The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Everybody have what they need now?” Mary asked, setting plates on the table before she sat down again.

  “Yes, plenty,” Fiona said.

  “I’ll have them window boxes replanted for you by Wednesday, lassie,” Alec said.

  “Will you really?” she asked, delighted. “All of them?”

  “Aye, the new plants are ready. I just have to take out the old ones and build up the soil a bit before I put them in. They’ll be bonny.”

  Fiona had never known anyone like Alec. He lived to garden. He needed to put his hands in the earth, to touch and cultivate green things as other people needed air. He loved his plants like children, fussing and laboring over them always, worrying if the leaves on one of his beloved rosebushes showed a spot of rust or mildew. Seamie adored him. They spent hours out in the backyard – the elderly man in his cap and tweed jacket, the little boy in short pants and a sweater – clearing weeds, turning manure into the flower beds, staking the rose canes, coddling the peonies.

  Once, as she was bustling past the shop’s rear door, which opened out onto the backyard, Fiona had glimpsed Seamie, his sweet freckled face luminous with wonder, observing a large iridescent butterfly that had perched on the back of his hand. The butterfly had suddenly flown off, leaving him to look longingly after it, stung by its defection. Fiona had wanted to run out and hug him and tell him to never mind, the butterfly would come back, but before she could, Alec went to him. He put a hand on Seamie’s shoulder and watched the beautiful creature fly away, explaining all the while how butterflies lived and migrated, how they helped pollinate flowers, how this one had taken pollen from their strong healthy lilac tree and would bring it to other lilacs to help them grow. Seamie had accepted his words without tears or anger, without asking if the butterfly would die. As they resumed their digging, Fiona had silently thanked Alec, a gardener who, it seemed, could cultivate all sorts of seedlings.

  As Seamie was telling Fiona the names of the plants that he and Alec had potted today, she heard the flat door open and close, followed by the sound of heavy shuffling footsteps in the hallway. It was Michael. Fiona felt a flash of anger, certain he was going to ask her for money. He didn’t usually come home from Whelan’s this early. He must be skint again.

  Mary flashed Fiona a look. “Do you think he’d join us?” she whispered.

  Fiona snorted. “Not unless you’re serving whiskey as well as steak pie,” she said. She had all but given up hope that her uncle would ever stop drinking.

  “How long has it been since he had a good meal? He should eat some proper food.”

  “I know it, Mary. I try. I always leave him a plate of leftovers. Sometimes he eats them, sometimes he doesn’t.”

  “You should ask him to come in.”

  “He won’t listen to me. He never does. You try.”

  “All right, I will. I’ll ask him.”

  “In this century or the next?” Alec grumbled.

  “Keep talking, normal-like,” Mary said. “He won’t come if he thinks we’re talking about him.”

  “Which we are,” Alec said.

  Fiona started talking again as if nothing unusual were going on. “I think new flowers will really freshen the windows,” she babbled. The heavy footsteps came closer. Michael hurried by the kitchen and passed into the parlor. “Can you imagine how pretty they’ll look with the lace curtains hanging above them? I hope you’ve got a lot of pink in the mix, Alec, and some nice sunny yellow ones and –”

  “Michael?” Mary called lightly. “Is that you?”

  After a few seconds of silence a gruff “Aye” was heard.

  “Are you hungry? I’ve made a steak-and-onion pie. There’s plenty here.”

  Fiona nodded her approval. Mary was doing well. She was coaxing a wary, wounded animal, one that was more likely to turn tail and run than lick the hand outstretched.

  Silence again. Then, “Steak and onion?”

  “Yes; come have a bit.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened in disbelief as she heard her uncle walk toward the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway, his cap in hand, and she struggled to keep her expression neutral. She felt both sorrow and anger when she looked at him. He was as skinny as a stray dog, at least thirty pounds thinner than in the picture Molly had sent them, yet his face looked as bloated as a drowned man’s. His hair was long and scraggly. His clothes were dirty. He was unshaven and smelled like a pub.

  “Hello, Michael,” Mary said, smiling. “Fancy a cup of tea with your pie?”

  “Aye,” he said quietly. “I would.”

