A Smile from a Rose
unedited and written by Tomas Bird
Grave was his name, John Grave, which was very apt for a man in the grave digging profession we all thought; very apt indeed. His sombre presence in the village had always terrified the children; so much so that the term “John Grave will get you” became our friends favourite threat to their children if they misbehaved.
It wasn't until my Annie – on the day of her mother's funeral – presented him with a bouquet of roses, that we saw him smile for the first time.
'Paul,' she said to me, 'would you mind giving us a minute?'
'Of course not, my dear, I'll wait for you by the Chestnut tree.'
I observed from a distance as Annie handed the man Grave an opened envelope. As he read the letter, his emotion became apparent, so much so that Annie embraced him until he regained his composure. It was spring and the day was fresh and kind to both the young and the old, all of whom were grieving.
*
On the anniversary of her mother's funeral, we decided to visit her grave. As dawn soaked the hedgerows and broken walls with its golden sun, I felt a bittersweet happiness to be going home.
‘Would you mind if I bought some roses?’ she asked as we stepped off the
train.
‘Not at all, darling,’ I said, ‘why don’t you get roses like you gave Mr Grave last time?’
‘Those were the ones I was thinking of getting,’ she said as she lightly squeezed my hand.
We stood over her mother's grave and I held her close whilst she wept gentle tears from her clear green eyes. The roses remained in her tight clasped hand.
‘What are you going to do with the roses, love?’ I asked. I already knew the answer, even if I didn’t know the reason.
‘Do you want to come with me?’
‘Do you want me to come?’ She nodded whilst burying her head in my chest.
My stubble caught a few strands of her strawberry blonde hair and they came loose from her clasp as I drew up from kissing her head. The soft breeze loosened more of her thick, barley coloured waves until it fell over her lightly freckled cheek. Tucking it behind her ear, we crunched along the gravel path that led to his small, whitewashed cottage.
She rapped her petite knuckles against the study oak door until heavy footsteps grew louder and then stopped on the opposite side of the door. After a moment, the heavy door opened to reveal John Grave. He had gone grey early in life; however, flecks of amber still graced his trimmed beard. It was his bright green eyes that gave away his youth though. His slightly stooped stance cast a shadow over us.
‘It’s you,’ he almost whispered.
‘I came to visit mother.’
‘I hoped you would.’
‘These are for you,’ she said as she shakily handed him the roses.
‘Thank you,’ he smiled, ‘will you stay a while?’
'I can’t, not today anyway,’ she said, ’I’m not ready.’
’I understand, although I’m not sure your husband does.’
’He knows that I love him very much,’ she said looking at me, ’and hopefully that is enough for now.’
I squeezed her hand and said that it was.
'Perhaps you could…'
'Perhaps I could write you a letter…an unopened one this time?' she asked.
'I would like that. I would like that very much.'
It was another fine spring day and the smell of newly cut grass was fresh in the air.
*
In the middle of summer came a warm but relentless rain. In autumn, the rain turned cold, and by late November, the sky was a perpetual grey that
teemed nothing but a constant torrent of freezing sleet.
'The doctor says you have to eat.'
'I'm fine,' she said, 'can you fix my pillows please, my neck is all stiff and sore?'
'Pneumonia is not fine,' I said as I fluffed the pillows behind her head, 'how's that?'
'Much better, thanks.'
'Right, how about some of my mum's broth now?'
'I'm not hungry…maybe in a bit.'
'Why are you so stubborn when it comes to your health?' I asked.
'I'm fine. As soon as this horrible, God awful weather clears up I'll get better and then we can maybe take a wee holiday…maybe to Spain, yes?'
'That sounds like a fine idea,' I said, 'for the time being though, how about you at least eat some of the bread while I phone my mum to tell her you're not eating her soup?'
'Ha-ha, don't you dare say that.'
'Well you better just get some of it eaten then,' I replied.
‘Ok,’ she said, ‘but I’m only eating so you shut up for a while.’
Her pale lips smiled.
‘Ok, love, I’m sorry, I’ll try and not go on so much…I’ll be back in a minute, ok?’
‘Ok, tell your mum I said hiya, ‘she said, ‘oh, Paul…’
‘Yes, love.’
‘Thank you for looking after me.’
‘You’re welcome, sweetheart,’ I said, ‘anything for you.’
When I came back, she was asleep. By her side were the empty plates and two sealed envelopes. One was for me; the other was for John Grave. I kissed her cold, moist forehead and lay down beside her.
Annie’s breathing grew shallow - her lungs seemed to be working hard just to inhale the clammy air. I closed my eyes and wished for springtime. Her chesty cough broke into my dreams and in my head the sky was a giant eye that was weeping slushy ice.
When I awoke, I realised that I had been crying in my sleep. I turned to look at Annie but she was not there. All that remained was her still and lifeless figure.
*
The train journey was a lonely one. The sodden countryside of December sped by in a flurry of sunless, murky skies and snow spattered, muddy fields. I had preceded my journey by writing to John. I had not received a reply.
As I walked towards his cottage, the door opened. John Grave reminded me of a piece of large charcoal that been pulled from a pyre. His green eyes
stared intently at me as I approached.
