Gentle in the Mourning
*This short fiction piece was a finalist for the 48th New Millennium Writing Awards.
The thick scent of rain seeped into Georgie Dandon’s bedroom as it slipped beneath the white-cracked windowpane that never fully shut. It was this smell that awoke Georgie, or so he thought. The morning light was dampened by the weather, creating the illusion of a pre-dawn hour. Grumbling, he turned away from the window towards the whitewashed wall plastered with posters, one celebrating Arsenal, another signed by Nick Drake, given to him on his thirteenth birthday. He tried to settle back into the warm hollow beneath his quilt, but the steady patter of the rain twitched against his ear. No, not the rain. It’s too uniform for that. Georgie’s eyes cracked open. He glared at the wall. It’s the blasted shovel, or trowel, or hoe. The clock beside his door ticked its disapproval. Seven o'clock on a bloody Saturday and she was already at it.
Georgie closed his eyes, his face set in an unpleasant grimace as he pushed his body further into the mattress, intent on victory. But the sound continued to mix with the rain, wafting beneath the crack in the window and itching at his body. Unable to scratch, he tossed back the covers and stalked over to the window, arms crossed, shoulders hunched against the cold morning air.
“What’s she doin’ then? It’s rainin’, cold — blast it, ’s Saturday!”
Georgie Dandon was correct. The chill emanated off the panes, tendrils sweeping across his face. Streams of rain sluiced down the glass, blurring the figure of Mrs. Melling in her garden. He scowled at her stooped figure, though it shouldn’t warrant his surprise. Each year without fail as March approached April, Mrs. Melling would begin work in her garden. First, she would start with the larger hedges, trimming back the boxwoods that lined her stone fence to geometrical precision. The yew she touched sparingly, allowing for some haphazard disarrangement that was, to Georgie’s dismay, quite appealing to the eye. Next, she would squat before the hedges and every four inches would pockmark the soil with her trowel. She was then in and out of the grey-stone house holding trays of scrawny weeds, marching through the white door with the four-paned window that she would prop open with a burlap bag of rotten-smelling mulch. He knew that because the odour frequented his second-floor bedroom when the wind blew a tick south of west. After the weeds had been matted into the ground beneath her window, Mrs. Melling would make her way up the terraces of the hill behind her house. He could watch her for a while as she climbed, planted, and climbed again — taking lithe steps at times, but he would eventually lose her to the shade of the larch and the willow, which grew on the fell where grazing sheep could not reach.
From his detailed understanding of Mrs. Melling’s gardening process, one might think that Georgie Dandon had done an inordinate amount of watching. But his window was the only place in the house where one could receive an unadulterated view of Mrs. Melling’s garden, and so it was impossible to ignore the consistent sounds and smells that poured from it year after year. In fact, he may have been the only one to have to privilege of viewing the garden without an explicit invitation from Mrs. Melling. As a child, though, he would sometimes push the wooden chair from its position next to his armoire to the window, sit in it, and examine the growth of the garden, in which Mrs. Melling happened to exist. From that vantage point he could escape into his imagination and see the sprites and imps that his mother described to him before he went to sleep.
With his age, however, came a profound dislike for all things childlike and intangible. Young gentlemen such as himself had no use for the frivolity of imagination when there were sports to be played, girlies to chat up, and younger children to look down upon with newfound superiority. The garden was a waste of time that the old woman used to keep her mind from spinning apart too soon. “If she’s not completely mental already.” With those words floating out the window, Georgie Dandon turned on his heel and walked out the door.
The clouds perched on the mountain across the lake, puffing out like the breast of a snow goose. They were a welcome sight to Jessamine Melling as they promised a steady flow of much needed water that would set her plants into the soil. The hedges were resilient of course, and her attention to them was largely aesthetic. She would clip errant branches here to allow room for the smaller juniper and rose bushes in front. But the newly planted daffodils and bluebells and buttercups were much more fragile and would need the water to protect their roots from the probing heat of the sun. She’d been growing them indoors for the past two months, preparing them for the journey outside, and it always made her heart go heavy when she realized that one hadn’t made it. She knew she could’ve done more. She thought of him.
It was at that moment when she felt the Dandon boy’s eyes on her back. Her lips curved into a small smile. She knew he was there just as she knew he was there yesterday and the day before that, just as anyone has the prickle of intuition that one isn’t alone. It was not at all an unpleasant feeling because she knew the boy was there now and knew he would be gone soon. It was simply a fact that each morning that she was in her garden, whether it were a school day or summer, the boy would stare down at her from his white-painted window before continuing on with his day.