  “Well, sit down. Here, between myself and Fiona. Ian, shove over a bit.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll eat in the other room.”

  “Don’t be silly. You can’t balance a plate and a cup of tea on your knees. Sit down.”

  Michael sat, not looking at any of them. Mary put a plate of food in front of him, along with a knife, fork, and napkin. Fiona poured him a cup of tea.

  “Thank you,” he said. He picked up his teacup with shaking hands and drank from it. “That’s a good cup of tea,” he added.

  “It’s the new one I bought from Millard’s,” Fiona said. “It’s from India.”

  Michael nodded. He looked at Fiona, lifted his chin slightly, and said, “I drink tea with me supper, not whiskey. Regardless of what some might think.”

  You’ve got a damn good pair of ears on you, Fiona thought. “Good for you,” she said. “Whiskey ruins the taste of food and Mary’s pie is so delicious. I’ve never had better.”

  “Oh, go on with you,” Mary laughed, feigning modesty.

  “It’s true, Mum,” Ian said. “Are there any more potatoes?”

  “Here you are.”

  “Pass me the gravy, too?”

  They were all playing a game. Acting nonchalant. Trying to pay Michael no mind. Ian put the gravy boat down and asked for the peas. Alec asked for another cup of tea. Seamie burped and Fiona told him to excuse himself. It was as if they were all following some prearranged cue, acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary, as if they all – Michael included – had been eating dinner together every night for the past twenty years. There would be no recrimination, no pleading, no censure. Both Mary and Fiona had tried those and failed. Just acceptance. A good meal. Company and conversation. Head down, painfully self-conscious, Michael looked as if that was more than he could hope for.

  Hoping to draw him into the conversation, Fiona asked him a question. “I was thinking it would be a good idea to put window guards in, Uncle Michael. Do you know where to go for them? I think we should have them in both flats.”

  “Window guards? What for?”

  “For Nell. She’ll be walking before long and you can’t be too careful.”

  As if hearing her cue, Nell piped up from her basket tucked beneath the kitchen window. Michael stiffened and put his fork down.

  Oh, Lord, he’s going to bolt, Fiona thought. She got up quickly, hoping to prevent it. “There’s our girl!” she said brightly, picking up her cousin. “Must’ve just woken up. How she can sleep through the commotion around here, I do not know.” She sat down again with the baby on her lap. “Can she have some potato?” she asked Mary.

  “Yes. And a little bread with gravy. Just make sure she doesn’t get any onion. She’s not fond of it.”

  Alec asked if Mary had saved the potato peelings for his compost pile. Ian and Seamie made faces at each other. Fiona spooned potato into Nell. And Michael sat as still as death, his meal forgotten, his eyes rooted on his child.

  “Can I hold her?” he suddenly asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  Fiona passed the baby to him. He pushed his chair back and took his daughter. Fiona saw the emotion on his face and knew he was thinking of Molly. Don’t run away, she pleaded silently. Stay with her.

  “Eleanor Grace,” he said, his voice quavering. “What a pretty lass you are.”

  Nell sat cradled in her father’s gaunt arms, her eno
rmous blueberry eyes intent upon his face. Her forehead puckered. “Bah, bah, dah!” she suddenly declared.

  Michael looked up, incredulous. “She said Da!” he exclaimed. “She said Da! She knows me!”

  “Yes, she did. She does know you,” Fiona said, knowing full well Nell said bah or dah to everything.

  “Dah! Dah!” the baby crowed, bouncing in his lap.

  Good girl, Nell, keep it up, Fiona silently urged her. She glanced at Mary, who was nearly beside herself. With a trembling hand, Michael touched his daughter’s cheek. Nell latched on to his thumb and gummed it.

  “Looks so like her mother,” he said. “So like Molly.” And then he put his hand over his face and started to weep. Great tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped onto Nell’s dress. Sobs wrenched themselves out of his chest. His grief came out of him fast and hard, like summer rains in a desert, flooding the defenses he’d erected to keep it back. His anger and bitterness crumbled; he had only his sorrow now and it overwhelmed him.

  “Lord God, what a lot of fuss over a bairn,” Alec muttered.

