Tony had bought them at a garage sale. Some enthusiastic gardeners selling off plants they’d potted. No knowledge of what colour stems would appear a year later. Now amidst the border they stretched towards sunlight, giving bees the chance to buzz between them.
The flowers reminded him about trips west. The change from concrete to countryside. Where tractors squeezed you into hedgerows and grass tickled you through open windows. They hadn’t been for years.
‘Is it still there, Diane?’ A question answered with a search. Yes, it was, with the promise of warm Welsh cakes dripping with butter. He clicked book.
***
This time he used the sat nav. Diane sat with the map on her lap. That was familiar, as was the flask in the door and the foil wrapped sandwiches. Except this time the map pages didn’t turn as they whizzed past signs. And she didn’t sing about green grass when they crossed the white bridge. Or try to pronounce the wiggly words that made sense when you pronounced them English style.
Tony stopped at the services. Locking the car, just to be on the safe side. Everyone was either moving or eating. A flurry of motion. He liked to have sat with his tea and cheese sandwich but perhaps those lanes would help him.
Soon they’d get narrower once the junctions passed. There the foxgloves would tower above the overgrowth. Threading their scarlet blooms, hastening him on. Surely then she might remember?
They’d been so many times, and he’d booked the same room with the view of the pastures where the cattle lowed. And the sea winds blew over the cliffs with the vinegary tang of chips, and of laughing and watching families pass with ice creams, and waking up knowing you still had days left; that you could repeat it all over again.
Perhaps one moment, she’d pause and look at him. Properly look at him. His Diane. And she’d say something, something relevant, something even small like, ‘digitalis’.
The flowers reminded him about trips west. The change from concrete to countryside. Where tractors squeezed you into hedgerows and grass tickled you through open windows. They hadn’t been for years.
‘Is it still there, Diane?’ A question answered with a search. Yes, it was, with the promise of warm Welsh cakes dripping with butter. He clicked book.
***
This time he used the sat nav. Diane sat with the map on her lap. That was familiar, as was the flask in the door and the foil wrapped sandwiches. Except this time the map pages didn’t turn as they whizzed past signs. And she didn’t sing about green grass when they crossed the white bridge. Or try to pronounce the wiggly words that made sense when you pronounced them English style.
Tony stopped at the services. Locking the car, just to be on the safe side. Everyone was either moving or eating. A flurry of motion. He liked to have sat with his tea and cheese sandwich but perhaps those lanes would help him.
Soon they’d get narrower once the junctions passed. There the foxgloves would tower above the overgrowth. Threading their scarlet blooms, hastening him on. Surely then she might remember?
They’d been so many times, and he’d booked the same room with the view of the pastures where the cattle lowed. And the sea winds blew over the cliffs with the vinegary tang of chips, and of laughing and watching families pass with ice creams, and waking up knowing you still had days left; that you could repeat it all over again.
Perhaps one moment, she’d pause and look at him. Properly look at him. His Diane. And she’d say something, something relevant, something even small like, ‘digitalis’.
