Daffodils

It all started with a dream as so may things do. She'd always had
vivid dreams and always remembered them perfectly in the morning. This
time she was a little girl again. Little Caroline, a girl who still
believed in the tooth fairy, still believed in father Christmas and
still believed that when she grew up, she was going to be rich and be
able to buy all the things she ever wanted. It was morning in the dream
and she made her way downstairs still in her night dress. Her bare feet
felt cold on the hard floor of the hallway. On the little mat by the
thick wooden front door she saw a note and knew immediately that it was
from the gipsy family who lived next door. She stood by the door and
realised quite suddenly that she could see beyond it, where one of the
gipsy girls from next door was standing, waiting for her to pick up the
note. She bent down and picked it up, unfolded it and read the message,
"Give daffodils to St Iffrid."

She had no idea who St Iffrid was or why she should give it flowers.
For a moment she considered opening the door and speaking to the gypsy
girl but upon thinking it she felt an immediate sense of danger.

Walking across the living room now, to the mantle above the fireplace
to pick up the flower that stood alone in a single stem vase. She
picked it up and placed the flower, gently, at the feet of a porcelain
figure that also stood on the mantle. It wasn't a daffodil but it was
the only flower in the house so it would have to do. Slowly, almost
imperceptibly, the figure began to move. It's painted eyes swivelled
towards her, immobilising her in it's gaze.

Then she woke up, looked around her darkened bedroom and realised that
she had been dreaming. She snuggled back into her pillow, under her
quilt and returned to sleep.

She awoke the next morning with the details of the dream still strong
in her mind. It was often like this for her. The dreams where so real,
so solid that she would sometimes have difficulty remembering what had
been real and what had not. She knew exactly what it was like to ride
with wild white horses through a brook, the wind in her hair, the
feeling of power beneath her, she could tell you every tiny detail
about it and it was a memory she treasured, but she'd never actually
done it.

With the realisation that she had woken a little late, she cast out the
memory of the dream and rushed around, trying to get ready before the
clock struck eight and told her that she must leave now or risk being
late for work. She made it. Just.

On the drive to work the dream came back to her, distracting her a
little from her driving but the well travelled route had become almost
automatic. She pondered, who was St Iffrid? She'd not claim to be an
expert on Saints by any means but she knew there where thousands. That
morning on the drive to work she made a little promise to herself that
she would take ten minutes out of her day to surf the internet and find
out what she could about this St Iffrid.

True to her promise, during her coffee break, she did just that and
found a web site listing all the catholic saints, but she came up with
nothing. No mention of anything remotely resembling a St Iffrid. With
her promise fulfilled she moved on to something else and forgot about
the dream for the time being as there didn't appear to be any basis in
fact for it. Just a creation of her own imagination she decided.

During her lunch break, despite her reasoning regarding the dream, she
bought a bunch of daffodils. Just in case she might need them. She was
thinking to herself that maybe, just maybe, they would bring her some
luck. In one of her dreams she had visualised the name of a horse that
won a race at good odds, she had only thought to look at the racing
results after the race had been run. Her dreamed horse really had won
but she never again had a similar dream. The rest of her working day
passed uneventfully, though she did occasionally glance at the bunch of
daffodils under her desk and wonder if she was being silly about the
whole thing.

She arrived home from work and, having removed her coat and hung it up,
put the daffodils in vase which she placed in the centre of the
mantelpiece above the fireplace. And that was that. Either they would
bring her luck or they wouldn't, she'd just have to wait and see.

Late that evening she answered the telephone to a voice she didn't
recognise. , "Give daffodils to St Iffrid," the feminine voice said and
immediately the line went dead. She stood, still holding the phone to
her ear, immobilised in disbelief. It was such a brief telephone call
and the words so surprising that she wasn't sure that it had happened
at all. Who the hell was this St Iffrid? More to the point, who did the
voice on the other end of the phone belong to and how did they know
about her dream?

Before going to bed that night she went around the house making sure
that all the doors and windows where securely locked and shut. She had
terrible trouble getting to sleep, she twisted and turned, sitting up
suddenly in bed at every noise she heard. The once familiar sounds of
her house settling down for the night now seemed sinister to her.
Eventually she drifted off into a troubled sleep in the early hours of
the morning. Again she dreamed one of her vivid dreams.

She was older this time, about as old as she was now. It was night and
she found herself floating high above a graveyard that was overgrown
with weeds and bramble. She floated down towards the gravestones, some
where leaning, some broken and some unable to be seen at all beneath
the undergrowth. She appeared to be heading for one gravestone in
particular as it was constantly in the centre of her vision. She
arrived at it and, with some trepidation and not a little fright, read
the inscription that it bore; Iffrid St John, beloved wife of Daniel,
'now you shall always have daffodils on your birthday', 1910 -
1987.

She awoke suddenly to the comforting light of morning. What did this
all mean? What did it have to do with her? She was at a loss but she
knew she must find some way to find out for she felt sure that she had
something that she must do in order for the dreams to stop. She decided
that she would attempt to find out if this Daniel St John was real or
just another figment of her subconscious. It was surprisingly easy,
there was only one D St John in the phone book. It may not have been
the same one from her dream but there was only one way to find out. She
dialled the number. There was no answer after seven rings, the point at
which she would normally hang up, but she persevered. She had a feeling
about it. A hazy picture in her mind of somebody shuffling to the
phone, trying to get there before it went dead. Then it was answered
"Hello, Danny speaking."

