George

The old man's arthritic bones were seizing up from the winter rain pouring down on him from above, his hands worn from the years, were covered in mud. Like every other day during his retired years George Maloney was tending to his cottage garden, and today would not be any different. Spread out in front of him was his shovel, standard red rose bush, plant fertiliser and tuna sandwich made by his wife, Fiona. Every now and then George would look longingly at his sandwich, but it was his custom to finish his work first. The hole he had dug was rapidly filling with water, so with a great effort the old man plunged the rose bush into the muddy ground and filled in the hole. Limping slightly, he made his way inside his house and eased himself into his favourite chair by the fire that was now nothing but glowing embers. On the opposing wall to the fireplace was a window that overlooked the cottage garden, and now in the centre of the garden, was the rose bush. Through the rain splattered window pain the bush took on an insubstantial, wobbly appearance. Shivering, the old man unwrapped his tuna sandwich and sunk back in his chair, wincing slightly as his leg bent.1

It was dark by the time George woke up so he silently went to bed. His wife Fiona had always been a heavy sleeper; there was no movement from her side of the bed. George heaved a sigh and sunk slowly into a deep sleep.2

Early the next morning just as orange rays of sunlight were filtering through the moth-eaten curtains, George suddenly awoke, his face cold and clammy. The room was unseasonably cold and as George took short fast breaths a cloud of condensation billowed from his mouth. It would seem that Fiona forgot to turn on the heater before she went to bed. As fast as his body allowed, George eased himself quietly out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. The old floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way to the kitchen for his usual black coffee and raisin toast.3

A short while later George was back in his garden, planting a neat row of purple flowers around the base of his new rose bush. From the corner of his eye he saw movement, but by the time his tired body turned around his wife was already out of sight. All that could be seen was the short cement path leading to the front door of his house.4

When the watery sun was warming the top of his head and the row of purple flowers was finished, George slowly made his way back into his house. Waiting for him on the kitchen bench was his usual tuna sandwich and in the living room his favourite chair and a crackling fire. Heaving a sigh of relief, George eased himself into his chair and habitually unwrapped and ate his tuna sandwich, while gazing out the window at the rose bush. He allowed a smile to stretch fleetingly across his weatherworn face before letting the crackling of the fire lull him to sleep.5

Several hours later George groggily awoke to the sound of a familiar voice saying that the heater was on and that they were going to bed. Grunting in acknowledgement, George closed his weary eyes once more and fell back to sleep.6

What seemed like minutes later, George was woken by soft orange rays of light coming from the window through which his rose bush was the focal point. For the next few minutes George merely sat and stared at the bush and drank in the bittersweet silence that was pushing in on him from every side. Without any breakfast, George made his way outside to his rose bush and ever so tenderly cupped a rose in hands, leaned in towards it and drank in its intoxicating aroma. George's mind momentarily drifted as powerful memories of this scent reoccurred to him and he took a step backwards. Suddenly a warm hand touched his shoulder from behind and George turned around to look into familiar brown eyes.7

"Just thought I would tell you that I won't be in tomorrow, but a lovely lady named Janice will take my place. I've left your sandwich on the bench and a pair of clean trousers at the end of your bed."8

Smiling sweetly, the young woman looked over George's shoulder and breathed in deeply.9

"Ah, I see that you have finished planting that lovely rose bush, I'm sure she would have loved it. It smells just like her old bottles of perfume that you keep upstairs. I'll see you soon George, take care."10

With that, the housekeeper walked away and left the lonely old man with his memories. Wiping a tear off his wrinkled cheek, George slowly made his way back into his house and sat down on his favourite chair by the fire. Unwrapping his tuna sandwich, George gazed out the window. He was dancing in a hall filled with young couples, but all he saw was the woman he loved dancing with him. Fleetingly he allowed a smile to stretch across his weatherworn face before letting the crackling of the fire lull him to sleep.11