would now wither and die within the hour. Mark tucked the cutting into his button-hole and lifted his lapel to inhale the scent; satisfied, he bent again and with great deliberation removed a second flower. Turning to his wife, he held out his hand, presenting her with the gift.
‘Amor vitae meae.’ His voice was low and clipped.
Love of my life. Kathryn didn’t lift her eyes from the ground, but took the proffered flower between her thumb and forefinger. Mark placed his index finger under her chin and raised her face until she looked him in the eye.
‘That’s better, my wonderful wife. Now I can see your lovely face properly. What do you say?’ he prompted. ‘What do you say for the gift of a rose?’
‘Thank you,’ she offered in a whisper.
He lowered her head and kissed the top of her scalp.
‘Oh my God, you two lovebirds, get a room!’
Their fifteen-year-old daughter mimed retching as she walked past, weighed down beneath a rucksack full of books. Her skinny legs appeared to dangle in their black tights, and her long, dark hair was full of knots and styling product; again, the correct look of the day, and not to be remarked on.
It amused Kathryn to see how far the children would go to push the limits of ‘acceptable uniform wearing’. To the untrained eye, even with a sleeve rolled up, a tie in an unconventional knot or a pair of non-regulation tights, all the pupils looked identical. No matter how scruffily they dressed or how they slouched and swore, they couldn’t shake the stamp of privilege and the whiff of money that followed in their designer-styled wake.
Kathryn ignored her daughter’s comment.
‘Are you home for supper, Lydia, or have you got art club?’
‘Dunno. I’ll let you know.’
‘Okay, darling. Fine. Have a great day. And please make sure you eat lunch.’
‘I’ll walk with you, Lyds. Hang on a mo, I just need to fetch my case.’
Mark was happy for the opportunity to catch up with his little girl. His hectic schedule meant time alone with either of their children was precious.
‘No, please don’t, Dad. I’m meeting Phoebe and it is just too uncool to arrive at lessons with you.’
‘Uncool? I’ve never heard anything like it!’ He feigned hurt. ‘I’m a very hip and happening dad, I’ll have you know!’ He laughed at her scorn.
‘Oh my God, please shut up! If you were either of those things then you would know not to say “hip” and “happening” for a start! You are both so embarrassing, firstly snogging in public and then trying to be my mate; it is just so cringey! Why can’t I have normal parents? Just for once I’d like a boring mum and dad like everyone else’s, ones that didn’t make everything so awkward!’
Her mother interjected. ‘It was hardly snogging, Lydia.’
No one heard her.
The head and his daughter disappeared around the corner. The echo of their playful banter drifted back in fragmented syllables, interspersed with squeals; it was all jolly good fun. Kathryn tucked in her lips and bit down hard.
Left alone in the garden to continue with her chores, Kathryn wondered what it must be like to have a place that you needed to get to – an office, a shop, a classroom – and what it might be like to be the kind of person that people would miss if you disappeared.
Aware of the flower in her hand, she squeezed the rose until the sap dripped from the petals and ran down her wrist, its heady perfume offering her a few seconds of joy. It wilted in the middle of her scrunched-up palm. Walking to the flower bed, where its siblings and cousins stood proud and tall, she scooped out a handful of soil, placed the rose in the hole, and buried it.
With her hands now free and wiped clean on her apron, she turned her attention to the laundry. She secured one corner of the sheet, then pulled the other end taut and fastened it with another wooden dolly peg.
The peg was one of a set that she had owned for ever, possibly since she was a little girl. She didn’t know for certain when they had been passed on to her, but she knew they came from her mother’s pantry. She could clearly picture the metal box in which they had been kept, with its image of straight-backed, marching toy soldiers on the lid. Her mother had in turn been given them by her own mother. For some