Tender

Maria dragged the damp cloth over the black marble, her tired eyes
looked back at her through a wet smear. She traced a forefinger along
each of the gold letters that spelled out her dead husband's
name.
Thomas had been taken by a sudden and vicious cancer, three years ago.
It had ripped through his strong body like a sick wind and reduced his
tight muscles and thick skin to so much pulp and tissue paper. He was
47 years old when he died, yet he'd looked twice that.
Maria crouched in front of the gravestone and swept her black hair out
of her eyes.
"Hello Thomas," she whispered, "it's a beautiful day."
"Isn't it just." replied a man's voice from a nearby tombstone.
Maria stood, shocked. She'd assumed she was alone.
The man also stood and looked straight at Maria. He looked a well-worn
35, his dress displayed a similar deterioration to his gaunt features.
A brown cotton jacket hung loosely on sagging shoulders and the belt
that held up his trousers was pulled far too tight. The man obviously
ate as seldom as he shaved.
His smile, however, belied the evident neglect that his body had
endured. It shone out through a tangle of brown whiskers and it made
Maria smile back involuntarily.
"Hello," she said, "I didn't see you there."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."
His voice was as soft as wind through trees, but as deep as a storm
cloud.
"It's OK," said Maria, "I was miles away."
"Talking to your husband." he stated more than asked.
"Erm..yes," she replied.
"Who are you visiting?" she enquired.
"Oh, just a friend. An old friend."
He turned his back to Maria and resumed his work on the gravestone from
behind which he'd risen.
Maria stroked the top of her husband's marker and bent to pick up the
cloth and water bottle which lay in the grass.
"See you soon, love." she said to Thomas, and left.
*
One week on from her encounter with the man, Maria again stood in front
of Thomas' grave. She removed the parched stalks that stood in the tin
vase and replaced them with a bright bunch of recently purchased
daffodils.
Taking the bottle from her bag she poured a generous amount of water
into the pot.
Maria sat on the grass and smoothed her skirt out around her, she
closed her eyes and leaned back to let the sun warm her face and dry
the residue of tears that streamed her cheeks.
"Good morning." said a voice.
Maria's memory instantly retrieved the events of a week ago and she
knew who was greeting her without having to open her eyes.
But she opened them anyway. She looked towards the grave where she had
seen the man last time but no one stood there.
"Hello again," said the man.
Maria looked to her right to see the strange man who had accosted her
last Friday. He was attending a completely different grave to the one
he had hidden behind before.
"Er..hello," she said, "another old friend is it?"
"Yes, an old friend. A good friend." he replied, a nostalgic smile
playing across his mouth.
"Well, I'd like to chat, I really would, but I have to go and pick my
daughter up, goodbye then, mister&;#8230;."
"Flower." he stated, "Garnett Flower."
"Well, goodbye Mr. Flower."
Maria gathered her things and strode back onto the tarmac path that
bisected the cemetery. She walked briskly towards the gates and fought
the urge to look back at Garnett Flower. However, when she reached her
car she allowed herself a quick backwards glance, he had apparently
left.
She climbed inside the blue Fiesta and drove away, possibly a little
too quickly.
At the school gates Maria's daughter Emily leapt into the back seat and
thrust a bright yellow watercolour masterpiece towards her
mother.
"Lovely darling." said Maria without really looking.
"You've been to see Dad haven't you."
"Yes darling, I have. You should come one day."
"Don't want to." said Emily petulantly.
Maria dismissed her daughter's protests and half-concentrated on the
road ahead. Emily took to perusing her yellow picture, intently
studying each thick brushstroke and providing herself with a murmured
commentary to the events she'd depicted.
Maria shook her head to dislodge the persistent picture of Garnett
Flower that stood stubbornly in her mind's eye.
*
On Thursday morning Maria drove the familiar route to the cemetery. Her
fingers gaily tapped in time to a favourite tape that played on the
stereo. She sang aloud and smiled widely, remembering when she and
Thomas had performed a silly dance to this song in the centre of the
living room. Emily, then only nine months old, had sat in her high
chair laughing wildly and banging her hands on the plastic tray with
excitement.
Maria pulled the car to a halt outside the graveyard and switched off
the engine. The music ceased abruptly and she was back in the present,
her smile vanished and Thomas was dead again.
She retrieved a carrier bag from the back seat. In it were a fresh
bunch of yellow daffodils, a cloth made from a strip of one of Thomas'
old work-shirts and an old lemonade bottle filled with tepid water. She
left the car and locked it behind her.
The air smelled of impending rain, smudges of grey cloud gathered in
heavy clumps, confirming the threat of a downpour.
Maria hastened towards Thomas' grave and vowed not to stay long, just
change the flowers, a perfunctory wipe for the stone and a quick chat,
then back to the car before the rain came.
As she reached the plot a crouching figure caught her eye. It was
Garnett Flower.
He was stooping over a very old gravestone about thirty yards away, it
was again a different stone to the other two Maria had seen him
tending.
She completed her own chore with an air of preoccupation, not giving
the task her full attention. Her mind was on Mr. Flower.
Garnett stood and appeared to be making to leave. He looked around
briefly, without noticing Maria, and walked away towards a patch of
trees some distance away.
She watched him until he had disappeared from sight, then waited for a
few minutes to make sure he didn't return.
Maria gathered her belongings into the bag and walked over to the stone
that he'd stood before. It was obvious from the wear and discolouration
that the marker was very old. Hewn from grey rock rather than the
modern black marble of its neighbours. Ivy had grown over most of it's
surface, obscuring the names and date carved into it.
She checked that she was alone and gingerly peeled back some leaves to
reveal who lay beneath.
Her breath froze in her throat and a hard chill formed at the base of
her spine.
"Garnett Flower." she whispered.
Maria pulled away further foliage to read the rest of the words etched
beneath.
"Tragically taken at 37. 21st June 1875," she read to herself.
Underneath were three further words that Maria spoke aloud, and a smile
grew on her lips as she said them.

"A Good Friend."

END

?Graham Woods 2001