THE MAGNOLIA TREE by J D Revitt (3rd place, Oct22)

On that unexpectedly hot, hazy afternoon, I sat in the shade, propped against the trunk of the tree, book balanced on my knees. Daffodils lolled drunkenly, jaded, their time over.

Clumps of fearless fresh cool grass poked up out of the monotonous brown soil, speckled with daisies nodding conversationally.

A large, delicate, pink-veined petal plopped onto my page. I studied the sumptuous, opaque silkiness, the intricate furl tinged at the edges, contemplating the years it had taken to nurture and placed it carefully next to me.

I heard a vague scrape of a bicycle against the lower wall.

‘Nice spot,’ said a voice.

Glancing up, I smiled vacantly then returned to my page.

‘Whatcha reading?’ persisted the voice.

Reluctantly, I looked at him. He was wearing cricket flannels, grass stained on one knee and a lock of blonde hair fell lazily over his right eye. He brushed it to one side as he reached into the wicker  basket on the front of his bike and pulled out a large bottle of water.

Waiting for an answer, he peered over the top as he drank greedily; a rivulet raced down his chin, stopping at his Adam’s Apple.

‘Oh…’ I said, flicking the pages, ‘just some old text from university…’

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he tossed the bottle back in the basket.

‘Mind if I join you? If that’s not too impertinent. Only I’m rather hot…’ he asked, wafting the V-neck of his jumper.

I sighed slightly but placed my book face down on the soft, peaty earth by way of invitation, ‘no, please do.’

He leapt up over the low dry-stone wall onto the grass, ambled over and plonked himself down, cross-legged amongst the daisies. I stared at him in silence, expectantly, whilst, absent-mindedly, he pulled at the grass and stuck a blade in his mouth.

‘We lost at cricket…’ he stated as if I’d asked, his green-blue eyes meeting mine, the lock of hair over his eye.

‘Oh…’ I said, peeking at my book, but resisting the impolite urge to reach for it.

‘Just a bit of fun…’ he carried on, then in a moment of realisation, he nodded at the sprawling old cottage behind me ‘oh… this your place, is it?’

‘Yes…’ I answered, hoping he would acknowledge his intrusion and leave.

‘Ah… Nice…’ he said, smiling broadly without apologising. I noticed his front tooth had a slight chip.

‘This your garden then?’ he persisted.

‘Lawn…’ I corrected, ‘yes…’

‘Nice,’ he repeated.

‘The garden is round the back…’ I elaborated without knowing why.

He picked up one of the fallen petals and looked up at the pink-white canopy. I stared at his shiny thick hair, flecked with gold, dappled by the rustling leaves.

‘Beautiful tree,’ he commented.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, gazing upwards fondly, ‘it’s a Magnolia… I grew it myself.’

‘Humph,’ he fingered the petal thoughtfully, discarded it amongst the others, then pulled his jumper up over his head. I watched as his shirt pulled out his trousers, revealing his navel.

‘Takes a few years to flower,’ I explained, averting my eyes, ‘needs a good fertilizer…’ I checked myself, not wanting to sound like a bore.

‘Sounds like you know your garden,’ he said pulling his shirt down and screwing up his jumper into a pillow. He lay on his back, hands behind the jumper, head cocked to one side ‘what makes a good fertilizer then?’

‘Oh… um,’ I hesitated, ‘you know, stuff that contains nitrogen and phosphate. Well… that’s what Magnolias like anyway…’ I answered earnestly, words fading. I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me.

‘Oh right,’ he said, staring at me. He picked at the grass again.

‘You can use grass cuttings, urine, coffee grounds… to make good fertiliser’ I continued enthusiastically.

‘Ew! Urine?’ he questioned.

‘Oh yes!’ I stated, buoyed by his seeming interest, ‘hair, manure… even corpses apparently!’ I finished, chuckling.

He laughed.

‘Erm… would you like to see my garden?’ I added.

‘Love to!’ he answered, jumping to his feet and holding out his hand. I took it gingerly as he pulled me up, a waft of distant aftershave and slight body odour flaring my nostrils.

‘Thank you,’ I said, stepping backwards.

He kept hold of my hand, ‘Phillip,’ he said.

