Flowers For Milly
A 2200 word short story
Angie gazed at her treasured garden, trying to admire the overflowing borders of scented flowers, arches covered in exuberant climbers and the patio decorated with pots of herbs. She watched butterflies flit over colourful shrubs and listened to bees working on flamboyant poppies. This vibrant haven was all Angie’s work. It had been little more than a tired lawn, neglected rose bed and a few trees when she’d first moved here four years ago.
“This is your home now, love. I want you to be happy,” Mike had said.
It had always been Mike’s home; he’d been brought up here. It had been his daughter Milly’s home until the divorce. The house had once belonged to Mike’s ex-wife too, but not the garden. The first Mrs Oswald had never been interested in that. Strictly speaking, Angie corrected herself, it was Mike’s mother who had been the first Mrs Oswald. She had loved the garden and her ashes were scattered around her favourite bench, under the silver birches. Angie hoped the same thing would be done for her, when the time came.
The garden had been largely grassed over since its creator had been unable to tend it. Mike had encouraged Angie to think of it as hers and to make any changes or additions she wanted. She’d taken him at his word and created a wildlife pond, deep herbaceous borders and a raised bed for alpines. She’d replaced the tatty shed with a greenhouse, too.
Angie had spent much of her free time in the garden; often weeding, planting propagating or pruning, but she’d also taken time to admire the results or watch the birds, butterflies and insects. The garden had given her so much; an outlet for her energy and a way to express herself. Through it she’d gained appreciation from others which boosted her self confidence. It was something all hers that had not previously belonged to Mike’s first wife. In the garden she’d felt she had some control over the world around her; even if, as she’d recently learnt, that wasn’t true at all.
Angie walked across the lush grass, towards flower borders, glorious at their midsummer peak. She noticed the way the light shone through the trees and made patterns of shadow. She saw the superb tea roses reflected in the sparkling clear water of the pond. If there was anyone else about to notice, they would probably think it all looked as beautiful as ever. It didn’t seem that way to Angie. It was as though she were trapped in a black and white photo; not standing in the place she loved. All the colour, scent, peace and freedom seemed to be missing.
“… plenty to go round.”
Angie span around to see her neighbour was leaning across her neatly trimmed hedge and holding a bunch of gypsophila.
“I’m sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?”
“I was picking a bit of this for myself. Take up to Sarah, you know, and thought you might like some. A nice bunch of flowers always cheers Sarah up and you looked like … um, anyway, I’ve got plenty to spare and it’ll look a treat with them roses of yours.”
“Thank you, Roger. How kind.” Angie accepted the flowers. “I’ll put them straight into water,” she added as an excuse to get away.
As she searched for a suitable vase, Angie wondered how long she’d stood in the garden feeling sorry for herself. If Roger, despite worrying about his sister’s recent operation and being the other side of his large garden, had seen she was upset, then it must have been some time.
The stemmy bunch of tiny white flowers looked rather pathetic on its own. It looked how she felt: unsupported. Oh dear, was that really how she thought of herself? It wasn’t true, really it wasn’t.
She’d have to do something about the gypsophila. Why had Roger given it to her? Now she’d have to pick some of her own flowers to go with it and she didn’t normally pick her flowers. Of course Roger had meant to be kind, but why did everyone want things to change when they’d been just fine as they were?
Angie steadied the vase in the sink and switched on the tap. The sound of the cool water trickling into the vase soothed her a little and she allowed the water to overflow and run over her hands. When she felt calmer, she stood the vase on the draining board and placed the thirsty flower stems in the deep water.
Until this morning, Angie had thought she had a nice comfortable home and a loving husband and a gorgeous garden to tend. Over breakfast, Mike had told her that his ex-wife had changed her mind and would allow him custody of Milly. He’d asked Angie how she felt about it, had said they’d talk about it later. Angie had said nothing and simply nodded her head. Mike had asked her opinion, but she knew there was no decision for her to make; Milly would live with them.
There was no reason why everything should change, she tried to assure herself. Mike won’t love her any less when his daughter comes to live with them. There’s plenty of room for Milly in the large house; she already has her own room that she uses on her weekend visits. Those visits have always been quite pleasant and Angie and Milly have always got on reasonably well. Very well, to be honest. The girl was somewhat quiet, withdrawn even, but that wasn’t surprising after the break-up of her parents and the indecision about who would gain custody. Angie wasn’t worried about the house, or her relationships with her husband or step-daughter. It was the garden that worried her, although she didn’t know why. It wasn’t as though Milly would be bringing a pony that would eat the flowers or that she played football or the kind of games that would make her want to dig holes in the lawn.
Angie almost laughed at herself. She was still holding the vase of gypsophila; she really had got herself into a state. Flowers, she thought looked better in the garden where they belonged but maybe it would be nice to bring some into the house. They’d make a change from the bought chrysanthemums or carnations she usually arranged. There was no harm in trying something different and getting into the garden with secateurs might cheer her up. Working in the garden always brought her happiness.
