Caradoc Jones rested his short, wiry frame against the handle of the fork whose prongs were sunk deep into the heavy clay. He surveyed his garden with something approaching pride. The pink and blue geraniums provided a splash of colour in the borders and the tomatoes were ripening in his small greenhouse. Even the noise of nearby traffic was reduced to an acceptable level by the hedge of privet that surrounded three sides of his garden in Cambrian Terrace, within spitting distance from the nearby motorway. But, the centrepiece of the garden was the rose that stood tall with a single striking golden and orange bloom. Its perfume lingered on Caradoc's senses long after he had gone inside his two-up two-down terraced house.
Up until a few months ago, and the diagnosis of angina, he would have enjoyed a cigarette as he rested. Now he chewed on a piece of gum that had long lost its flavour and reflected on the years that hopefully lay ahead. He had plans for this modest plot of land and retirement from the steel works had provided the time for him to achieve them. The garden would be turned into concentric swirls of colour radiating from the rose at its centre. Gardening catalogues had been scrutinised and online sites scoured for just the right combination of plants to pay homage to and enhance the rose's beauty.
Caradoc wore an old, faded pair of corduroy trousers and a threadbare blue checked shirt that he kept for gardening. The thinning grey hair on his head poked out from under his cap like steel wire. His dark brown eyes darted from spot to spot as if unsure where he should work next. Should he start from the rose and work outwards or start from the edges and work inwards? Each approach brought its own advantages and disadvantages. Once a decision was reached it would be difficult to turn back. He chewed hard on the gum and winced when he bit into his cheek. A faint iron taste warned him that it was bleeding slightly. The health hazard of gum he thought to himself ironically.
Slowly he detected a wind rustling through the hedgerow and his face sensed moisture in the air. A summer storm was coming, he thought. Time to put away the garden tools in the wooden shed and to go indoors for a brew.
From behind the safety of glass, Caradoc peered out from the window as a fierce gale blew across the plants. The geraniums and other bedding plants crouched close to the earth for safety. But the Peace Rose, high above them, took the full force. At first its stem bent and twisted in the wind. Caradoc held his breath. But finally the struggle was over and the stem snapped scattering the frail petals of the doomed flower across the clay ground. Even if the rose managed to survive it would never be the same.
Peace was destroyed.
About the author
Mike Everley has been writing for many years and has had poetry, short stories and articles published in numerous publications and online. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. Now, a silver scribbler, he devotes his time to creative writing.
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