The Blue Rose

‘Hello, darling,’ Kate said, looking up as Alex walked into the kitchen, throwing his jacket and briefcase on a chair. He looked tired. He was home later than usual – nearly eight o’clock. Fridays were often like that now.

‘Hello, Kate.’ He walked over and gave her a quick kiss.

She saw him glance at the oversized book open on the table in front of her.

‘New recipe?’ He closed his eyes and inhaled loudly through his nose. ‘Let me guess – we’re having caviar and blinis, seared foie gras with truffles, and pheasant under glass?’

‘Not even close. It’s something far better.’

‘Better?’

‘Yes, I found some information I think you’ll find very interesting – about our new rose.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I got it at the library.’ Kate riffled through the pages of the big book to the chapter where she had placed a marker. Though Alex was looking at it upside down, she knew it wouldn’t be difficult for him to read the bold title: The Ultimate Rose Book.

‘You’d better be sitting down.’

Alex raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing her.

She glanced up at him. ‘Listen to this. “The early Dutch discoverers of Australia were greeted with derision back home when they reported black swans in New Holland. Had they found blue roses, however, they would have not only been believed, but thought to have discovered a new Eden. It is odd, how humans have always dreamed of blue roses. In all the years when there were no yellow roses, or flame ones, no one seemed to miss them. Blue roses were the dream.”’ She paused to take a breath, glancing up to catch Alex’s rapt gaze. She looked down again, tracing a finger across the page. ‘Then it goes on about The Arabian Nights and a magician who turns roses blue. And a blue rose that is featured in one of Rimsky- Korsakov’s ballets – and so on.’ She continued reading for a few moments, but not aloud – then resumed reciting from the book. ‘Yes, here we are, “delphinidin, the pigment that makes flowers blue, is absent from the rose, and indeed all its relatives in the Rosaceae” – et cetera, et cetera…’ She picked up again, a paragraph later. ‘“Of course, there’s always the million-to-one chance that a mutation will produce a delphinidin-bearing rose, just as a chance mutation some seventy years ago gave the rose the scarlet pigment pelargonidin.” Then it talks about cornflowers – the same cyanidin pigment that makes the rose red – here we go – “the conditions within the flower are controlled by the DNA in the rose’s chromosomes; interfering with them has not been something that, short of magic, we have been able to do.” This is the part you’ll like, Alex. “It will be a colossally expensive operation, but the financial rewards of success will be very great. The rose is the world’s favourite flower; millions are sold each day in flower shops and when (and if) the blue rose arrives, the florists will be able to ask their own price for it. No doubt its creator will have patented their invention and will reap a huge, well-earned reward in royalties.”’ She looked up at him, trying not to look too smug. ‘How about that?’

‘Whew!’ Alex whistled.

‘Then it goes on to mention the inevitability of lawsuits related to patents, and so forth.’

‘My God,’ Alex breathed. ‘We could become filthy rich.’

‘Highly possible,’ Kate replied, closing the book with a thump. ‘I have a good feeling about our Dr Kingston. He’ll know what to do. I’m sure of it.’

‘What time is he coming tomorrow?’

‘About noon.’

‘Then I’ve got time to get in a good thirteen hours’ sleep. A very early night,’ Alex said, yawning. ‘Which I seriously need.’

‘No caviar before dinner, then?’ Kate asked.

Alex’s head whirled around. ‘You don’t, really – do you?’

‘Well, I thought a little celebration might be in order.’

Kate stood and went to the refrigerator.

‘Voila!’ She held up a small jar.

‘I suppose I could be convinced to go to bed a little later,’ Alex said.

‘A wise decision,’ Kate said, setting the jar down on the table. She turned back and took out a bottle of chilled champagne and the plate of chopped eggs, onion, sour cream and crackers she had prepared previously. ‘Once dinner’s over, I suppose I could be convinced to join you.’

Alex grinned, breaking into song: ‘Caviar comes from the virgin sturgeon. The virgin sturgeon’s a very fine fish. The virgin sturgeon needs no urgin’, that’s why caviar is my dish.’

‘You’re too much,’ Kate giggled.

Saturday was hazy but clear with cirrus clouds drifting overhead. Kate was watering the hydrangeas in the terracotta pots edging the courtyard when she heard the car approaching. As she turned, a racing green Triumph TR4 with the top down rumbled into view.

‘Ah,’ she said to herself, setting down the watering can. ‘Dr Kingston, I presume.’

Asp raced toward the car, yapping excitedly.

The Triumph crunched to a stop on the gravel alongside Alex’s Alfa Romeo. She watched with amusement as Kingston extricated his lanky frame from the car’s cramped confines. The picture hadn’t really done him justice. He was more rugged than it had suggested.

A tangle of ivory-coloured hair unravelled over his collar. In contrast, dark bushy eyebrows jutted out over deep-set blue eyes. Though tall and lean, he still gave the impression of being physically powerful. There was a litheness about him that suggested an iron discipline concerning those habits and diets that cultivate paunches, spare tyres and jowls. To Kate, he appeared the very antithesis of the archetypal scholar. He was wearing an old suede jacket, a cream button-down Oxford shirt, and dark olive corduroy trousers. A bulky camera case hung from shoulder straps by his side. He took off his checked cap and tossed it like a frisbee into the car.

‘Mrs Sheppard?’ he inquired, as he approached her.

‘Yes. Please call me Kate, Dr Kingston.’

Asp was sniffing at Kingston’s trouser cuffs.

‘Oh, and this is Asp.’

‘Curious name.’

‘My husband’s idea of a joke. It stands for All Spare Parts.’

Kingston chuckled. ‘Cute little fellow,’ he said, bending down to pat the dog’s head. ‘And please call me Lawrence – all right?’

‘I will,’ she said, shaking his hand.

In his large grip her hand disappeared up to her wrist. When he smiled at her she noticed a ripple of creases fanning out at the corner of each eye.

‘Welcome to The Parsonage,’ Kate said, retrieving her hand. ‘Alex and I really appreciate your coming down. I can assure you, you won’t be disappointed.’ She smiled. ‘And thanks for bringing nice weather with you, too. It’s been awfully soggy down here the last few days.’ She gestured towards the house. ‘Let’s go inside. I’m sure you could do with a cup of coffee or perhaps a drink after such a long drive.’

Kingston nodded. ‘Coffee would be nice. Thank you.’

He followed her into the house, stooping to clear the door beam. ‘Lovely house. Mid-nineteenth century, isn’t it?’

‘1835, we’ve been told.’

‘Most charming.’

‘Alex is fixing something in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘He’s really looking forward to meeting you.’ She turned to Kingston and smiled. ‘In all fairness,’ she said, ‘I should tell you that he’s anointed himself the “black thumb” of the family. He’s quite happy to leave most of the gardening to me.’

‘I’ll take that into account, Kate,’ he said, following her into the kitchen.

After introducing Kingston to Alex and putting on the kettle, Kate showed Kingston into the living room.

They sat facing each other in the warm sunlight coming through the open windows.

‘So, what makes this rose of yours so special?’ Kingston inquired, relaxing into the upholstered wing chair.