  Mary shot her father-in-law a look. “That’s right, Michael lad,” she soothed, “you have a good cry. It’s high time you did. There’s no shame in crying over a woman like Molly. You just let it out. It’ll do you a world of good.”

  “I wish she was here, Mary,” he said, his voice hitching. “I wish she could see Nell.”

  Mary nodded. She took his hand and squeezed it. “She is, Michael. She can.”

  Chapter 32

  “You checked the back door?” Ed Akers asked as Joe shuttered and padlocked his pitch.

  “Aye.”

  “And the peaches? They’re up ’igh where the mice can’t get at them?”

  “Aye. Cherries, too. I’ve seen to it all, Ed.”

  “Good lad,” Ed said, patting Joe on the back. “ ’Ere, ’ere’s something extra for you.” Joe thanked him. “Don’t mention it. Stall’s doing better than ever since you started. Could sell sand on a beach, you. Well, I guess that’s it, then. Avoided the missus and ’er pack of demons all day, but I’ll ’ave to go ’ome sometime, won’t I?”

  Joe smiled. “There’s no ’elp for it,” he said. Ed was in his forties and had twelve children. He loved to complain about his wife and kids – Mrs. Akers and all her pains, he called them. He loved to go on about the racket they made, the hell they raised, what a plague they were, how they took all his money, but every night when he went home, he always had a parcel tucked under his arm filled with cherries, strawberries, or broken biscuits he’d got cheap from the baker’s stall. It was an act, his complaining, but Joe pretended to go along with it for form’s sake.

  “Aye, no ’elp at all,” Ed repeated, nodding. Joe waited for him to go, but Ed was stalling. He rattled the padlock, looked up at the night sky, predicted a clear and mild June Sunday, then awkwardly said, “Listen, it’s none of my business, but why don’t you take some of the brass I gave you and go down the pub? Enjoy yourself a bit? You shouldn’t be alone so much, a young lad like yourself.”

  “Maybe some other time. I’m knackered tonight,” Joe said. “I’m going to feed Baxter, give ’im a good brushing, and turn in early.”

  Ed sighed. “Suit yourself, then.”

  “I will. Night, Ed. See you Monday.”

  “Night, lad.”

  Joe walked west. Three streets away was a row of stables that some of the stall owners used to house their horses and carts. One of these belonged to Ed, who allowed Joe to sleep in the hayloft. Ed liked that he was there to keep an eye on things and Joe liked that he didn’t have to pay to sleep with strangers in a verminous lodging house.

  Ever since he’d left his and Millie’s home, six weeks ago, he’d been living rough, barely eating, doing odd jobs around Covent Garden as he could find them. One day, hungry and weak, he’d stumbled and fallen outside a pub. A friendly pair of hands had helped him up. To his surprise, and his shame, it was Matt Byrne, a lad from Montague Street who worked in Covent Garden now. Matt recognized him and asked what had happened to him. Over the pub meal Matt insisted on buying for him, Joe told him his marriage was over and he was on his own. He was having difficulty finding a proper job, he said, because Tommy Peterson had put the word out not to hire him. Bristling, Matt told him to go see his friend Ed Akers, who was looking for help. Ed was his own man, he said. Peterson didn’t own everyone in Covent Garden. Not yet he didn’t.

  It wasn’t much, his new job – just selling and delivering produce to costers and small shops – and it was quite a comedown from his former position at Peterson’s, but it was better than starving and he was grateful for it. He’d bought two blankets from a secondhand stall and made a bed for himself in the hayloft. He got his meals from tuckshops and bathed once a week in the public baths. It was a grim arrangement, but it suited him. It gave him the means to keep himself and it allowed him to be alone at night, and solitude was something he craved now.

  A group of loud, boisterous factory girls in their Saturday-night finery passed him. One smiled at him. He looked away. Behind them, a young couple strolled, holding hands. He hurried his pace. Joe hadn’t been honest with Ed. He wasn’t tired. He just couldn’t stand to be around people anymore. It hurt him to see a happy courting couple, to hear the laughter of factory girls. He had been like them once – merry, optimistic, eager for whatever the day brought. Now, everyone he touched, he hurt. Everything he touched turned to shit.

