Bed Of Roses
MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY ALYSON HILBOURNE
Thoughts about something happening to his beautiful flowers were keeping Patrick awake…
Patrick’s eyes snapped open and his head jerked from the pillow.
He threw back the covers, swinging his legs to the floor.
The sheep he’d been counting trying to get to sleep had morphed into aphids – aphids crawling up the stems of his roses, sucking juice from the buds.
Patrick shivered.
The buds he was going to display at the flower show on Saturday – the show at which he had won the top prize for the last two years.
Patrick’s chest tightened as he rammed his feet into his slippers and grabbed his dressing gown.
“Where are you going?” Ivy mumbled from her side of the bed.
“Roses,” Patrick muttered, forcing his arm into his dressing gown. “Aphids…”
“No…” Ivy’s voice trailed off as she turned over and snuggled deeper into the bed.
“Those roses will be the death of you and me…”
Her voice was so quiet Patrick didn’t hear.
He hurried downstairs and unlocked the back door.
Outside, in the light from a nearby street lamp, Patrick fiddled to open the lock on the shed.
He felt along the shelf and pulled out the pump spray.
Luckily it was still full so he carried it round to the front garden.
It was quiet, although Patrick could hear the hum of distant traffic from the high street.
The lawn was cold, and damp seeped through Patrick’s tartan carpet slippers.
He should have put his wellies on, but he ignored the soggy feeling.
This was more urgent.
Using the streetlights to see, Patrick circled the garden carefully, spraying each bush.
As he passed, he breathed in the scent of the elegant flowers and touched the silky petals.
“Centifolia… my beauty.”
He put his hand under the large blousy pink bloom and checked the buds with their rouged tips would be ready for the weekend.
He smiled to himself.
There should be enough to choose from to get the perfect bloom.
“Damask… such scent.”
Patrick inhaled the sweet aroma and admired the clustered petals as intricate as lace, prettier in the partial light of night than in the glare of day to his mind.
Slowly he checked on all the bushes. Everything was fine.
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief and carried the spray back to the shed, fastened the lock and returned to bed.
Ivy didn’t stir as he allowed his cold feet to warm under the duvet.
Closing his eyes, and listening to her breathing, Patrick thought about the show.
If the hybrids flowered in time, he could present a spray.
Otherwise, it would be single flowers.
He could use Ivy’s cut-glass vase for the spray.
If he packed them in tightly, he could make a dome of flowers.
That would be unusual. He’d seen it done once…
Patrick’s eyelids were heavy and he gave a little wriggle of anticipation.
Just as sleep was about to overwhelm him, a scrape of metal and a loud rustle echoed round the bedroom.
Patrick’s eyes snapped open and his back stiffened.
“Foxes!”
He threw back the covers and fumbled for his slippers, stubbing his toe on the skirting board and cursing mildly under his breath.
“Patrick? What is it?” Ivy’s sleepy voice came from beneath the blankets.
“Foxes!” Patrick hissed, but Ivy was already asleep and didn’t hear.
He pulled on his dressing gown as he hurried down the stairs.
By the time Patrick had the front door open, the bin bags in several driveways had been ripped open and something rattled along the gutter.
Plastic gleamed in the neon light and rubbish was strewn across the pavement and into his garden.
There were no foxes but Patrick could see what they had been after.
A piece of newspaper flapped like a wounded bird on the grass.
Ivy had wrapped the bones from their roast dinner in newspaper and shoved it in the bin bag.
Bits of skin from the chicken carcass were still attached to the paper, but the bones had gone.
Scowling, Patrick collected the rubbish as quietly as he could.
No-one else had woken up to deal with it.
Bits of plastic had blown across the garden and were wrapped around the stems of his rose bushes.
“Oh, my beauties, you rest now, carefully,” he cooed to the roses as he moved around.
Tissues, biscuit wrappers, bottle tops and an old biro were scattered among his rose beds.
Gently he picked them off.
He couldn’t risk disturbing the plants at this delicate time, but he couldn’t resist pulling out the odd weed that had shown its head since yesterday.
Patrick put all the rubbish in a new bin bag and tied it up again.
When things were tidy, he gave a last look round and shut the door.
Then he pulled himself back up the stairs to bed.
His slippers, the bottom of his pyjamas and the hem of his dressing gown were soaking wet.
He laid his head on the pillow and listened to Ivy’s rhythmic breathing.
He wished he could sleep so easily.
She could drop off in the armchair if there was nothing to divert her attention.
He’d often told her she could sleep for England.
“It’s because I don’t worry about anything,” she’d retorted.
Neither do I, Patrick thought. I don’t worry.
I just like to think about things. I don’t want to leave anything to chance…
Then footsteps!
The tap of someone in hard-soled shoes came along the pavement, the sound echoing from the houses across the road.
Patrick’s body tensed.
Who would be walking around at this time of night?
All the houses were dark.
The neighbours were all tucked up in bed.
No-one in their street worked late or entertained late.
Patrick lifted his head from the pillow.
It sounded like someone who was trying to walk quietly.
He frowned.
Who would be creeping around at night?
What if his arch rose-growing rival, George Allen, had come to look at his roses?
A chill fear bloomed like a winter rose in Patrick’s chest.
Maybe he had come to steal.
Patrick pushed the bed covers back and eased himself up on his elbow.
His heart fluttered and adrenaline spiked through his limbs.
He couldn’t hear anything now.
But if the man had stepped on the grass, his footsteps would be muffled.
Patrick swung his legs out of bed.
He didn’t bother with his slippers. They were too wet.
He tiptoed over to the window and drew the curtain aside.
“Patrick?” Ivy murmured.
Patrick gasped.
A silhouette, hood pulled up over the head, moved slowly along the street.
It stopped and peered into Patrick’s garden.
Furious, Patrick leapt down the stairs, two at a time.
He wrenched open the front door and glared at the figure.
The person, sensing Patrick, turned and looked.
Patrick heard an intake of breath before the figure ran off, footsteps ringing on the pavement.
Patrick stared after the retreating form, breathing deeply until he was sure they had gone.
Only then did he manage to slow his heart rate and stem the banging in his chest.
All was quiet.
Patrick was sure that it been George.
That man had a cheek.
Each year Patrick’s roses beat him to second place.
Although he always shook Patrick’s hand, Patrick noticed the envy in his eyes and the curl of jealousy on his lips.
Patrick closed the front door softly so as not to wake Ivy.
He went back through the kitchen and unhooked his jacket from the hook and pulled his wellies on.
Then he went outside and unlocked the shed.
He carried out one of the stripy deckchairs and took it into the front garden.
He battled with the wooden struts and eventually set it up on the driveway.
Then, exhausted, he settled down to watch his roses…
“Patrick?” Ivy’s voice startled him.
Patrick blinked.
It was daylight, and he could hear the buzz of traffic.
The sun was already creeping over his house, making slices of dark and light across the grass, and he could see the dew on his rose buds.
“Patrick? I was wondering where you were.”
Ivy stood next to him, wearing her candlewick dressing gown and slippers.
“What are you doing out here? What will the neighbours think?”
Patrick struggled out of the deckchair and looked around.
It was time to pick his roses for the show.
It was time to decide on the blooms and how best to display them.
He looked round with some satisfaction.
The flowers were ready for the show.
And he was amazed that for the first time in weeks he’d slept quite soundly – amidst his bed of roses.
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