A Bouquet of Flowers
Mary waited for Simon. The night air was bitter, near minus 15, and, as always, Simon was late… Mary was absolutely frozen by this point, unable to feel her fingers or toes.
To make matters worse, her phone had died in the cold, making even a call impossible Modern technology, yet so unreliable! All right, ten more minutes, then Im off, she decided.
Her gaze drifted, catching sight of a couple near the old war memorial. A young man had approached it about ten minutes prior, clearly waiting for somebody. Now a girl joined him. He offered her a bunch of flowers. She refused, they exchanged a few words, and the girl walked away, leaving him standing alone.
Mary felt a wave of sympathy for the ladshed just witnessed him get rejected.
But where is Simon? she fretted. She paced once more up and down the frosty pavement before realising she couldnt bear another minute outside. Thats when the young man with the bouquet approached her.
Good evening! he said warmly. These are for you. He held out the flowers. I picked them myself. See, there are several varietiesdelicate, vivid, and they all complement one another beautifully.
Almost without thinking, Mary accepted the bouquet.
You really ought to get home, the young man continued gently. Its awfully cold out and youre shivering. Best not to risk falling ill. How long have you been waiting?
Forty minutes Mary admitted.
All the more reason! You shouldnt gamble with your health. Your boots and coat are much too light for this weather. Remember, you only have one lifelook after yourself! No lads worth waiting for forty minutes in the freezing cold.
Mary entered her flat, sitting in the vestibule for a good fifteen minutes, her hands too numb to unfasten her coat. At last, she managed to peel off her boots and coat, bundled on every jumper she owned, and set the kettle to boil in the kitchen.
Only after an hour did she begin warming up enough to reach for her phone and ring Simon.
Today? Did we really make plans for today? No, darling, tomorrow, came his nonchalant reply.
Tomorrow? Mary was dumbfounded.
Of course, tomorrow at one. Dont forget!
Mary lowered the phone and tears welled in her eyes.
Shed been seeing Simon for five years now. He was considered quite the eligible bachelor, yet, for some reason, had chosen herMary Smith. Out of gratitude, Mary always tried to please Simon: she dressed according to his tastes, donning those fashionablebut uncomfortableboots and high heels, suits that never really suited her, wore makeup as garish as he liked, and painstakingly tamed her unruly hair.
My girl must look chic and on par with me, hed say, and so Mary strained to live up to the mark.
They generally saw each other midweek and at weekends. Simon would drop off his shirts for Mary to launder.
Mary, nobody irons as well as you. Mum just chucks them in the machine and forgets them. And they’re such expensive shirts! hed say, collecting them, freshly pressed.
On Sundays, Mary would cook his meals for the week: Sunday for Monday through Wednesday, then more on Wednesday for Thursday and Friday. Not just any food, but precisely as he liked.
You cook so wonderfully! Who else but you? Dyou really want me suffering with indigestion from those wretched canteens? hed tease.
She was meant to admire Simon constantly, placing him on a pedestal.
Simon, always the creative soul, was no stranger to latenessoften, but not always, hed show up on time. Money often slipped his mind; Mary paid for the groceries and their café visits from her own purse, though Simon came from a well-off family and drew a good salary.
Mary still believed Simon would marry her soon, but year after year passed with no sign of a proposal.
Mary wiped her tearsnot that it would do any good. She switched on the television just in time for the weather forecast: tomorrow would bring even sharper frosts.
She shivered. Her eyes alighted on the abandoned bouquet. The petals were a touch wilted, yet still charming. She placed the flowers in water and her thoughts drifted back to Simon: best get started on washing his shirts, prepping his weekly meals, and popping round the shop, because they were to meet tomorrow, after all
A wave of cold ran through hermeeting tomorrow, and it would be even colder. No! Once more, her gaze stopped at the bouquet.
The words of the stranger echoed in her ears: You only have one you! Value yourself!
