Jingling Silver Bells, Evelyn J. Steward [e book reader .txt] 📗

Jingling Silver Bells

She looked at the stems dancing in the wind, bowing over almost to the ground. They were delicate blooms alright, it had said so on the packet, but they were pretty. Large petals that fell to look like skirts below and bell shapes above the centre They were so unusual, she had never seen them before. The colours varied but were all in pastel hues. On the whole, Mary liked the look of them, if it weren't for the wind flattening the stems!
She got up off her knees. It was getting harder and harder. Old age! I'm getting too old for this, she told herself. A few steps nearer the cottage she stopped to glance at a bare patch of ground. Hmm! That needs covering, she thought. Making her way back up to the shed, she got out the bag of crushed shells. The Summer bulbs would look better with a mulch when they broke the surface. There was a fishery a few miles down the coast that had oyster and cockle beds. They sold a lot of the shellfish cleaned and so the shells were ground and sold for mulch. A thriving sideline they had told her when they delivered her sack. Living along the coast, it was almost obligatory to mulch with shell rather than with bark or, God forbid, peat. Peat was definitely a no go these days.
Mary took a small bucketful from the sack and was about to wander back to the bare patch when Bob, her neighbour popped up on the other side of the fence.
"Mornin' Mary. How are you today?" His white hair almost took off in the high breeze. It was usually so immaculate with a quiff at a jaunty angle. Mary secretly liked Bob but she would never disclose that fact to him. He had been widowed some ten years ago and it had taken him a long time to get over the loss of his wife. Now he seemed at peace with his life. He pottered in his garden, which was well groomed but not immaculate. He kept a corner for the wild things 'as Nature intended' he often told her.
"None the better for wasting time talking to you," her joints were playing up and it made her crotchety.
"Now, now, Mary. Put a smile on that face. You'll feel all the better for it."
"Perhaps!" she relented dubiously, then marched off, her back as ramrod stiff as she could make it. Bob stared after her staccato movements. 'I wish she would be more friendly' he thought. Knowing it was her way, he wasn't annoyed, just wistful. Going back to his own jobs, he left Mary to her own devices. She did not like to be watched he had found that out the hard way.
The broken shells made a light mulch that brightened the corner as well as providing cover to save water. The cliff top where she lived caught the winds more often than not and the soil dried out terribly. She had enough left to spread beneath the bluebells, though they were 'going over' now. A late bloomer had opened up. It was much lighter than the others. White, or rather more like silver, she thought. Taking a small stick, she marked it down for removal once it had bloomed, perhaps to one of the tubs. If she had bluebells, she wanted blue bells, but she would not throw it out just because it was a rogue.
Again her knees crackled as she got up with a slowness she despised. I am old, she decided. Her facial looks belied her seventy three years though. A lifetime of pottering in one garden or another had given her great satisfaction. She loved plants, she loved the birds that sang in her trees and those that dropped onto the table where she spread seeds and fat in Winter. The wind chimes sang in the trees, tinkling away like liquid music She loved the Summer buzzing of bees and other insects droning away amongst flowers, grasses and bushes. They brought a calming peace as she listened to them going about their business of collecting pollen and sap, or just generally living. She wished for that kind of peace in her own life but never seemed to quite achieve it. Oh, she was happy enough but not quite contented.
Bob was still in the garden a little later when she brought out a cup of tea for them both, setting the tray on the picnic table beneath the fragrant honeysuckle just coming into blossom. "Come on in Bob," she offered, "have some tea and biscuits. I brought Bourbon, I know you like those.!"
Bob's eyes lit up. "Tea, Mary? I would love some. Be round in a jiffy."
Mary had never invited him round, not since his wife had died. Not appropriate, Mary had told herself.
Bob rushed to the rose bed and cut six long-stemmed blooms. Not red. Too much like blood. But a beautiful orange that glowed in the sunlight. As fast as he could go, he went inside, washed his hands, wrapped the stems in gold paper (he had some ready for just such an occasion) and stepped quickly round to the side of Mary's house, on into her back garden. Beside the small house the breeze disappeared and warm sunshine bathed the patch of grass where the table stood. Two wooden chairs awaited the pair.
"For you!" he exclaimed, passing over the bunch of flowers..
"No need for fripperies Bob!" But she was flattered.
They drank tea, ate biscuits and chatted easily. It was Bob's dream of late. Secretly it had also been a dream Mary encompassed but knew not how to go about making it come true. From now on their friendship could mature into something more meaningful. If only I could stop being contrary, she thought.

© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward December, 2001.

Words 983

Publication Date: 11-11-2010

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