"Hello, is that Daniel St John speaking?"

"It is, you must be ringing about Iffrids daffodils yes?"

"Wha&;#8230;.. What do you mean?"

"I see, I think you and I should meet don't you? Sort things out
maybe?"

"Yes, yes where and when?"

"Well, I can't really get out of the house on my own nowadays, it's the
arthritis you see, so it's best that you come here, whenever you like I
suppose, I'll be in."

"This evening around six?"

"Sounds fine my dear."

"Goodbye, Mr. St John."

"Bye Caroline."

The phone went dead, for the second time in two days she stood
dumbstruck with the dead phone still held to her ear. How did he know
her name? She was finding this beyond weird, way way past weird in fact
and into something else more eerie entirely.

Work didn't go well that day as her telephone call and subsequent
appointment with Mr St John preyed on her mind. She kept pulling out of
her pocket the little scrap of paper upon which she had copied his
address down from the telephone book. She found herself staring at it,
fingering it, folding it worriedly before taking hold of herself and
putting it back in her pocket. Eventually she could stand no more and
left early to sort herself out before her visit.

She arrived outside the front door of Mr St John at five minutes to
six, considered waiting five minutes before knocking then knocked
anyway. The wait for the door to be answered was so long that she
thought that he must have managed to get out despite his arthritis when
suddenly the door opened. Before her stood a flesh and bone sculpture
of Methuselah, long thin white hair framing a face made up almost
entirely of a series of wrinkles that had been joined together. Behind
his age though she could still see the brightness of youth in his pale
blue eyes. "Carolyn, come in, come in please."

She followed him, at a speed dictated by his snails pace, down the
1960's decorated hallway and then left into what would once have been
called the parlour. He motioned for her to sit, which she did, and then
proceeded to slowly sit himself. 'I've made us some tea," he said. Sure
enough he had, on the small table was a tray containing what was no
doubt his best bone china, tea pot, milk jug, sugar pot and two cups
and saucers. She said her thank you's and poured for both of
them.

"Nice for someone else to be mother for a change," he said, smiling at
her.

Despite her anxiety at what was about to transpire, she couldn't help
but smile back. He seemed such a nice old man. With the tea milked and
sugared she sat back down and took a sip.

"I suppose your wondering what all this is about," said Mr St John
through sips of tea.

"I am," she replied, "to be honest this all has me a little
frightened."

"Oh, don't be, there's nothing sinister going on I assure you, permit
me to explain."

"Explanations, yes, explanations are exactly what I need," she replied
a little to quickly to hide her obvious discomfort.

Mr St John told her of his wife, Iffrid. It was a long rambling story
of how they had met, fallen in love. Of holidays they had taken
together, how they had been so saddened by their inability to have
children. It went on for over an hour without any sign that an
explanation for the strange events of the last two days was ever
coming. It was obvious to her that he didn't often get the chance to
talk to people much, or perhaps he did, but they never actually
listened to what he had to say anymore. It was the curse of the old,
they had so much knowledge to impart but nobody took any notice of it.
Eventually, just before she was going to stop nodding politely in the
right places and interrupt the story of his life, he began to get to
the point.

"I was ten years older than Iffrid," he said, "and the day before
yesterday I got my telegram from the Queen. It should have been a happy
occasion but I had nobody to share it with. Except the meals on wheels
lady and it didn't really mean all that much to her. That's when Iffrid
spoke to me, whilst I was sleeping, and told me that a girl called
Caroline would phone and that I was to make her welcome, sorry, you
welcome and explain what it is that we wanted."

She felt that she was nearly there now, nearly at the place where
things should start to make some sense. "What is it that you want Mr St
John, please, what do you want?"

"Daffodils."

"Daffodils?"

"Shortly I'll be joining Iffrid you see and there's nobody to put
flowers on our graves anymore. Iffrid loved daffodils, they where her
absolute favourites, she always said that spring wasn't spring without
them."

"So all you want," said Caroline, "is for me to put daffodils on your
graves every, what, every week?"

"No, no, we wouldn't want to put you to that much trouble, just once a
year, in the spring, when their at their best."

"And that's it?"

"Oh yes, that's all,"

"Then my dreams will stop?"

"They'll stop anyway my dear, whether you do it or not, we just wanted
to ask, Iffrid and I that is, we're not blackmailers," he paused for a
moment, "will you do it, for me and for my beloved?"

She contemplated his request. All he wanted was an hour so of her time
once a year. Poor old soul with nobody to care for him now or after he
was gone. It would be an act of charity on her part, she reasoned,
something that she could do that would make somebody else happy with no
reward for her. A selfless act that, despite the strangeness of the
situation, made her feel better about herself. She made a sudden
decision, "I'll do it."

"Promise?" He smiled.

"I promise," she smiled back.

"Thank you," he said and sat back in the sofa, closed his eyes and
never opened them again. He died smiling.