Four Roses

By Neil Brosnan

‘You’ll be more comfortable down here; in your favourite room.’ So typical of Lillie: ever the pragmatist. She is right, of course. This has always been my favourite room, and I will be more comfortable here. Not only does the bay window offer a triptych view of my flower garden, but I can also monitor my driveway; the comings and goings of my nearest neighbours; events on the footpath beyond the garden wall, and the hustle and bustle to and from the town. Lillie is my only child, and while her features grow more like mine with each passing year, the resemblance is only skin-deep. Beneath the surface, she is much more her father’s daughter than mine. There was little room for grey areas in Brendan’s outlook: everything was simply black or white; right or wrong; true or false. 

I’ve never tried to influence Lillie’s relationship with her father. Yes, it has caused me more than a little hurt; yes, it has triggered prolonged periods of jealousy – whether irrational or justified – and yes, there have been times when I’ve wished him dead – yes, dead, and not just gone. Thankfully, Lillie has never been particularly close to her half-sisters, nor – to my knowledge – has he ever tried to force the issue. I sometimes wonder if Lillie begrudges the childhood stability his younger daughters have had – growing up with a full-time father – while she has effectively been fatherless since the age of four. I suppose I should be grateful that Brendan’s second family has grown up several hours’ drive away. Thankfully, neither of Brendan’s illegitimate daughters bears the slightest resemblance to Lillie, but I never know whether I should be relieved or concerned that both girls are now married and settled in New York. I’ve never quizzed Lillie about her father’s status in her life: if he is in regular contact, whether or not he sees my grandchildren. I’m probably better off not knowing, but I’m well aware that Lillie hasn’t brought her two younger children to visit me since I’ve come home from hospital.

“It’s only me,” Lillie calls from the back door, “I’ve brought your favourite: cottage pie.” It’s the Saturday of Lillie’s first week back at work after the summer holidays. She is a wonderful teacher, by all accounts, but her version of cottage pie – and her cooking in general – leaves a lot to be desired. Maura Connolly – one of my nearest neighbours, and a friend since childhood – provides my lunch from Monday to Friday. I never know what might be on Maura’s menu: she simply puts my name in the family pot and delivers a piping hot meal at about one o’clock every weekday. I would gladly pay her fifty-euro a week, but she won’t take a penny more than thirty-five. I also have a regular home help; Mrs Hegarty cycles across town three times a week, she stays for about two hours, does more talking than anything else, and drinks gallons of tea. Mrs Hegarty doesn’t cook, nor – having tasted her tea – would I want her to. Her duties are to vacuum, dust, wash-up, and generally clean and tidy. I’m sure she does her best, but she is almost as useless as Lillie in the housekeeping department. Between the pair of them, I dread to imagine what my upstairs must look like. 

I don’t begrudge Mrs Hegarty the few euros she earns from her home help efforts, and I sometimes slip her a few bob extra. Mrs Hegarty is married to an idle drunk, and she has a fleet of unruly children – the eldest of whom is barely fifteen and already pregnant. Mrs Hegarty makes no attempt to hide her family’s shortcomings; if anything, she is only too ready to bare her soul to anybody who might be willing to listen. I don’t really have a choice: I can’t exactly run away, but I do find her entertaining in a bizarre sort of way. Mrs Hegarty has a turn of phrase that can make even the most grotesque of circumstances sound amusing and, while she is better at telling than listening, I have to confess that I’ve shared some things with her that I wouldn’t dare mention to my own daughter. It’s been over a fortnight since Mrs Hegarty casually mentioned that she had seen Brendan in town, and how she had heard that his relationship had broken up. She’d said it casually, with neither implication nor insinuation. As yet, Lillie hasn’t given any indication that she is aware of this, and I’m damned if I’m going to ask.      

“How are you, today?” Popping her plate in the microwave, Lillie asks her usual nonsensical question.  

 “Still dying,” My reply is greeted by something between a dismissive humph and a sigh of exasperation. If she dislikes my answers so much, why does she persist with the questions? Continuing to scowl, she arranges a placemat, cutlery, condiments, and a glass of water on the coffee table. It’s been six months since my diagnosis, five months since my surgery, three months since my last Chemo treatment, almost two months since the hospital finally sent me home to die, and over a month since a nosey neighbour has called to gawp.

“Evan has done a good job on the garden,” Lillie affirms, placing my lunch before me. It’s my turn to humph. Her sixteen-year-old has been gouging his way through my lawn on a fortnightly basis since my return home. For over forty seasons of growth, I’ve rarely allowed more than a week go by without mowing the grass, and edging, feeding, weeding, dead-heading and replenishing the flower beds. Even before she had started school, I realised that Lillie didn’t share my love of gardening, and it’s a bitter disappointment that she will never feel the passion for the soil which my mother had engendered in me as a toddler.

“I’ll have to get somebody in to tidy up the flowerbeds before winter,” I say, parking my knife and fork on my half-cleared plate. “Can you suggest anyone?”

“I could ask Evan… I suppose… ” she says, doubtfully.