She walked back into the house then, her wellies squeaking across the dull, wooden floorboards. Henry Melling was snoring with his head tilted back on the couch, the morning paper sprawled across his stomach, the aroma of chamomile wafting from the steaming cup on the coffee table. She would wake him in a bit. As she passed, her hand reached out to touch the silver frame on the table behind the couch: one long stroke, tap-tap. In the corner of the kitchen was a line of white trays beneath a fixture of purple UV lamps. She took the last of the two trays and carried them back out to the garden.
The rain misted against her face as she climbed the stone steps up the fell. Ducking around the hanging willow branch, she eyed the green shoots that held the snowdrops two months ago and placed the trays on the sodden soil. She kneeled on the ground, her trousers soaking up the water. Presently, her gloved hands supplanted the dirt around the snowdrops and replaced it with the squares from the tray. Sighing, she appraised her completed handiwork, a small seed of satisfaction rooting behind her navel. Mrs. Melling tucked the two trays into the crook of her elbow before continuing up the slope, careful to step around the blue patch of gentians that lazed in the middle of the path. No, no, no, let them alone.
The running of the tap caught Georgie Dandon’s ear as he padded into the kitchen. His mother, Evelyn, was standing at the sink by the window, the pale light casting her face into sharp relief. He said nothing as he plopped down at the rough, wooden farm table. He noted Gemma wasn’t awake yet. Strange for the eight-year-old.
“Morning love,” Evelyn said as she swept towards the table with a plate of poached eggs and kipper in one hand and a bowl of porridge in the other. She placed them before her son and was rewarded with a mumbled thanks. She returned to the faucet and continued washing the cast-iron fry pan, her eyes fixed on some point outside in a placid stare.
“Whas wid Misuh Smellin?” Georgie queried around his kipper.
“I’ll have you repeat that question when you’ve eaten your food properly, thank you,” Evelyn replied, looking down at him. Georgie emptied a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, timing it precisely at the end of his mother’s words so he could hold up his finger to her. She would have to wait for him now.
Swallowing and then inhaling deeply, Georgie repeats: “What’s Mrs. Melling doin’ in her garden. It’s pourin’ out. What business has she got out there now?”
“Whatever business she has, it’s her own. I think it’s good that she’s got something to occupy her time, what with her children off to university.”
“Well, it wakes me up and it makes my room smell all rotten,” he muttered.
“Oh, I think your football boots may have something to do with that rotten smell. Anyways, I’m glad you’re up early. I’ve got to run to the shop today and I need you to drop this off at the Mellings’s.” Evelyn dried her hands on the pale-blue towel and then lifted a woven basket off the countertop and placed it before Georgie. Peering over the rough edge, he noted the contents: a bowl of sugar, a plastic bag full of flour, and a dark-brown bottle of vanilla. “Why can’t da do it?”
Evelyn sighed, taking her faux-mohair coat from the hook beside the door and pushing her arms through it. “Because,” she said as she buttoned up the front, “it’s flu season and your father’s had to go to work so that he can keep everyone healthy, and,” she continued as Georgie opened his mouth, “your sister’s gone to work with him, not that I would have her take it over anyway.” She bustled over to him and dropped to his eye-level. “Come now, it will take five minutes and then you can go off with your friends.” She smiled and her eyes slid to the abysmal weather outside.
“Fine.”
“Thank you, love.” She pulled his head to her face and planted a quick kiss on his copper hair. And with that, she was out the door, the quiet scent of lavender lingering in the air.
Georgie’s hands caught drops of rain as he walked backwards to push open the white gate and continued over the uneven slate stones, turned an opaque onyx from the rain. He stood before the door inset into the walls of the weathered stone house before knocking twice. Maybe no one would come to the door. Maybe he could just leave the basket here, go play some footie when the weather cleared. Maybe —
The door swung open. Mrs. Melling looked at Georgie. “Morning, Mr. Dandon. What can I do for you?”
Georgie swelled with importance. Mr. Dandon? Maybe she wasn’t so bad. “Hullo. My mum wanted me to bring this over for you.” He thrust the basket towards her, hoping she would accept it and let him go. She took it from him and glanced over its contents. “Well tell your mum thank you,” she said with a brusque twitch of her mouth. Georgie began to turn away, thinking of sweat and sunshine. “Wait!” Her deep voice stopped him. He turned his head back. “I would ask a quick favor of you, if I might.”