‘Oh… Jessie,’ I answered awkwardly and shook his hand slightly.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, as he studied my face. He dropped my hand.

‘Likewise,’ I answered shyly, looking away first. I dusted the earth off myself and turned to lead the way. He picked up his jumper and slung it over his shoulders.

‘Wow! It’s stunning!’ he breathed as he followed me round the back of the house, ‘this all yours?’ He surveyed the neatly thatched roof, the row of tiny windows, the grape-like lilacblue wisteria flowers drooping over the door.

‘Yes, it is. Deceptive from the front, isn’t it?’ I said proudly.

‘It’s amazing!’ he replied, looking around him.

‘Thank you. Would you care for some tea? Or homemade lemonade perhaps?’ I asked, smiling, ‘then I can take you on a quick tour…if you’d like that is…’

‘Yes, please!’ he answered, seeking out the cast iron table and chairs next to the door. He assumed his position.

‘Cake?’ I shouted over my shoulder.

‘Lovely!’ he exclaimed, stretching out his long legs and sunning his face.

Abandoned tea stewed in the pot, midges floated in dregs lying at the bottom of forgotten China cups, sparrows flitted, pecking at tiny morsels of lemon drizzle as the quick tour ended between my pretty bedsheets underneath the low-beamed ceiling in the bedroom, obscured by the fat flowery  wisteria fingers hanging over the windows like a child covering their eyes.

After that day, we couldn’t bear to be apart, so he moved out of his grotty flat in Mansfield and gave up his job in telesales to become an artist. His inspiration obvious he stated, joyous, as we built a little studio on the site of a dilapidated, unused greenhouse in the corner of the garden.

Paperwork in place, we exchanged vows at the end of Summer when the Magnolia flowers had long gone. There was still enough flame colour left in the garden to host the party where family and friends expressed slight surprise at our haste but, we exclaimed gleefully, ‘sometimes you just know!’ Others were simply pleased I’d gotten over Stephen.

We locked up for Winter and spent months cruising the Caribbean, staying in bed all day and drinking champagne in the evening. Eventually returning, tanned, happy and plump from all the excess to an unkempt garden and a musty cottage. I busily set to work, giving Phillip the space to paint and drink champagne.

It was about three years before money started running low. Phillip hadn’t sold a single piece, despite my connections. I told him we couldn’t continue as we were and with that, he disappeared; his studio left in a state of disarray, champagne bottles strewn on the floor. I was heartbroken and took refuge one early spring day under my tree, wrapped in a picnic blanket, lost in a book.

‘Hello Mr Edwards,’ said a polite voice, ‘how are you?’

‘Oh, hello Gregory. I’m ok thanks. I’ve not seen you since our erm…’ I answered, words faltering.

‘Wedding…’ he paused, ‘I heard about… you know…’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said sighing, folding down the page and closing my book, ‘how are you anyway?’

He picked at a small piece of moss on the wall, ‘I’m good thanks. Not heard from him then?’

‘No… I don’t expect to either,’ I said, sadly.

‘No idea where he’s gone?’ he asked.

‘I have some ideas,’ I shrugged. A large petal fell onto the picnic blanket. I picked it up and placed it inside my book, ‘I’m pretty sure he won’t be back… Unlucky in love I guess…’

He stared at me with his hands in his pockets, liquid brown eyes, caressed by soft, thick lashes.

‘Interesting?’ he asked nodding at the book.

‘Oh this?’ I asked holding it up, ‘just an old thing from university.’

‘Your tree ‘s looking nice,’ he continued gazing up at the Magnolia.

I stretched my neck upwards, ‘yes, it is, isn’t it? Seems to be flowering well this year. A good fertilizer makes all the difference.’

He stood, fidgeting.

I placed my book down amongst the petals. The daisies nodding conspiratorially in the slight breeze, ‘care for some tea or home-made lemonade perhaps? Only I could do with the company…’ I said, getting to my feet and brushing the cool earth from my trousers.

‘Yes please, that would be lovely’ he replied with a broad smile.

‘Great!’ I said smiling, ‘please call me Jessie by the way.’

He took his hands out of his pockets, levered his long limbs over the low wall and followed me round the back of the house.