“Ah no; thanks… I’ll phone the garden centre: they’ll know someone… ”

“Fair enough, but don’t say I didn’t offer…” she says, removing my plate. 

“No, don’t put that in the bin,” I blurt; “the birds will eat it… ” Lillie could fill bins for Ireland: I’d live for a fortnight on what she dumps in a single week. Her profligacy doesn’t just apply to food: if you’re not wearing it, holding it, or sitting on it, Lillie will find a bin for it. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s not as if she had been reared in the midst of plenty. No, there were some very lean years before I’d been able to return to the workforce and earn some half-decent money. I was proud to be able to give Lillie opportunities which I never had: she had gone to college, and had graduated at a time when new teachers were in great demand. OK, she’d had to work in Dublin for a few years before finding a school close to home, but the wait had been well worthwhile.

Mam had never needed outside help with her garden. In Mam’s time, when glossy magazines were few and far between, her Suttons Seeds catalogue was her bible. She was a wonderfully imaginative gardener, and would always have something new to plant, even in the dark, dead months from October to February. Mam had lived for sunny summer Sundays, when she would sit on her rustic seat, hidden beneath the roadside wall, to eavesdrop on the townsfolk who would break their after-lunch strolls to admire her blooms. Modesty, like most things, has its limits, and when the inevitable moment would arrive when she could no longer restrain herself, Mam would pop her head above the wall, shrug, and say how the bit of sunshine makes everything look so much better. Within minutes, the question and answer session would lead to a general invitation to all and sundry to avail of her guided tour. It was a long established tradition that all visitors received not only a detailed history of what was currently in bloom, but what had been recently planted, what she intended to plant next, where and when it would be planted, and its expected flowering season.

Considering that we are now on the cusp of October, there are still reasonable splashes of colour in the rose beds. As my gaze drifts from the pink and peach of Ladies Waterlow, Marmalade and Hillingdon, through the yellows of Amber Queen and Baby Love, to the cream/white of Snowdrift, Iceberg and Tranquillity, my eyes moisten in inverse proportion to my drying throat. Buck up, Rosie; I tell myself, remember the deal? In all honesty, on the morning they had wheeled me from the ambulance to my front door, I hadn’t expected to see another October – back then, surviving the Agapanthus had seemed like a very good deal.                     

The shedding willows beyond the opposite footpath remind me that the chills of winter will soon test the mettle of our windows and doors. Lillie has had Mrs Hegarty move my bed next to the radiator on the other side of the room, but I can still see the distant mountain tops through the thinning foliage. I supress a shudder at the thought that even before the ghosts and ghouls of Halloween will have returned to their crypts, we shall again be subjected to the ever-extending, commercially-fuelled, Christmas preamble. Thankfully, Lillie hasn’t yet mentioned my least favourite season. I wonder – providing that I’ll still be here – if she will invite me to spend the big day with herself, Shane and the children. I certainly won’t be suggesting that they come here: while I can tolerate small doses of Lillie, Shane and Evan, the prospect of being held captive to the eternal whinging and whining of Tressan and Verran is simply too terrifying to contemplate. 

Mrs Hegarty helps me to the bay window. The girl from the garden centre has done a tasty job, even if Lillie had been horrified at her fee. Ideally, I’d like to have the girl come back to give the place a final once-over, but Lillie won’t hear of it: she says she knows someone who’ll do it for a fraction of the cost. All too aware of the futility of arguing with Lillie, I’ve given her the go-ahead, but I insisted that the roses shouldn’t be touched until the final petals have fallen. 

Today, after a midmorning sandwich of yesterday’s roast beef, I feel strong enough to shuffle unaided from my armchair to the wooden ledge of the bay window. It seems that Lillie has been as good as her word: there are definite signs of recent work in and around the flower beds. Incredibly, there is still a blaze of colour – not on any of the cultivated varieties, but on the July/August flowering, wild hedge rose that intrudes from next-door though the chinks of the drystone boundary wall. I have to smile at the irony: Mam had spent years trying to exterminate this native upstart, terrified that it might taint the purity of its aristocratic cousins. I check my mobile phone against the mantle clock. Maura won’t be here for at least an hour, Lillie is busy at school, and Mrs Hegarty doesn’t do Mondays.  

Swopping my dressing gown for my old gardening anorak from the hallstand, I venture outside for the first time in four months. Invigorated by the December chill on my cheeks and the crunch of shore gravel beneath my slippers, I feel my grin broaden as I reach the drystone wall. It’s just as I’d suspected; the four roses are simply too red, too pristine, and too flawless to be real: they are just as perfect as those on the label of Brendan’s favourite Christmas tipple. 

From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan’s short stories have appeared in magazines, print anthologies, and in electronic format in Ireland, Britain, Europe and the USA. A winner of The Bryan MacMahon, The Maurice Walsh,(four times) and Ireland’s Own, (twice) short story awards, he has published two short story collections: ‘Fresh Water & other stories’ (Original Writing, 2010) and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press, 2013)