“Er, all right?”
“Well, there’s a bag of mulch that I was hoping to carry up the hill in the back, but I’m having some trouble with it. You look like a fit young man that would be willing to help an old codger such as myself.”
“Well, okay.” Strange old girl, in’t she. Georgie followed Mrs. Melling through the door and into her unobtrusive home. He peered around. The drawing room was painted a sweet mint, contrasting against the worn tables and yellow lamps. Focusing on Mrs. Melling’s feet, he noted the dust that rose from her steps on the shag carpet and the patches of light grain in the dark wood floor. They passed beneath a mahogany arch into the kitchen, which was warm with the shadow of the fire from which a gentle rustle emanated. No, the rustle was coming from the throaty breath of Mr. Melling, asleep on the couch. Despite the apparent hominess, something seemed off in the house, something Georgie couldn’t pinpoint. Tap, tap-tap. Georgie’s head swung forward at the noise. He saw Mrs. Melling’s arm falling back to her side. Odd. But he brushed it from his mind as they continued past Mr. Melling’s pleasant form back out into the garden, which was coated in a delicate mist. The door snapped shut behind them.
“I got it about a quarter of the way up before I decided to dump it.” Mrs. Melling said, pointing up the fell to a sack of mulch that slumped against the stone steps inlaid in the slope. She began to march up the hill, stopping once to turn and call to him to follow. She was a strange one, Mrs. Melling. Given the delicate nature of her work, Georgie had expected Mrs. Melling to be a fragile bird of a woman, quiet and easily startled. For all the times he had seen her from his window, he was surprised to find that he didn’t know her at all. With theses thoughts rolling about in his head, Georgie almost walked onto a patch of vivid blue flowers.
“Watch it, boy!” Mrs. Melling shouted down at him. His head jerked and he hopped over the patch. “You’ve got to watch where you’re going in here, Mr. Dandon. I would hate to feel responsible for any misfortune that should befall you.”
“Sorry, what now?” Gordon Bennett, did she just threaten to kill him over her flowers?
“Gentiana verna.” Georgie raised his eyebrow. “Spring gentian. That’s the blue flower your foot just nearly crushed. You pick it and folklore says death will follow. If you bring it into your home, that death will be by way of lightning strike. And as exciting as that may sound, I don’t take any chances.” They’d come to a stop next to the bag of mulch. “Well, there you are Mr. Dandon. Just carry it right up the way here.”
Georgie bent his knees and gripped the bottom of the bag. It was wet and grit clung to it, coating his fingers as he heaved it up. “So,” he huffed as they began up the hill again, “do you actually believe that?”
For a brief moment, Mrs. Melling’s face wilted. She turned her head away from him. “I have to.” She said it quietly, more to the air than to him. She cleared her throat and when she looked back at him, her face had hardened. Georgie wanted to scoff at her belief, but stopped himself. She may be off her rocker, yet maybe it served no purpose to point it out.
“Uh, so…” Georgie began, trying to quench the silence, “have all your flowers got some kind of story to them then?”
“Well of course my dear boy,” Mrs. Melling said. She smiled then. “The daffodils just there, those will bloom within a fortnight, they signify respect. And the bluebells I’ve just planted, those represent humility. They’d best bloom before May. The buttercups come up in June, which is fitting. They mean cheerfulness.” She stopped and stared at the tiny green sprouts, her eyes bright. “Oh, the snowdrops though,” she continued walking, “I’m afraid you won’t see those this year, they already came out in January.” She said nothing for a moment. “They’re really quite amazing; they’ve got hardened tips that can push up through the frozen soil. They signify hope, you see. I think it shows us that if they can bloom in the dead of winter, well, then hope can never really die.”
Mrs. Melling spoke with such care that Georgie felt he was obligated to say something, even though he did not understand. Not yet, at least. And so he set down the bag of mulch where Mrs. Melling had directed and clapped his hands together to rid them of the mud. Looking down at his hands he said, “Well, that’s a nice way to think Mrs. Melling.” They walked back down the fell in silence. Mrs. Melling thanked Georgie for his help and shut the door after he left. The sun was beginning to cut through the fog and Georgie was eager to go play with his friends. Still, with some unconscious impulse, he turned back at the white fence and stared at her door. Shaking his head once, he grumbled something and stalked back to his house.