  He ducked into a tuckshop and bought a sausage roll. The place was only a hole in the wall, but it did have two grotty tables and the girl behind the counter, a pretty brunette with a sweet smile, invited him to sit and eat for once instead of always rushing out. He tersely declined and left, eager to get to the stable where he knew there wouldn’t be a soul but himself – only Baxter and an old black tomcat who liked to curl up next to him as he slept.

  There was no moon out, only stars, and it took him a minute to fumble his key into the lock. Once inside, he felt for the lantern he knew to be hanging to the left of the door and the box of matches next to it. “ ’Ello, Baxter!” he called. “Who’s a lovely boy, then?”

  Baxter, a chestnut gelding, whinnied from his stall. Joe hung the lantern from a peg on a wooden post and walked over to scratch the horse’s ears. Baxter mumbled at Joe’s jacket pocket with his soft, whiskered lips.

  “No sausage rolls for you, old son. They say it’s pork, but I ’ave me doubts. Could be one of yours in there and that would make you a cannibal. That’s a capital offense, Bax. You’d be ’anged for certain and then where would we be? ’Ere, ’ave these instead.” He pulled two carrots out of his trouser pocket and fed them to the horse. Then he led the animal out of his stall and let him stand where he liked. There was no need to tie him; Baxter was a gentleman.

  As the horse stood blinking his large black eyes, Joe brushed him, using firm, rhythmic strokes, moving from his neck over his back to his haunches. When his coat was gleaming, he teased the knots out of his mane with his fingers. Baxter would’ve been fine without the carrots or the brushing, but Joe told himself the horse needed the pampering to stay good-tempered and tractable. In fact, it was he who needed this nightly routine. He needed to care for a living creature, to nurture something as a way of filling up the empty aching void within himself, as a way of taking his mind off all the pain he’d caused.

  With Baxter out of his stall, Joe cleaned out the soiled hay, put fresh hay down, then poured oats into the trough. The horse, smelling his supper, trotted back into his pen without complaint. Joe bade him good night, then took his lantern and made his way upstairs to the hayloft and his own bed.

  The loft was nothing but a plank floor under a pitched roof, but it was well-built, with loophole doors at the front that shut tightly, and it kept both wind and water off him. He took his jacket off and laid it neatly on top of the hay bale that served as his bureau. Then he pulled a flask from his back pocket, unscrewed the cap, and poured it contents – rich, creamy
milk – into a chipped bowl at the top of the stairs. The torn kept late hours – Joe had never seen him come in – but he was always there in the morning, nestled in the crook of his knees. Joe made sure he always had milk for him and the cat repaid his kindness by keeping the mice down.

  After he’d eaten, he stripped down to his underwear, fluffed the hay under his horse blanket, then bedded down to read his newspaper. When he finished, he snuffed the lantern and pulled his other blanket over him. He lay quietly, knowing it would be ages before he slept. Distant sounds of laughter and singing carried up from a nearby pub. He felt so alone, so utterly isolated. The knowledge that a short walk could bring him to a bright, jovial taproom full of weekend merrymakers only served to reinforce his loneliness. He could no longer laugh or smile. He was too haunted by what he’d done. Broken by remorse.

  Once, when he was little, perhaps ten or so, two of his mates had had to go in early from a game of football on a Saturday evening to go to confession. He asked what that meant and they told him they had to tell the priest their sins and say they’re sorry for them, and then they could go to heaven. Joe had wanted to go with them. He wanted to go to heaven, too, but they said he couldn’t. Only Catholics could and he was a Methodist. He’d run into his house, upset. His Granny Wilton, who had minded him and his siblings while his parents worked the Saturday-night market, asked what was wrong.

  “I’m going to ’ell for my sins because I can’t tell God I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Who told you that?” she’d asked.

  “Terry Fallon and Mickey Grogan.”

  “Don’t pay them no mind,” she said. “It’s nothing but a lot of mumbo jumbo. Them Papists can mumble ’ail Marys till the cows come ’ome. Won’t make one bit of difference. We’re not punished for our sins, lad. We’re punished by them.”