‘Nope,’ said the woman. ‘It’s policy.’
An older woman from the next till looked up at Amy. ‘Get some chocolates, love,’ she said. ‘Or how about a nice bunch of flowers? Not just for girls, you know.’
Amy turned away, taking her wine back to the shelf. She put it with the other bottles, turning it so the labels lined up. Her ten-pound note was scrunched in her hand. Tim didn’t really like chocolates, though she felt like some right now. She wandered over to the flowers, but the limp bunches of freesias and carnations didn’t feel right. A few house plants sat next to the flowers, an out-of-season selection of Christmas cactuses and a few small African violets.
Then she saw it. A gorgeous fern, large and luscious, its leaves unfurling like tentacles. It looked as though it belonged on the rainforest floor, not in a small supermarket. She bent down to check she could afford it, and saw that it came in a glazed pot the colour of pumpkins.
It was perfect.
Amy found her embarrassment dissipate as excitement mounted. She picked it up, feeling like a jungle explorer as she took it to the till, choosing the older lady this time who’d helped. ‘He’ll be pleased with that, love,’ the woman said. ‘Pretty pot, too.’
Amy nodded. ‘He’ll love it,’ she said.
Amy lay in bed. Tim’s arm was draped over her and his eyes were closed. She listened to him breathing. The fern was on the table next to his bed and the outline of his head was silhouetted against the orange pot like a cityscape in a sunset. The leaves were so close to his head that she saw them softly move as he breathed in and out.
She heard the hum of her phone vibrating with a text message, and carefully rolled over and leaned out of the bed to grab it from the floor. Tim’s arm remained on her body, soft and warm.
She nuzzled her head closer to Tim’s coconut-scented hair as she read the message. It was from Chantel. Of course it was. Amy smiled. She typed a quick reply before turning off her phone.
He’s definitely not gay ;)
Beethoven’s Fifth rang out again and again, accompanied by fierce banging on Amy’s front door. It wasn’t helping. ‘Let us in,’ shouted Nina, for the umpteenth time. ‘What’s happened out there?’
‘Climb over the fence,’ snapped Amy.
‘Open the front door,’ replied Nina.
‘The fence will be quicker,’ shouted Amy. She finally pushed the last box out of the way. She breathed a sigh of relief that the key was in the lock, or else she’d never have found it. She turned it and pushed her back door open, running into the garden. She ignored the nettles which stung her legs with their acidic hairs as she went to join Charles searching through the pots. He was attempting to heave over an upside-down pot that was bigger than he was. Amy forced herself to ignore the other pots, looking at her mournfully from the ground, their injuries unassessed. They would have to wait. Instead she gripped the pot and pulled with him. They turned it over.
Nothing.
She saw the boy’s father wrestling with a loose fence post and push his way through. ‘Daniel!’ he shouted.
A giggle. ‘Daddy find me,’ said a voice.
‘Over there,’ said Richard, pointing to a large pot on its side, covered in ivy.
Amy reached it first. She pushed the ivy aside.
Daniel blinked at her and grinned. The tension dissipated. ‘Hide and seek,’ he said. He saw their worried faces and frowned. ‘Ice cream?’ he requested.
Richard pulled his son out and enveloped him in a huge hug. Amy saw Nina watching them through the gap in the fence. It was all too much for Charles and he started to cry.
‘They shouldn’t have been in my garden,’ said Amy, before anyone could accuse her of anything. She surveyed the damage caused by Smudge. The larger pots were OK: they’d been at the bottom of the tower and were made of terracotta almost an inch thick. She gathered up more pots, rescuing them from the nettles. Her arms got stung, but it was what she deserved. Everything seemed intact.
Then she saw it. The fragments of it, to be more precise.
Amy remembered when she had discovered that pot in a local charity shop. It had caught her eye immediately, sitting in an inconspicuous place on a shelf next to a pile of beads and a well-worn black leather handbag. She’d kept it by the front door for years, using it to store her umbrellas, before her hallway got too crowded and she’d moved it outside. It had a beautiful white glaze peppered with daisies, their petals the colour of lapis lazuli. In the centre of each flower was a brilliant dot of pumpkin orange, and the flowers seemed to dance around the pot.
No more.
It must have landed on a rock, because it had shattered into many pieces. Amy gathered up the fragments as best she could, but they hid from her in the long grass as if scared at what she might do to them.
‘The pot,’ said Amy, feeling tears pricking her eyes. ‘It’s beautiful and it’s broken.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ said Nina, clambering through the hole in the fence. ‘Daniel Joseph could have been hurt and you’re upset about a pot?’
‘Ice cream please,’ said Daniel.
‘Can Daniel have a mini-milk?’ asked Charles, starting to calm down. ‘It will help.’
‘You were meant to be looking after your brother,’ said Nina. ‘You should have been paying more attention.’
Charles was silent.
‘Easy, Nina,’ said Richard. ‘Can’t you see he’s upset?’
‘We’re all upset,’ muttered Nina.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Richard told his son.