The garden glittered against the sunlight. The early morning rain still clung to the leaves of the hedges and the newly turned soil, catching the rays of the breaking sun and cradling them. Mrs. Melling watched this exchange through the crisscross of her mullioned window as the fire died in its grate. Mr. Melling had gone into town and now Jessamine was alone. But being alone was something she was well acquainted with now. Her hands clutched the silver frame and she began to pace back and forth before the window. She stared down at the picture as she walked, stroking his face, her boy. My boy. Georgie hadn’t remembered, of course, and she found it barely bothered her. Right after it happened, people didn’t mention Hayden’s name. They were afraid of saying the wrong thing, of setting her off. They would tread carefully around it, asking instead how she was, if she needed anything, if there was anything they could do for her. Everything was about her. Couldn’t they understand this was about him? But there was nothing anyone could do for him then, and there was no point in pretending any different. Still, when they wouldn’t say his name, it was as though everyone was forgetting. Now they didn’t say his name because most had forgotten. And lately, Mrs. Melling had been too. She held the picture tighter.
She thought about the Dandon boy. He had grown from the child she remembered. He was older than Hayden had been, and she wondered if Hayden would have been the same. Interested in things that couldn’t relate to her, always eager to be leaving. But she could tell that there was still curiosity in Georgie, buried beneath a layer of adolescent pride. Yes, they always have everything figured out, don’t they? He would be back, though, of that she had no doubt. He had to, he simply had to come back. Mrs. Melling ached to return to the garden, to work with purpose and leave her thoughts to the house. “No, no. Not today Jessie, no more today,” she cooed.
When Mr. Melling came home three hours later, Mrs. Melling was still standing at the window, the silver frame cutting lines in her palms.
Georgie Dandon bumbled along the carriageway that skirted town, turning the football over and over in his hands. He supposed Mum and Dad would be home by now, maybe with supper waiting. His stomach warmed at the thought. The day had shaped up well enough; the sun had finally broken the clouds and he’d met up with his mates for a quick game of footie. Well, perhaps not that quick as the sun was now kissing the ridges of the mountains and gooseflesh had broken over his uncovered arms. Maybe it would frost. The flowers, he hoped they would be all right. “Blast it, old boy, whatta they matter to you anyway?” For a moment, Georgie was angry with himself. Flowers. Honestly, he was worried about her flowers? For the next moment, Georgie was angry with Mrs. Melling. Of course she would get into his head, her and her manky flowers and her dodgy tales and her rough manner. Gordon Bennett. He bounced the ball hard against the cobblestone lane, but rather than returning to his open palms, it bounced off ahead of him. He swore loudly and ran after it.
He wanted to hate her. He picked the ball up off the ground and began spinning it again. He’d hated her and he’d hated her garden since the day he realized that playing make-believe was beneath him, that no magic awaited him among the larch and the willow, despite how strongly he wished it. But as he thought on it, he hadn’t hated her; not really. The idea of her, yes, but the dizzy old woman of his imagination was hardly comparable to the dignified, albeit odd woman he’d encountered that day. Georgie scratched at his scalp. He didn’t fancy all this thinking.
As he turned on to his lane, he glanced at the Mellings’s home, looking at it from beneath his lashes before forcing his eyes to focus on his own grey-stone house with its mossy roof. The lamps burned in the front window and smoke spiralled from the stacked chimney. He pushed the latch down on the cold handle and flung the door open. He walked into the kitchen, leaving his trainers in his wake.
“Evening, Georgie, I trust you had a most rousing day?” His father’s voice and crept over the paper he held in front of his face, twining with the pipe smoke.
“All right, da?” Georgie asked.
His father peered over the paper, his eyes large behind his glasses. “All right, busy day at the shop,” he said. “Your mother’s gone for a walk with Gemma, so I reckon supper in an hour. She also wanted me to tell you that you’re to take that cake on the counter next-door tomorrow sometime. Must be a birthday or summat.”
Georgie noted the plain white box on the counter but he didn’t look inside. He had half a mind to protest. His father, however, had returned to his paper and Georgie decided it would be less exhausting to just dump the box off rather than starting a row. As much as he enjoyed being lectured on responsibility and the sacrifices of adulthood, he had more pertinent matters to attend to. “Right,” he replied and bounded towards the stairs. He hoped to get a look at the garden before the day disappeared completely.