‘Good morning, Mr Grave,’ I said stretching out my hand, ‘My name’s Paul, I’m Annie’s…I mean, I was Annie’s husband.’
‘John…please call me John,’ he replied whilst gripping my hand, ’I’m very sorry for your loss.’
’I’m sorry for yours too, although I’m not entirely sure why.’
’Thank you,’ he said, ‘will you come in?’
‘I can’t just now, I have to see Father McLean shortly…Annie’s body is being brought down here the day after tomorrow.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Did you get my letter?’ I asked.
‘I did,’ he said, ‘my apologies for not writing back but letter writing has never been my strong point.
‘That’s ok…was it a problem to lay her beside her mother?’
‘No…no problem at all,’ he said, ‘I think she would have liked that.’
‘I think so too,’ I replied hoarsely.
I stood looking at him for a moment before handing over the letter Annie had written to him. There was something familiar in those jade green eyes of his.
‘From Annie,' I said, ‘she wrote one to me as well.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied as he gingerly accepted the sealed, cream envelope.
The skies began to darken and the shadows from the bare branches of the chestnut tree began to zig and zag as if they were attempting to scratch some invisible itch on the ground. We shook hands again and agreed to talk some more after the funeral.
I heard John’s door shut gently when I neared the bottom of the path.
*
A light rain had begun to fall as I stood smoking by the chestnut tree. When I was alone, I surveyed the empty graveyard, slowly taking in the host of lonely memories of others’ pain. My eyes finally came to a rest on Annie's grave. Kneeling in front of it was John. His grief seemed to equal mine and I felt a pang of sorrow for him.
He stood slowly and crossed himself. Looking up, he saw me and with quiet respect made his way across to where I was standing.
'It was a beautiful service,' he said.
'It was a hard service,' I replied as I rubbed my right eye with the palm of my hand.
John placed a calloused hand on my shoulder.
'Are you ok?' He asked.
'No. No I'm not, but I guess that's to be expected,' I said. 'I want to thank you for coming today, John.'
He stood quiet and looked at the ground.
'I don't want you to take this the wrong way,' I said, 'but it meant a lot to see an unfamiliar face grieving as you've done today…it reminded me just how good a person my Annie was.'
'She said some very kind words to me the day of her mother's funeral.'
I wiped my eyes again and lit another cigarette whilst looking at her grave.
'Do you believe in what the priest said about Annie's soul being everlasting?' I asked.
'Yes. Yes I do, but I don’t think it’ll go to God straight away though,' he said.
'How do you mean?' I asked.
'You were soul mates, so I believe Annie's soul will wait for you until you’re ready to join her.'
'You're a good man, John.' I said.
'So are you, Paul. So are you.'
We stood there, stranger to stranger and embraced each other.
'Annie's last wishes,' I said as I pulled away, 'were for me to visit you each year on the anniversary of her mother's funeral.'
'I think I'd like that,' he replied.
'She also asked if I would bring you a bouquet of roses and tell you something about her.'
'I'd definitely like that,' he said, 'are you not curious as to why though?'
'I'm just happy I can still do something nice for Annie,' I replied, 'besides, what else am I supposed to do…all I've ever been good at is loving her.'
We embraced one last time and then I departed until spring. I left happy knowing that for years to come I would be able to fondly reminisce about Annie to someone like John Grave.
*
I rose from my seat wearily. My stiff limbs creaked as I shuffled to the door. It was early summer and the morning was already beginning to grow hot when John met me off the train.
'Good Morning, Paul,' he greeted me heartily.
'It is indeed, my old friend, 'I replied as I leaned forward to shake his gnarled, old hand, 'it's good to see you.'
'And you,' he said, 'how's the family?''
'Fussing as always,' I said.
'I'm glad you've come,' he replied.
'Me too, John.'
'Are you up to taking a stroll to the grave yard?'
'Absolutely,' I replied.
The village was silent as we walked immersed in our memories.
'Paul,' he asked as we drew near, 'do you remember asking me if I thought
Annie's soul would be everlasting?'
'I do, John,' I said.
'Do you remember what I said?'
'I do,' I croaked, 'you said that Annie's soul would wait for me until I was ready to join it.'
He smiled as he pointed to where Annie was buried. Protruding from the heart of her grave was a single, crimson rose.
'My God,' I cried, ' how is this possible?'
'I planted the rose on Annie's request on the day of her funeral,' he said.
John helped me to her grave. Salty tears spilled down the crevasses of my old face whilst her rose quivered in the warm summer's breeze.
'Thank you, John,' I whispered, 'thank you for looking after my Annie.'
'It is I who should thank you, Paul,' he said, 'without you or Annie, I would be nothing. Without you or Annie, I would merely be a name who could be traced back to nothing.'
'His green eyes began to fill and he tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of his black woollen cardigan but they just filled up again.
'Who was she to you, John?'
'She was my sister,' he replied, 'she made…’
‘John?’ I gently pressed.
‘She made me realise that as her memories became my memories that I am not nothing…’ His tears flowed freely.
'You're a fine man, John, and you've been a fine friend to me over the
years. More importantly, you've been a fine brother to Annie.'
We stood on that summer's morning and enjoyed the sun as two friends who are seeing each other for the last time should do. Annie moved from side to side in the breeze and looked as beautiful as I had ever seen her.
END