Short Stories

© Wendy Noble 2004

David Simpson was confident, this was the year he would beat William Norris.  Although he had never met the man, he had long admired his work.  This year, Norris would have to take second place.  David had the champion rose growing in his front yard.  It was perfect: long-stemmed, no thorns, beautiful perfume and glorious colour.  Three days before the competition it was at just the right stage; not too open, not too closed.  By Saturday afternoon, all his vigilant care would be rewarded.

David loved his roses.  Since his retirement they had become his obsession. He had competed in the Fairdale Rose Show for the past five years, but the best he had achieved were two honourable mentions and a third. William Norris was Champion every single time.

As he stood admiring the beautiful blooms, he glanced across the street at his new neighbours.  He quickly ducked his head down, pretending he didn’t see the man leaning on his gate, staring back at him.  It wasn’t the first time David had caught the man gawking. Didn’t the fellow have anything better to do?  David had no time for the interlopers across the street.  Whenever he saw the fellow out in the yard, which wasn’t often, the chap looked unshaven and decidedly unsteady on his feet.  By the look of him, he had a drinking problem. David thought the lazy sod ought to be ashamed of himself. His poor little wife looked like all the joy had been sucked out of her. Only the two children seemed to have any spirit in them.

His yard was immaculately tidy: paths swept, lawn-edges trim, weeds non-existent, roses glorious. Theirs was unkempt: buffalo grass running rampant, messy fiddle-wood tree in one corner, upturned tricycle in the driveway.

David had worked hard all his life.  Now he was retired, he poured the same energy into maintaining his beautiful garden.  He kept himself well-groomed, even wearing a tie while pruning the roses.  Just because he was now a man of leisure, it didn’t mean he should let himself go.  But his neighbour, leaning on the gate over there, made no effort whatsoever.

Despite the attention of his seedy neighbour, David didn’t let it ruin his good mood.  He bent his head to the glory in front of him and inhaled the sweet aroma. In words reminiscent of his childhood, he reminded himself there were only three more sleeps until the big day.

After breakfast the next morning, he went to check on his treasure.  At first he couldn’t believe his eyes.  His beauty, his gold-medal winner was gone! The stalk was neatly snipped, halfway down.  He stood, rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fists.  Someone was going to pay for this!

All that day he lay in wait, keeping surveillance through the lace curtains in his lounge-room window.  Surely the thief would return for more?  He didn’t go to bed until after midnight, setting the alarm for five o’clock.  At the first sound of its shrill call he leapt out of bed.  Dressed and clutching a thermos of strong coffee, he once more settled in to wait.

David’s vigilance paid off. At about seven thirty, he saw a slight figure stealthily climb over his front fence and creep up to the damaged rose bush.  He raced out of his front door exclaiming, “Aha! I have you, you dirty little thief!”

There was the neighbour’s boy, standing frozen in place like a rabbit caught in a spot-light.  He turned to run, but David grabbed him. “Oh no you don’t.”

Ignoring the boy’s frantic pleas, David marched him across the street.  “We’ll see what your mother has to say about this.”

When she answered the door, although surprised to see David standing there, she said, “Good morning. Won’t you come in?”

At first David softened. He saw her tired, sad eyes; saw the heavy droop of her shoulders.  But then, he looked behind her and saw her husband.  Not even eight o’clock and already he was ensconced in his recliner chair, feet up and head back.  And there! On a side-table, in all its glory, was his pride and joy.  All pity fled.  Pointing a trembling finger at his beauty he cried, “That’s my rose!”

“Yes,” said the woman, “and we’re so very grateful.  Please come in.  I’m Rosemary, you’ve met Scotty and this is my husband, Bill.  And you are…?”

“David Simpson,” he mumbled.  Bewildered by this unexpected reaction, he followed her into the living-room.  She continued, “You’ll have to excuse Bill for not getting up. He’s not having a good day, today.”

Their daughter walked in, carrying a glass of water with exaggerated care.  She handed it to her father saying, “There Daddy. I didn’t spill a drop.”  Bill opened a packet of panadeine forte and popped two out onto the palm of his hand.  He took the glass from his daughter and washed down the tablets with a mouthful of water.

“This is our daughter, Sherry,” Rosemary explained.  Addressing the children she said, “You two better run along now and finish getting ready for school.  Let Daddy and me have some time on our own with our visitor.”  Young Scott needed no encouragement to leave.  He backed out of the room, pleading with his eyes for mercy from David.

“I was in a bad accident earlier this year,” said Bill.  “Wrote the car off. Lucky to be alive.  I’m still pretty wobbly on my pins.  You’ve probably noticed that.  Some days are better than others.”

“Bill will never fully recover,” said Rosemary.  “We sold our home and moved here, because it’s a smaller house and yard. It’s easier for us to manage.  The real shame was leaving our beautiful garden.  It was Bill’s pride and joy.”

Bill nodded. “ Just not up to it physically anymore.  I decided if I couldn’t do it to the standard I wanted, it would be better not to do it at all.  The decider for us, when looking at this place, was the beautiful view.  We love your garden; especially your roses.  Just being able to gaze at them gives me a lot of pleasure.”

“Bill won prizes for his roses.”

“Now, Rosemary, our friend here doesn’t need to hear that.”

“Well it’s true.”

Bill blushed and waved his hand, as if trying to sweep away his embarrassment.  Rosemary asked,” Do you ever show your roses, Mr Simpson?”

David nodded.  He had a growing sense of unease.  He had totally misjudged these people.  Looking around the room, he could see it was clean and tidy.  There were photographs of the family on the mantelpiece.  In a corner cabinet he saw a collection of trophies.

Rosemary noticed where he was looking. “They’re some of the trophies Bill has won in the last ten years.  Five of them are for Champion at the Fairdale Rose Show.”

With a start, David turned to Bill.  “What did you say your name was?”

“Bill. Bill Norris. Why?”

David was too stunned to answer.

“I must say,” continued Bill, “I was very surprised when Scotty said you’d given me that rose.  By the look of it, you’ve got a real champion there.  I reckon it would have done really well in this year’s show.  Do you intend entering?”

“Yes, I’ve already signed up.”

“Good.  You should do well, if your other blooms are of similar standard.  You know, it meant a lot to me that you’d send me one of your best.”

“Don’t mention it.  Glad you like it.”

“So Mr Simpson,” said Rosemary, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is there a particular reason for your visit?”

“Oh, er, not really.  Just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood.  See if there’s anything you need. That sort of thing.”

“That’s very kind. How about a cup of tea?”

Later, while Rosemary walked the children to school, the two men spent the time getting to know each other talking roses and discovering other interests in common.  When Bill was obviously exhausted, David went home surprisingly content.

He still entered the show with his second best rose, and came home with third prize.  However, this time he wasn’t crushed by the disappointment.  He and Bill already had plans for the following year.  They would make an unbeatable team.  And he had the feeling that a victory shared would be even sweeter.

THE END

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