The sun had brightened the Mellings’s white gate and Georgie blinked as he snapped it open with a quick push from his foot. He peered over the box and tread carefully over the uneven stones, worried he would go sprawling and muss the cake. When he reached the door, he knocked with more confidence than the day before. A small part of him wanted to see Mrs. Melling again. And so, when round Mr. Melling greeted him, he felt a twinge of disappointment.
“What ho, m’boy. What can I do for you?” Mr. Melling asked.
Blimey, it’s the bloomin’ Ghost of Christmas Present. Georgie’s cheeks burned from his rude thought, but he wasn’t far off the mark. Mr. Melling stood hunched in the doorframe, his portly middle blocking any view of the house behind him. His cheeks were ruddy and a pleasant warmth eddied off him. “Um, hi. Sir,” Georgie added hastily. “I was here yesterday and my mum sent me over again with another package for you.” He lifted the boxed cake slightly toward Mr. Melling.
“Oh right, right. Wonderful, if you would just bring it back in here.” He stepped back from the door and beckoned Georgie to follow him into the kitchen.
“Is Mrs. Melling in today?” Georgie blurted.
Mr. Melling chuckled, “Ah yes, she’s out in the garden of course.” Georgie nodded his head at that, not that Mr. Melling could see. Presently, they entered the kitchen. It looked different to Georgie than it had yesterday, perhaps because it was washed in gold, flecks of dust reflected in the early morning sun. Still, that same wrongness from yesterday floated on the air. He set the box on the countertop where Mr. Melling had gestured. He waited for Mr. Melling to excuse him, but instead, the old man plodded over to the stove where a kettle whistled, a mug hanging in his hand.
“How about a cuppa before you go?” Mr. Melling asked as he pulled a patched oven mitt over his hand. Georgie might have politely declined had Mr. Melling not already poured the tea. Instead, he nodded and wrapped his hands around the warm mug that was passed to him. Mr. Melling proceeded to pour himself a mug and sink into one of the overstuffed wingback chairs that clustered around the hearth. “Have a seat, Mr. Dandon,” he said, pointing to the twin chair that faced him. The chair threatened to swallow Georgie as he settled into it and he noted with mild displeasure that, seated fully back against the chair, his feet barely skimmed the floor. He scooted forward.
The two sipped their tea quietly for a spell, Mr. Melling comfortable in the silence, Georgie looking for anything to occupy his thoughts. His chair faced the windows that looked out on the garden. He tried to steal a glimpse of Mrs. Melling without actually appearing to be looking for her.
“She’s probably up by the larch, if you’d like to pop up and say hello.”
Blast. “Oh, um, that’s all right. I — I don’t want to bother her,” Georgie stammered.
“As you wish,” Mr. Melling replied and returned to his tea. Georgie looked at his half-full mug and wished he hadn’t eaten such a big breakfast. C’mon mate, say something, finish your tea, then you can go.
“What’s the occasion, sir?” Mr. Melling’s eyes refocused as Georgie spoke. “For the cake. Is it your birthday?”
Mr. Melling laughed. Georgie liked his laugh. “Cor blimey boy, I should hope not! No, no,” he took a breath to calm his laughter. “No, it’s actually my son’s. Your mum’s a great woman, never forgets his birthday.”
His son? But…“I thought all your kids were at university,” Georgie said uncertainly.
“Well, it’s my boy Hayden’s birthday but,” he sighed, “he passed almost ten years ago now.”
What? Georgie processed Mr. Melling’s words as he stuttered out his condolences. He couldn’t remember anyone ever mentioning a Hayden, or even that the Mellings’s had a child who’d died. But then perhaps no one ever had a reason to. Ten years ago. That would’ve made Georgie five. As much as the subject made him uncomfortable — he didn’t know how to be sad for someone he’d never known — he still felt the need to ask: “How old was your son, sir?”
“He was ten. Such a curious boy.” Mr. Melling stood and lumbered over to a table situated behind the worn couch. He grinned as he picked up a silver picture frame, walked over and handed it to Georgie, and proceeded to fall back into his wingback chair. “That’s him a few months before he fell ill,” Mr. Melling explained. “I suppose you can’t remember as you were so young, but you boys were thick as thieves. You’d tail him up and around town. I think he fancied you the younger brother he never had. Came up with the most imaginative stories, you did. I remember one time you were playing in the garden…”
Georgie examined the picture in his hands and Mr. Melling’s words faded into the background like an old radio with the volume turned on low. The boy in the photo was younger than he was, with a face that would’ve strengthened with age. Freckles peppered his nose and cheekbones and his ashy hair fell into his eyes. He had a raucous smile, as though the photo had interrupted some wild adventure that could never wait. Life, perhaps, though Georgie couldn’t be certain. He stared harder at the photo, waiting for some flash of remembrance, of recognition for this boy he had known. None came. He should’ve remembered.
