Roses
By Jim king
The cottage is old; its walls have stood since the time of Cromwell. Thick stone blocks, solid wooden beams and small windows deeply set. Lichen and moss have mottled the tiles of the roof and the walls. Vines have grown up to hide the windowless sides in a thick tangle of green and brown.
Bright golden light shines from the windows, tiny squares of safety against the surrounding darkness on this overcast and moonless night.
In the distance there is a faint rumble of thunder, the clouds are black and heavy with rain on the horizon, a storm is coming but nothing more than a few droplets of rain have yet arrived to herald its arrival.
The front garden is well maintained, beds of flowers carefully tended but now hidden by the cloak of night. A few rose bushes can be seen in the light that shines from one of the windows, fully in bloom and glorious even in the darkness.
The gentle scent of herbs and flowers fills the air, carried by the growing wind that comes ahead of the storm.
A car sits on the gravel road outside the gardens, an older car, four doors and a hatch back. The engine quietly ticking as it cools, the back is piled high with bags and boxes. A few labels are visible, bottles of wine, cheeses and snacks. Perhaps a party but for many guests who will be hungry and thirsty.
There are woods behind the house, farmland beyond that. There are no neighbours, none close enough to be seen at least, not a single light to interrupt the blanket of night that has fallen across the land.
The faint sound of music, jazz by the sound of it, coming from the back of the house, piano and saxophone mixed together in perfect harmony. A sound of summer joy and times long gone, a theme perhaps for tonight’s party.
A new smell drifts on the wind. Fire, burning wood. A gentle scent, full of flavour and promise, another memory of summer, of food cooked in the garden in the warmth of a summer evening.
Voices, a man in the garden, heavy with age but still with the timber of strength and command. An old soldier perhaps, slightly curt, the sound of Queens English, no doubt an officer in his day. A woman’s voice from inside, filled with confidence and wisdom of age but still full of the laughter of a young girl who cannot help but enjoy every delight the world has to offer.
In the distance a point of light appears across the fields, swinging from side to side. Then it grows to become the beams of a cars headlights. The first guests perhaps? Then behind that another light and then a third light. Three cars on the narrow roads across the fields. The guests on their way.
Big soft drops of rain splatter on the tiles of the roof and vanish in puffs of dust among the gravel of the drive. The wind is slowly growing in speed and noise, a growl warning of what is to come.
It has taken over a year to restore the cottage, long hours and much money to restore the ruin into a delightful home. Tonight the guests will come to see the results, a house warming and the beginning of a new era in the life of the house.
Good music, good wine, good food and good company. A night to remember.
But they do not know, because they never thought to ask. Why was the cottage a ruin? Why had so fine a farm house been left to ruin again and again and again. Why had it been inherited again and again after the last owners had died.
No they did not know, they did not care. Tonight was a party, a gathering of old friends to welcome them within the walls of the new home.
The rain drops began to fall faster and harder. The wind begins to stir the branches of the trees behind the house and around the garden, long fingers swaying to and fro against the night black sky. Gusts sighing around the house like the sounds of the dead come to watch once again or to welcome new arrivals to join them in death.
Rain dripping like tears from the gutter either side of the door.
The shadows deepening, the sky turning black, rumbles drowning the sounds of the music.
Inside the house, movement, a curtain is drawn plunging the garden into darkness. But just as the light becomes dark there is a flicker of movement, a shape, black within the night. Rising to stand like a man among the roses.
The spirit of the cottage perhaps. Waiting for the full fury of the storm to fall upon the land. Waiting to welcome the guests as it has welcomed so many before, over the long years that it has soaked the gardens in blood.
After all it takes more than just love to grow such wonderful roses.
By Jim king
The cottage is old; its walls have stood since the time of Cromwell. Thick stone blocks, solid wooden beams and small windows deeply set. Lichen and moss have mottled the tiles of the roof and the walls. Vines have grown up to hide the windowless sides in a thick tangle of green and brown.
Bright golden light shines from the windows, tiny squares of safety against the surrounding darkness on this overcast and moonless night.
In the distance there is a faint rumble of thunder, the clouds are black and heavy with rain on the horizon, a storm is coming but nothing more than a few droplets of rain have yet arrived to herald its arrival.
The front garden is well maintained, beds of flowers carefully tended but now hidden by the cloak of night. A few rose bushes can be seen in the light that shines from one of the windows, fully in bloom and glorious even in the darkness.
The gentle scent of herbs and flowers fills the air, carried by the growing wind that comes ahead of the storm.
A car sits on the gravel road outside the gardens, an older car, four doors and a hatch back. The engine quietly ticking as it cools, the back is piled high with bags and boxes. A few labels are visible, bottles of wine, cheeses and snacks. Perhaps a party but for many guests who will be hungry and thirsty.
There are woods behind the house, farmland beyond that. There are no neighbours, none close enough to be seen at least, not a single light to interrupt the blanket of night that has fallen across the land.
The faint sound of music, jazz by the sound of it, coming from the back of the house, piano and saxophone mixed together in perfect harmony. A sound of summer joy and times long gone, a theme perhaps for tonight’s party.
A new smell drifts on the wind. Fire, burning wood. A gentle scent, full of flavour and promise, another memory of summer, of food cooked in the garden in the warmth of a summer evening.
Voices, a man in the garden, heavy with age but still with the timber of strength and command. An old soldier perhaps, slightly curt, the sound of Queens English, no doubt an officer in his day. A woman’s voice from inside, filled with confidence and wisdom of age but still full of the laughter of a young girl who cannot help but enjoy every delight the world has to offer.
In the distance a point of light appears across the fields, swinging from side to side. Then it grows to become the beams of a cars headlights. The first guests perhaps? Then behind that another light and then a third light. Three cars on the narrow roads across the fields. The guests on their way.
Big soft drops of rain splatter on the tiles of the roof and vanish in puffs of dust among the gravel of the drive. The wind is slowly growing in speed and noise, a growl warning of what is to come.
It has taken over a year to restore the cottage, long hours and much money to restore the ruin into a delightful home. Tonight the guests will come to see the results, a house warming and the beginning of a new era in the life of the house.
Good music, good wine, good food and good company. A night to remember.
But they do not know, because they never thought to ask. Why was the cottage a ruin? Why had so fine a farm house been left to ruin again and again and again. Why had it been inherited again and again after the last owners had died.
No they did not know, they did not care. Tonight was a party, a gathering of old friends to welcome them within the walls of the new home.
The rain drops began to fall faster and harder. The wind begins to stir the branches of the trees behind the house and around the garden, long fingers swaying to and fro against the night black sky. Gusts sighing around the house like the sounds of the dead come to watch once again or to welcome new arrivals to join them in death.
Rain dripping like tears from the gutter either side of the door.
The shadows deepening, the sky turning black, rumbles drowning the sounds of the music.
Inside the house, movement, a curtain is drawn plunging the garden into darkness. But just as the light becomes dark there is a flicker of movement, a shape, black within the night. Rising to stand like a man among the roses.
The spirit of the cottage perhaps. Waiting for the full fury of the storm to fall upon the land. Waiting to welcome the guests as it has welcomed so many before, over the long years that it has soaked the gardens in blood.
After all it takes more than just love to grow such wonderful roses.