I buried my wife years ago. We werent even middleaged when she passed we were both barely forty. Its been over a decade now that Ive been on my own, and I figured Id never be interested in any man again. That didnt mean I went unnoticed; a few lads even tried to court me, but none of them were my Denis. Thats the point, really.
Ive always been a fan of flowers. The garden we built with Denis so many years ago turned into a little paradise of blooms. When he died, my vegetable patches slowly disappeared; there was no one left to relish my pickles and preserves. My husband was gone. My eldest daughter, Emily, lives with her own children up in Bath, and my younger daughter, Charlotte, moved to London for work. So the beds that once held carrots and beans now host roses, hydrangeas, and lilacs. The neighbours gawk at the beauty, but I catch them rolling their eyes behind my back. Let them. Call me mad if you like, but that flowerfilled corner lifts my spirits and stays in bloom right through the deep of autumn. In fact, those same neighbours bring bouquets for their grandchildren on the first of September, and I hand out blossoms left and right without a second thought.
Last summer I started noticing a man lurking by my fence. He looked about fifty, stood there inhaling the scent, and smiled to himself. I felt the urge to roll my eyes, but the moment I stepped onto the porch, he vanished into the overgrown plot behind the house. Who was he? Why was he there? He seemed odd.
Looks like youve got a suitor, Margaret? called Linda, the lady from the next plot, as she approached my gate.
What gives you that idea, Linda? Ive got no one, and I dont need any, I replied, trying to keep my tone light.
Its just that we havent seen Mr. Parker running after you. What are you hiding? No ones judging you. Youre a free woman.
Come on in, I offered Linda, curious about her surprise.
Linda was astonished that I didnt know Mr. Parker. Turns out hed been part of the cooperative for ages, his cottage on the culdesac at the end of the lane. I never visited it; Im not the social sort. Stephen Parker is a good lad, she went on, works as chief mechanic for the city fleet. He lost his wife two years back she was a bit of a flowerenthusiast, just like you. Hes trying his best to keep her garden alive, though its a struggle. Thats why hes been sneaking over to admire yours. Maybe hes looking at the flowers, maybe at you. He asked your name, which made me think you two might be a bit tangled up.
Dont be ridiculous, Linda, I snapped, waving her off.
I began watching the mysterious admirer more closely. He was a striking figure: tall, dark hair, a touch of silver at the temples, always cleanshaven. One day I caught sight of him through a window and, on impulse, stepped onto the porch. Good day, neighbour, I said, catching him off guard.
He stammered, Good day, Margaret I cant help but admire your flowers. You have such a soul here. And youre quite lovely, he whispered before hurrying away.
Hold on, I called after him, I hear youve got a splendid garden yourself. Might I take a look? I could show you some of mine.
Id be delighted, Stephen replied, and I threw open the gate.
The pathway to my house is concrete Denis laid it himself. To my annoyance, Stephen shuffled along in rubber garden clogs, the kind that slap the ground with each step. It grated on my nerves, but I tried not to let it distract me. We walked the allotment together; I proudly displayed my horticultural achievements, promising to share seedlings come spring. He was especially taken with my treetype hydrangea, which was in full bloom. I then invited him inside for tea with mint, and we chatted. What a pleasant fellow, I thought, almost forgetting his clumsy gait.
We spent the rest of the summer together, alternating visits to each others homes, picnics by the river, and simple strolls around the cooperative. Stephens garden and cottage were tidy, a testament to his late wifes good housekeeping, and his flower beds held their own against mine. When the season ended we both went our separate ways, and in the rush we never exchanged phone numbers a regret that lingered for months.
Soon after, my younger daughter Charlotte returned home. In November she introduced me to her boyfriend.
Mum, this is Colin. Were getting engaged, she announced at the hallway.
Colin struck me as a proper gentleman cultured, attentive, clearly from a respectable family. Charlotte explained his father, Alexander Whitfield, had raised him alone after his mother passed. Alexander, a senior at the Department of Education, was a widower; Charlotte suggested perhaps I should consider him as a companion.
Charlotte! Have you lost your mind? Youre playing matchmaker for your old mother? I snapped, halflaughing, halfscolding. She giggled and retreated to her room.
We soon met Alexander at a restaurant during the engagement dinner. He was indeed polished and gallant, but there was something unnervingly fastidious about him. He rearranged cutlery the moment we sat, fretting that wed forgotten proper etiquette. He kept lecturing his son, pointing out misplaced napkins and how far from the table he sat. I was so flustered that I barely ate, fearing Id embarrass myself before such an important guest.
Yet Alexander courted me, inviting me to the theatre, fancy restaurants, even a twoday excursion along the Thames. Eventually he asked me to visit his flat. The flat was a perfectionists dream: everything aligned, colors matched, books stacked in neat piles on the mantelpiece, curtains perfectly drawn. Hed whisk a coffee cup back to its spot, tidy a stray magazine, and adjust a curtain that Id pulled aside. He seemed to follow me around, correcting every little thing.
I sank onto the sofa, and he took my hand, saying, Margaret, youre a wonderful woman. Shall we?
No, Alexander Whitfield, I interrupted, I can only offer you friendship. Theres someone else who means a great deal to me.
There was no one else in my life, yet those words brought back memories of the summer with Stephen, the clacking of his garden clogs. Strangely, I missed that sound now; it reminded me of how much Id longed for him.
Charlottes marriage has been three years now; she and her husband Nicholas have a son, Jack, my delightful grandson. Thankfully, my soninlaw is a far cry from his fathers rigidity. Theyre happy, and thats what matters.
Im happy too. Stephen Parker and I have rekindled our friendship, and his gait is no longer a clumsy shuffle those wide garden slippers were simply illfitting, and Ive bought him a proper pair. Life, after all, has a way of blooming again.