He noticed that Mr. Melling was silent. Georgie looked at him to see if an answer was expected, but the old man was smiling gently at the mug in his hands. Georgie realized then that he’d finished his own tea. Well, he supposed he could go then. Just say thanks for the tea, sir and get on with your day. He opened his mouth, “Er, would you mind me asking how your son — what he was ill with?” What are you doing? Of course he doesn’t want to talk about it, you bleedin’ git.
Mr. Melling coughed. “Well it may sound odd, but it was Lyme disease. He and Jessie — Mrs. Melling, that is — went for a day hike near Greendale, something they did nearly every year. When they returned Hayden began complaining of a rash on his arm and Jessie said she thought they must’ve hit a patch of stinging nettles since she was out of sorts as well. So we just left it alone.” He took a swig of his tea and continued, “Then a few weeks later, Jessie started having knee pain and then Hayden was having headaches and all of a sudden both of ’em were up and in the hospital. Jessie pulled through, with some trouble, but Hayden — well, it was just too much.” He eyed the silver frame that Georgie still clutched. “It’s not right for a parent to outlive their child, Mr. Dandon; I’m sure you’ll understand.”
And Georgie did understand, in theory, but having never been a parent, he couldn’t associate his understanding with any concrete emotion. Not all grief is the same. He noted the ease with which Mr. Melling had recounted the story, openly and without any resentment toward Georgie for having asked too many questions. Clearly, he had gotten over — no, that’s not something you get over — no, he’d learned how to cope with his son’s death. Georgie’s eyes flicked toward the garden. A thought occurred to him.
“Hayden, he picked spring gentian on that trip, didn’t he?”
Mr. Melling chortled softly. “I take it you’ve been talking to the Missus?”
“Yes, sir.”
He eyed Georgie for a second. “Yes, he did.” Then, he stood up. “Well, my dear boy, I suspect you’ve had enough of this glum talk. Go on, I’ll cut you loose then.” His eyes twinkled as he collected Georgie’s mug. Georgie stood and watched Mr. Melling carry the mugs to the sink. “Thank your mother for the cake,” he turned his head toward Georgie, “and thank you for your ears.”
Georgie nodded and turned towards the door. If he left now he could probably squeeze in an hour of telly before his mother drove him to his studies. Still, he paused in the kitchen archway and proceeded to turn back to Mr. Melling. “On second thought, sir, I think I ought to go tell Mrs. Melling hello.”
“Of course, Mr. Dandon, as you wish.”
The sun warmed the swath of Mrs. Melling’s arm that wasn’t shaded by the larch. She twitched the watering pot a bit more and the last exquisite drop of fertilizer fell onto the darkened patch of soil. She huffed out the breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. Perfect, they would be perfect. She clapped her hands together twice, staring at her handiwork with unassuming pleasure, all of the day’s remembrances flowing from her like tendrils of smoke, burying themselves beneath the ground.
The leaves of the larch shuttered and Mrs. Melling looked up, noting the Wilson’s petrel that stared down at her, its neck hidden underneath its puffed out feathers. She tipped her imaginary cap to it and abruptly started down the fell. She came upon the gentians that set the soil alight with violent blue. She knelt before them and, with little thought, reached her hand out and brushed over the small buds. She caressed the fullest of them, took it between her thumb and forefinger, and jerked. The snap of the breaking stem pulled Mrs. Melling’s lips into a sad smile.
“Mrs. Melling?” The voice was small and uncertain. She turned her head to the path downhill of her. Georgie stood there, gripping his elbows, his eyebrows pulled tight with hesitation and surprise with himself.
She stood and tucked the blue bud in the back pocket of her trousers. “Mr. Dandon?”
The boy’s eyes circled the garden around him. Then he focused back on her and his face held a newfound assurance. “Well, I wanted to stop up and say hullo and maybe…well, I thought maybe you could tell me some more about the flowers. Maybe I could help with something? Only for a bit of course,” he added with haste.
She beckoned him, “Come on up, then, we’ve got quite a lot to do.” Georgie hurried up the path to meet her. She looked back up the fell and smiled. He would never leave the garden. It was all she would believe.
