ‘right’ as we could before then, so that I could at least be more comfortable and get the rest of the stuff done at a slower pace by myself. I would be searching for work myself at some point, but thankfully, there was no urgent rush. We had the luxury of me not needing to work. It was more of an independence thing for me. I would love to be one of these retired ‘ladies who lunch’ – but not for many years yet. I wanted to be inspired, and to do my own thing for a bit.

I just never wanted to feel that I was relying on Ben to support me, comfortable as we were and happy as he was for me not to have to slave away too much. I was creative, maybe I could find local portrait work or something. There were plenty of rich older couples and ladies in this town. I also wasn’t bad at gardening, so maybe that was an option; a bit of paid weeding, planting and small-scale landscaping?

I had popped next door to Mabel to return the latest dish, which had been specially cleaned and dried. She had waved a hand and said in her southern drawl, “Oh hush, you didn't need to clean it. I know how busy you young folk are.”

I noticed how many plants and flowers Mabel had everywhere, inside and out, and in the front garden too. We would often run into each other while I was running empty flattened boxes out to the recycling bin, and she would be out front in her flowery dress, looking ethereal, pruning and snipping, and occasionally popping back inside to refill her homemade lemonade. I had been offered some of that lemonade most days, and it was delicious. Nothing beats proper homemade lemonade when compared to the cheap store stuff. It's always amazed me that these ladies have the time to do everything properly from scratch. I didn't have the skill, or the patience to learn. If it wasn't ready to eat or drink out of a box or packet or can or bottle, I just wasn't interested.

It constantly amazed me how, even in this heat, which made me feel frazzled in my dungarees and T-shirt, with bare feet and with my hair tied up in a loose bun, Mabel never looked anything less than artfully elegant. She must have been seventy-five years old at least. Her makeup was pristine, her blondish silver hair clipped up, with artful tendrils trailing. She never kept still, but never seemed to break a sweat either.

Even in this heat...

*

I was sat on a white metal bench in Mabel's garden watching her prune for a few minutes, during which she offered me a lemonade, which I gratefully accepted. I couldn't seem to drink enough at the moment. I was constantly parched, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. The sweltering heat - extreme, even for Virginia - was getting to me, making me wilt like a flower.

We chatted awhile, which was lovely. Well, she mostly chatted and I listened, too hot to offer much response. Considering her great years and genteel manner, she could hold a conversation about most things, and nothing seemed to offend or confuse her. She had lived a life for sure, and had once been an actress. She had travelled, married more than once, though had never had children.

I asked if she had any regrets about not having a family, especially as I knew I wanted a family at some point soon. She didn’t seem to have any regrets in her life, and especially not regarding having children. I sensed a deep feeling of being content in her life and in her decisions.

She dramatically gestured to the array of plants before her, surrounding her. “Why do I need children? This is my family!”

I nodded and smiled, wiping sweat from my forehead, downing the rest of my lemonade, feeling like a mess, as Mabel glanced at me with mild concern. Somehow, the more I drank, the worse I was feeling. Was I getting a fever?

She idly snipped a deadhead, and said to me without turning away from her task, “You're just like these flowers my darling, you need a good watering!”

I laughed in agreement, wiping away more sweat. I asked if I could grab another lemonade, and she chuckled. “Of course, dear, you go on in the kitchen; there's a pitcher in the fridge with your name on it.”

I headed in, feeling suddenly unsteady on my feet as heat rushed to my head. I raised a hand to my flushed cheek and carried on walking, holding onto the door frame as the world swam out of focus for a few moments, and I came crashing down.

*

I came to with Mabel’s lovely, lined face peering into mine, looking incredibly worried. Relief appeared as my eyes fluttered open. I was laid on a bed, confused, in what felt like a cool, dark space.

I muttered, though my voice held no power, “Where am I..?”

She placed an ice-cold flannel on my forehead, telling me that I had passed out, (heatstroke most likely) and that I needed to drink. My head was gently lifted off the pillow, and a glass brought to my lips. As I turned my face briefly, I saw a pretty flower in a pot, unlike any I had ever seen. It shimmered in the darkness as I drank.

'Your lovely young body isn’t used to this Virginia heat.

Here, drink some more lemonade my dear.

I’ve placed a fresh pitcher by the bed.

Drink some now, lift your head a little, it’ll be alright…

Shhhh… shhhh. Hush now, rest up.'

As I closed my eyes again, I wondered briefly how this frail-seeming lady had got me upstairs.

*

Later that evening, upon finding no sign of his wife for several hours, but assuming she had lost track of time whilst over at one of the neighbour’s, Ben headed over to the house belonging to the other neighbour Jessica, but found it dark and silent.

He headed over to Mabel’s, with whom he had chatted several times, and knew how close his wife was to the old lady. He found her in the garden, kneeling and looking serene, sprinkling fresh soil onto part of the bedding around the edge, lost in thought, a small smile on her face. She was filthy, covered in soil and something else. She was usually so immaculate, he thought.

He didn’t want to disturb Mabel when she was so obviously in her happy place. He saw no sign of his wife, so maybe she had popped out to the corner store for groceries.

Nothing to worry about; she had always been an independent spirit. So, he went back home and got on with unpacking and prepping some dinner, and little was he to know that the following day, when his beloved still hadn’t reappeared, there would be awful times to follow, with the police involved and state-wide searches being launched for his slight, dark-haired, thirty-six-year-old wife.

If he had stayed and watched the old lady, he would have seen things he should never have seen. He would have seen her planting a flower that nobody had ever seen before, radiating colours that were almost skin-coloured.

He would see those almost-flesh colours shimmering through the green and the pink – the head large and flat like a freakish sunflower or a giant showerhead, or a screaming mouth, leaning and yawning towards the sun that shined down during those scorching Virginia days.

And within several weeks, still amongst the sticky heat, and amidst the despair and the questions, he would have seen the flower grow large, so large, standing head and shoulders above the other flowers. Almost like a small torso. If Ben, or you, or indeed I, had looked closely enough, we would have seen the impossible: the soft seeded features of a woman’s pained expression etched into the flower’s centre, petals billowing out like soft dark hair.

THE END.

(To hear the audio version of this story, search Tag Till We're Dead Flower People for the podcast version)