“Oh, George, why did you have to go before me?”
The loss was still so raw. The tears ran unbidden.
Fortunately it was not a particularly isolated spot, as it was within the National Trust’s commons. Historically, the royalty owned huge tracts of land in the UK for their hunting and their pleasure, so it had been decreed that some land should be set aside for the common people to enjoy. The National Trust had taken over the care for such places, besides heritage homes and buildings. Within National Trust ground, rangers were likely to be out and about, so Pansy had not worried about being alone. The sprawling English countryside still offered a sense of safety and trust that so far had not been violated.
A pheasant had called out in its distinctive creaky-gate call so Pansy had followed the sound, hoping to catch sight of a male with its plume of colours, unlike the dowdy brown of the female. Sighting a butterfly, bird or animal in the wild was still a delightful treasure. Her stout boots crushed the undergrowth and inevitably alerted the pheasant. In fright, it had flown up from its hiding place—it was a male pheasant. But its large wings flapping, so close to her, had startled and disoriented her, and she had tripped over a fallen tree. She had lain there on a blanket of damp moss in the woods for hours, knowing that she had broken something, unable to get up. If she still had Rusty, their golden-haired collie, he could have barked and alerted someone. But Rusty had succumbed to old age even before she and George had.
Of course, Pansy had not remembered to carry her mobile phone. Luckily, as was her habit, she had a vial of Bach’s Rescue Remedy in her rucksack—it was perfect for dealing with shock and fear. Edward Bach, an English homeopath, had believed that dew found on flower petals absorbed the healing properties of the flowers. Kim Guek would have been delighted to know about this as she had often harvested flowers for their healing capacity. Alas, Pansy could no longer tell her. Pansy squirted a few drops of the potion on her tongue to calm herself, closed her eyes and allowed the surrounding environment to relax her. She imagined George standing by and looking after her. She simply lay there till help arrived.
“You look so peaceful there, I would be tempted to think you’re lying down there on purpose,” said an Englishman, with typical English humour.
If he had not been walking his dog, who knows what would have happened. The incident persuaded Pansy that it would be wise for her to return home to the small island of Singapore, where every place was within reach and medical facilities and family were within easy call. Without George by her side, she didn’t find it as easy to do the things they had loved to do together. Especially at her age. Her decision made practical sense—but her heart had bled.
The daffodils in Flower Dome stand almost upright with their green stems, though many are bending over as if bowing in humility. Modern technology and new scientific expertise have made it possible for these flowers to be birthed in tropical Singapore. But still, it would be lovely to see them in their full expression of joy, fluttering and dancing in the breeze outdoors. Suddenly out from nowhere comes a light wind. Is it possible for this to happen in an enclosed dome? Pansy is puzzled. She looks around as if trying to see where it might have surfaced from.
Other people in the dome give her side-long looks as she frowns, looking this way and that, this woman—slightly stooped, with grey hair, looking a bit lost. The breeze caresses the back of Pansy’s neck and it raises goose bumps on her arms. For a wild moment, it feels like George’s breath. He had a habit of blowing into her nape whenever he was in an amorous mood. Had he come to console her?
But alas, he is nowhere near. She is standing alone.
Chapter 2
Pansy wakes up agitated. A fuzzy dream clings to her like cobwebs. In the first few moments of opening her eyes, she is unsure of where she is, which country she’s in. Automatically, she reaches out for George beside her, as she has done for over fifty years, the first thirteen in Singapore. But he is not there. She is not overtly alarmed. Perhaps he has risen and has gone downstairs to make her a cup of tea. Any minute now, he will walk in through the bedroom door bearing her mug and some plain McVitie’s digestive biscuits. He knew that occasionally, she liked to be decadent and stay in bed, the bedclothes pulled round her to keep warm, to look out the window at the huge expanse of sky. She could spend hours watching the clouds take on different shapes and density. They sometimes look like fairies streaking lightly across the sky. Or she would watch the seagulls wing by as they screeched. She loved lying back against her pillows to listen to the waves crashing onto the shingled beach, whilst sipping her tea. Some people, like George, can spring out of bed and be fully awake, even whistling as he takes his morning shower.
Once, Pansy had been like that too, but her habits had changed as she got older, and she gradually took to returning gently to wakefulness, especially when it was freezing cold. George was attuned to her idiosyncrasies; he knew her moods. There is a deep comfort that comes from this, knowing that one has the latitude to be oneself in another’s company. On some weekends,
