Two Bouquets for Mother
The favourite spot of little Jack Harrington in the house was the wardrobe. A huge, ancient, darkbrown wardrobe that stood in the corner of the parents bedroom. Its doors, far too heavy for Jacks small hands, creaked and groaned with a strained sigh each time they were opened. Inside he tucked his modest toys a teddy bear with a torn ear, a clown in a massive blueandred cap that his mother had given him for Christmas, and a horse. Yes, a horse.
The horse had once been black, its mane the colour of a ravens wing. Over the years the black plastic cracked and faded where the sun had baked it, but the mane remained almost whole. Jack loved the horse and would often bring it a sprig of grass.
The wardrobe was Jacks secret world, his very own Narnia, where true wonders unfolded: the clown became a knight riding the trusty steed, defending a lovely princess from a wicked bear. What happened after the clownknight claimed victory, Jack never quite figured out, for in the most exciting moments of the game his grandmother would begin to call.
Jack was oddly frightened of his grandmother, Eleanor. Her hands were always grimy and knotted from days spent mending and gardening while his parents were at work. Her face was lined, like freshly ploughed fields in spring, and her voice was sharp and loud, much like their dog, Rex, who lived outdoors all year in a kennel and, after a cold spell, barked hoarsely and intermittently.
Jack felt great pity for Rex, especially in winter when a raging February wind threatened to tear shutters from their hinges and a fierce snowdrift buried the kennel almost completely. One especially frigid night, the boy slipped out of the house in his flannel pajamas dotted with bears, his socks still on, and crept through the snow to rescue the dog. Halfway, Jack heard his mothers urgent voice and his grandmothers angry shouts. Susan, his mother, stood in the doorway, a knapsack slung over her shoulder, gazing into the darkness and calling:
Jack, where are you?
Behind her, Eleanor barked:
Come back, you mischievous boy! Where have you gone, fool! All because of your wandering father, that clueless old soul!
Clueless father was rarely at home his work was deemed too important. Jack didnt quite understand what a longhaul driver was, but he knew it meant something bigger than him. George, his father, visited rarely, gave a brief pat on the shoulder, asked how are you, and then retired to bed.
Eleanor called him longhaul granny, while Susan brushed it aside:
Dont worry, love, well manage! Youre my little treasure, already a big boy. Look what I have for you. Its your fathers pocket watch, just like an adults. Hell come home when the little and big hands meet at the bottom and the date window shows 12. Remember? Keep it safe.
Jack was immensely proud to own his fathers pocket watch, feeling grownup. Yet he felt awkward watching his friend Freddie bounce about with his own father on Sunday mornings, each holding fishing rods his father with a hefty spinning rod, Freddie with a tiny rod and a bucket that never caught anything worthwhile.
Even sixyearold Mabel, whom Jack honestly thought a bit slow because she still couldnt read, unlike him who at five could loudly read shop signs like Pharmacy and Optician (though he didnt entirely grasp the difference), proudly rode her fathers white Ford Escort to the market every Sunday.
Jack dreamed that one day George would seat him beside him in the great lorry he drove, and they would head off together on mens business. But on those rare days when George was home, he was never in the mood for Jack: they argued with Susan. Susan would weep, Eleanor would scold, George would slam doors and step outside to smoke. The little boy hid in his beloved wardrobe, clutching his faithful teddy bear, and wept. True men, of course, do not weep, but neither the teddy nor the clown would ever tell. It remained a secret between Jack and his toys.
That day happened to be Susans birthday. Jack raced home from the yard when suddenly he stopped. On the pavement opposite, he saw his father holding a young woman in a red dress by the elbow. She laughed, and in Georges hand glimmered a bouquet of roses so large and beautiful it stole Jacks breath.
For Mother! the thought flashed through his mind. Todays Mothers Day! It must be for her! His heart fluttered with joy.
That evening Susan and Eleanor set the table for celebration: fragrant potatoes fresh from the oven, a clear jelly wobbling in its mould, crisp pickles from the cellar, and a huge cake adorned with pink roseshaped cream. In fact one rose was missing from the cake; Jack had taken it earlier, unable to resist. When the guests finally sat, George returned, this time bearing a bouquet of modest white chrysanthemums wrapped in grey paper. Susans face lit up; she hugged his neck and, like a little girl, laughed with delight.
Jack swallowed hard, his mouth dry, wanting to ask where the first roses had gone. But he looked at his mother, radiant in a new pink dress that suited her perfectly, cheeks flushed with either joy or the dances heat, and he kept his mouth shut.
Later he sat in his dark wardrobe, among the teddy and the clown, twirling his fathers pocket watch on his wrist. Once an important, adult, magical thing, its hands now lay still, lifeless. He gave it a few futile shakes, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, yet he did not cry this time. Suddenly it seemed clear: crying would change nothing. He was no longer that little boy waiting for his father on the road.
Jack placed the watch on the shelf between the teddy and the clown and gently closed the wardrobe doors. From then on his Narnia held no more miracles.
In the next room Susan sang softly while unwrapping presents. Jack approached, embraced her at the waist, and felt her shiver.
Im with you, Mother, he whispered, firm and sure. Ill always be with you.