Value yourself When was the last time Mary had thought of herself? Every waking moment concerned Simons happiness and daydreams about a wonderful future together.
Value yourself… Value…
But how to value oneself? Mary couldnt recall the last time shed done anything just for her own sake.
Her eyes wandered the room and landed again on the flowers. In the water, they revivedand as Mary watched, she felt revived herself. She stripped off all those jumpers and, after rummaging in the wardrobe, found comfortable trousers and her favourite old shirt. She wiped away her heavy makeup and let her hair tumble loose about her shoulders.
She gathered Simons shirts and, with a firm hand, dropped them into the washing machine and switched it on.
Then she fetched her easel. How long since shed painted? Simon disapproved, claiming he was allergic to the paints and insisting a womans role was to support her man and run the home.
Mary smiled and began painting the bouquet before her. Once she started, she couldnt stop
She didnt fall asleep until dawn, having created three paintings, and all she wanted was to paint more and more and more.
Someone was pounding at the door. Mary glanced at the clockgoodness, nearly three in the afternoon! She opened the door and in burst Simon.
Why are you home? Why werent you at the meeting place? I assumed you mustve got fed up and left but here you are, not even dressed to go out!
Then his eyes fell on the bouquet. Whats that?
Flowers. Arent they beautiful? Mary replied.
Simon sniffed, irritated. Hed never once brought Mary flowers. In fact, hed never really given her anything. Youre not with me for money, are you? hed tell her.
He surveyed her. And why are you wearing that?
Ive only just woken up. I was painting all night she said softly.
Painting? And you know how I react to paint! he declared, grabbing a handkerchief, noisily blowing his nose.
Whats going on, Mary? Im back to work tomorrow. And my shirts? And my lunches?
Ill iron the shirts soon. As for luncheswhy dont we cook together?
Me? Cook? Im the provider. I earn the money, your roles the kitchen!
All right. Youre the breadwinner. But you never actually give me any money at all!
Once were married, Ill give you money, Simons voice turned conciliatory.
And when will we get married? Mary demanded, her voice rising.
When I decide. And in any caseyoure not with me for the money, are you?
Mary stood, took a bag, packed in his shirts and handed them to him. Here. Let your mother iron them. And now, please go
But Mum wont iron them
I said: go. Dont you understand? Im ending things. Find yourself another foolish girl. Ive had enough.
Fifteen years passed. Mary stood on the upper floor of a vast exhibition hall, gazing down at the crowds milling below.
Why did I ever agree to take part? she mused. Ah, my daughtershe insisted.
She watched the visitors, observing how they approached the paintings, their intent faces giving away which were interested and which were simply meandering
A peculiar couple caught her attention: the man, upright and slow, took the lead; the woman, a few steps behind, seemed to flit along after him like a faithful little spaniel. They paused before Marys stand, conferred quietly, just as her phone rang.
Come here, her assistant instructed.
Mary approached her stand with a smile, knowing what the couple would ask.
Its not for sale, she said straight away. The man turned, and Mary instantly recognised Simon.
Mary? No wonder the painting looked familiar.
Hello! Its not for sale, Simon.
Mary glanced at his companion. She stood at a distance, impeccably styled, make-up bold, suit and towering heels dazzlingand yet her eyes looked sadder than Marys ever had.
How she resembled the Mary of the past!
Ill pay any price, Simon said.
Mary simply smiled. No. That paintings my lucky charm. It was the start of my artistic journey.
Oh, very well. Goodbye, Simon retorted impatiently, turning away. His companion scurried after him as he strode off, fuming. That wretched painting, with its foolish bouquet! All hed wanted was to buy it and tear it up. Why hadnt he recognised it at once? That bouquet had been the symbol of his humiliation and shame.
Mary watched them go, a quiet joy in her heart. She was grateful to that stranger, so long ago, who gave her a beautiful bunch of flowers and spoke those unforgettable words.
