ROSE RED
- A short story
by
Vera Rothwell -
Vera Rothwell -
G'day folks,
Today, I offer you a wonderful short story. It was written by one of my biggest supporters who is attending a writer's group here in Australia. Vera is a great admirer of my 'Gunnedah Series' of books. I reckon her story is great.
The smell of the red roses
that her mother loved was almost overpowering.
The church was full of them, sent or brought by the many people who
loved and respected her mother. Who owed her!
Sherilyn wondered if anyone had actually passed out
through being overcome by roses.
Personally she preferred a perfect white rose, but her mother had always
surrounded herself with the red. It was
“her” flower.
It was hard to concentrate on what was being said. She hadn’t come to terms with her mother’s
death, didn’t know where to start to do so.
She felt grief, yes of course she did; but she also felt resentment, a
resentment that had been with her most of her life.
She thought back to the years when her mother, father and
she had been a happy family. Her mother
and father had loved each other and both had adored her. She had always felt happy and loved, with her
parents guiding her through her early years.
It all went horribly wrong when her father was killed by a drunk driver
when she was only seven.
Her father had left them well provided for, so money was
not a problem. Her mother had no need to
go and find a job where Sherilyn would have been left to her own devices after
school, no, she could stay home and life could go on almost like before. Almost.
But it didn’t.
Because she was only seven years old at the time,
Sherilyn could not comprehend the enormous hole left in her mother’s life. When Sherilyn was at school during the day,
her mother needed to find something to do with her time, or she thought she
would go crazy with grief and loss. So
she started out helping at the local women’s refuge. From there she added abused children, then
homeless people then more and more causes to fill the days. Then all these good works started to spill
over into what Sherilyn considered “their” time.
“I’ll be late home today darling; your dinner will be in
the fridge. Don’t wait up for me” became
a familiar phrase. There were fetes,
cake stalls, fundraising dinners, quiz nights – Sherilyn lost count of the
number of good causes that her mother supported.
Of course everyone else thought her mother was a
saint. She could never say “no” if
someone asked her to help out.
“What about me?” Sherilyn would think, as once more she
reheated her dinner in the microwave.
She would have loved her mother to be home more and listen to her
problems, or ask about her day, as they chatted over dinner.
The church was full – people were standing at the back as
every pew was filled. All of the people
that her mother had helped and touched in some way had come to pay their
respects. There was so many, Sherilyn
thought helplessly. “All these people
had a piece of my mother’s life that I didn’t” she thought. “They probably knew her better than I did in
the end”.
The service seemed interminable. Sherilyn hardly heard the words being
spoken. She had opted not to give her
own tribute, instead having the minister read her words for her. She had spent hours trying to find the right
words to express her feelings about her mother and her sense of loss, but in
the end had settled for the usual trite phrases about grief and leaving a hole
in her life. It seemed inadequate to
express the void that opened before her, but it would have to do.
Finally the service was over, and, as her mother had
wanted to be buried next to her husband, the congregation continued on to the
local cemetery. Sherilyn had never been
spooked by the cemetery like some of her friends, because her father was there
she thought of it as a peaceful place to rest for eternity. The day was fine and sunny, which in itself
seemed wrong – surely dull skies and rain were more suited to such an
occasion. That the birds sang and the
flowers added an incongruous touch of gaiety, only added to the sense of
unreality which Sherilyn felt.
That shield of unreality was finally torn away from her
as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the grave and she was invited to throw
a red rose down to rest on the coffin.
Sherilyn looked down at her mother’s coffin and was overwhelmed by the
finality of it all.
“Mum” she thought,
“I need you so much, I always have, why aren’t you here for me?” Her mother’s
voice sounded in her head “Sherilyn, you know I had to go, you father needed me
too, and it was time”.
Sherilyn had no idea how she got through the rest of the
endless day. After the graveside service,
afternoon tea was served at her mother’s house.
The long French windows were open, allowing the pleasant breeze to waft
inside carrying the smell of her mother’s precious red roses. Sherilyn remembered asking her mother why she
didn’t plant some other flowers.
“But darling” her mother had replied, “roses are the
queen of all flowers, don’t you agree?”
Sherilyn had then argued about perhaps planting other colours of rose,
such as her own favourite, the white.
“They don’t have the same smell as the red ones” her mother said, and
that was that.
Finally the last good-bye was said, the last awkward hug
exchanged, and Sherilyn collapsed onto her favourite lounge chair, waiting for
the catering staff she had engaged for the afternoon to finish cleaning up and
leave. At last they too were gone and
Sherilyn was alone for the first time – really alone, she thought.
“I’m an orphan” she thought to herself in some surprise. “Orphan conjures up the thought of Oliver
Twist, not a twenty eight year old woman, but orphan I am”.
She wandered out into the garden, trying to find some
place where she could quiet her mind, but the red roses only made it
worse. She went back inside and looked
at the clock – nearly six. She didn’t
feel like dinner, although she had hardly touched any of the afternoon
tea. She poured herself a glass of
chilled white wine and stared into the glass.
“What happens next?” she said aloud. She sank down again into the lounge chair and
sipped at her wine. Suddenly the grief
struck her and the tears started rolling down her face. “Oh Mum, Mum, I need you so much” she said, “Why aren’t
you here for me?” she repeated her thought from the graveside. Once again she could swear she heard her
mother’s voice in her head. “Darling, I’ll always be here for you”.
Numbly Sherilyn wondered if she was going mad, hearing
her mother’s voice in her head. How
could she be “here for her” when she had just seen her lowered into her grave? She decided to go upstairs and try to get some
sleep, which had been avoiding her over the previous few days. She walked into her bedroom and stopped dead
in her tracks.
There, lying on her crisp linen pillowcase, was one perfect
white rose.
Clancy's comment: Many thanks, Vera. Great build up and fantastic finish. If you were in my class, I'd smile at you and say three words I've become famous for, "Love ya work!"
I'm ...
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