As a child, Angie had tended her own tiny patch in her grandparent’s garden. She’d loved it; after her parent’s had split-up, and she felt she didn’t belong anywhere, that patch of ground had been something she could rely on. Growing a wobbly row of radishes had restored her confidence, choosing which flowers to plant had encouraged her to express herself. A garden was a wonderful place for a child; a child such as Angie had been then, or how Milly was now.
All this thinking wasn’t getting the flowers picked, she chided herself. She’d start with a few of the annuals that had self sown into the gravel around the greenhouse; they were so pretty. Gardening was full of surprises. Sometimes things didn’t do as she anticipated, flowers weren’t the colour she thought or didn’t bloom when she expected, self sown plants came up where she didn’t expect them. That rarely mattered as the result, however unplanned, was almost always attractive. The garden changed and so did Angie; she was learning all the time. To start with she’d been a little obsessive; now she knew it didn’t need to be perfect. As long as it looks good and makes the people who visit it or see it from next door happy, then it doesn’t matter if she hasn’t deadheaded the roses today or if the hostas have been nibbled by a slug. Gardens never stay the same, they change and evolve and so can the gardener.
Angie snipped a few stems of mauve candy-tuft; they were beautiful. Strange that she’d never before noticed how each plant was a slightly different colour or that the tones of the flower-heads changed as they matured. She’d taken them for granted because they grew easily and needed little care. Looking at them closely was a rewarding experience.
“Oh, they’re pretty,” Roger said.
Again, Angie had been unaware of his presence on the far side of the hedge until she heard his voice.
“Yes, aren’t they? I thought they’d go well with the gypsophila you gave me.”
“Aye, they will,” he nodded his agreement. “Mauve is Sarah’s favourite colour.”
Angie remembered he’d mentioned his sister earlier and that she’d been too preoccupied to take much notice or enquire after her health.
“How is she?”
“Improving every day, I’m pleased to say. She’ll soon be out the hospital.”
“That’s good, but are they sure she can cope on her own so soon?”
“No, but she won’t have to. I’m bringing her here until she gets her strength back.”
“That’s very good of you.”
“Not a bit of it. She’s family ain’t she? Anyway, this is her home as much as mine; we both grew up here, you know.”
“Oh.” Angie couldn’t think what to say to him. “Please, take her these,” she said, offering the candytuft.
“I didn’t mean …”
“I know you weren’t dropping hints, Roger. Please do take them though. I have lots more. There’s plenty to go round, as you said about the ones you gave me.”
“Thank you, then.” Roger accepted the flowers and walked towards his house.
There really were enough flowers to share. Angie picked herself another handful and looked around for others that she could add to the gypsophila. The calendula, whilst looking lovely amongst the candytuft where the effect was softened by silvery leaves of stachys and tufts of white alyssum, might not work so well in the vase. The palest pink eschscholtzias were the perfect colour, but the fragile flowers would either bruise or shatter soon after picking. They really were much better left in the garden. Funny how flowers, as well as people, had places where they belonged and places they didn’t fit in. Plants usually looked good wherever they seeded themselves. People were usually welcome in their childhood homes.
Angie strolled through the shrubbery and ducked under the overhanging sprays of deliciously scented mock orange. As she emerged through the honeysuckle arch, she headed for the rose bed. Creamy roses would look as good and last as well inside as they did on the plant. The rose bush had been a bit out of shape, cutting some nice long stemmed roses from the left actually improved it. She’d intended to prune it after it had flowered anyway. Angie could see advantages in picking the flowers, now that she looked for them. When she’d discovered she couldn’t have children, she’d concentrated on the positives, such as no disturbed nights, Mike’s affection to herself, not having to make the garden toddler proof. She’d done such a good job that she’d convinced herself she didn’t mind.
Was that it? She’d brainwashed herself and now she was worried if she saw anything good about having a child in the house then all the pain would burst free from wherever she’d hidden it? Holding the gathered flowers she looked around her at the lovely garden. It was large; large enough to share.
Angie arranged the flowers she’d picked amongst the gypsophilia Roger had given her. They looked pretty good, but not quite like right; it was as though there was something missing. The sound of a car on the drive disturbed her thoughts. A glance at the clock showed her it was lunchtime already. Perhaps it was Mike; he did come home for lunch occasionally.
“Hi, love,” he called, as he let himself into the house.
“This is a surprise,” Angie said as he bent to kiss her cheek.
“A nice one, I hope?”
“Of course. Are those for me?” She pointed to the bunch of bright pink carnations in his hand.
“Yes, I thought that after this morning …”
“Thank you, they’ll go perfectly with the ones I’ve picked,” Angie said and began unwrapping the cellophane.
Mike made tea and sandwiches as Angie arranged the flowers. “Lovely,” he said when he saw the result.
“Yes, but I don’t think they should stay in the kitchen. The pink looks dirty against the yellow walls. They’d look great in Milly’s room though.”
“You’ve picked some of your flowers for Milly?”
“I didn’t intend them for her, but now I think about it, I will put them in her room. It should help to make her feel welcome and that’s important if we’re hoping she’ll come to live with us.”
“And are we hoping that?”
“Yes, Mike. We are,” Angie said. “And Mike? There’s a nice sunny patch of ground under her bedroom window; I thought we could ask Milly if she’d like to have her own garden there.”