Carry On Tuesday - The Language of the Roses

'The red rose whispers of passion,

And the white rose breathes of love.'

He circled the back of her hand as he murmured these words. She glanced at him, unsure if there was a hidden meaning. Then he laughed and said, 'Who believes that rubbish anyway?'

The next day he sent her a bouquet of yellow roses and a brief note. 'I'm grateful for our friendship but I can't see you any more. If you want to know why look in the announcements column of today's paper. Please believe you'll always be special to me.D x'

When she had recovered from the shock of reading about his forthcoming marriage she laughed. The irony of the roses was lost on him. He had, despite his dismissal of the meaning of the colours, sent her yellow roses for amity, the Victorian meaning of jealousy having been superseded. However, not only was she French she was also a Muslim and in both those cultures yellow roses signified something less attractive. In Islamic folk lore they represented deceit, treachery and adultery. In France they were a metaphor for infidelity. 'How apt,' she thought as she dumped the flowers in a waste basket.

Thank you to the organiser of this meme.

To read more responses to the Carry On Tuesday prompt please click here

Carry On Tuesday - Regrets

'You would have understood me, had you waited.'

Would she have understood if she had waited? She walked through the park, trying to gather her scattered thoughts and emotions. She had believed she knew him so well. She had thought she could guess his reaction and response to any event. She had loved the safe feeling that he was predictable, that he would never shock her. She hadn't expected him to do or think anything unusual. Others might feel that he was boring and unexciting, but she liked his lack of imagination, his ordinariness, his undemanding friendship.

They had not known each other very long, a matter of months. She grimaced, thinking now that they hadn't actually known each other at all. Now she knew she had constructed too much on their relationship, been too eager to encourage greater intimacy. That had always been one of her problems and it had become less easy to ignore as she grew older. Many, though not all, of her friends were married and some had babies. 'Biological clock ticking' her sister always joked whenever she excitedly mentioned a new man in her life. Every time she grinned unconvincingly and wished her sister, with her wonderful husband and three delightful children, elsewhere.

This time it really had seemed that he was 'Her One And Only', her 'Mr Right', her 'Prince Charming'. Thinking in clichés for a few seconds had taken her mind off her situation but the wrenching in her guts, the awful sick feeling that takes away appetite and hope at the same time had returned. She was – what? How did she feel? It was a mixture of loss, sadness and contempt that she felt. She had been betrayed, deceived and humiliated. Deep down, though, she knew she was being unfair. He had tried so many times to tell her. She remembered the instances – over coffee one morning, during an afternoon stroll by the river, drinking cocktails in a smart bar. There were other times as well but on each occasion he had looked straight at her, cleared his throat and started, 'I need to tell you something,' and every time she had interrupted in her eagerness to prolong the happy moment. Once she had said, 'I must tell you something, too – I've never felt happier than I am with you.' Another day she had put her fingers to his lips and smiled sweetly, whispering, 'Not now – tell me later.'

The last time, two days ago, he had changed his words slightly. 'I wanted to ask you . . . ' but before he could finish she had gasped, her eyes had filled with tears and she had murmured, 'Oh, yes please!' thinking that at last wedding bells would ring for her. He looked at her and shook his head slightly. She gazed rapturously at him, thinking how much she loved him. He stared back and said, 'I'm not who you think I am.' She had laughed and said, 'Of course you are . . . 'then paused as a thought occurred to her. 'You're not already married are you? Are you waiting for your divorce? It doesn't matter, we can wait.'

He said slowly, 'No, I'm not married or getting divorced.'

'Well, then what?' she asked. 'Is there a problem?' She was beginning to feel uneasy for he wore such a strange expression.

'I value our friendship.' She winced at this. 'You're a warm and loving woman and I thought you would understand when I told you . . . ' He hesitated and she leant further forward, urging him on.

'I am in therapy, have been for some years.'

She had nodded impatiently at this. Going to a shrink was no news, nothing to get excited about. Hell, she'd even considered it herself once or twice. He was in therapy . . . what had he called it? SRT? She hadn't paid much attention, thinking it was something like STD and yet another reason for his reticence in the physical side of their relationship.

He had regarded her closely. 'Do you understand what I'm saying?'

A child hurtled past on a skateboard. How could life carry on so normally? As she considered the last few months she began to realise the assumptions she had made. He had never attempted to make love to her. She had thought that unusual but rather refreshing. He had never told her he loved her, though she had told him so many times. She had supposed he was too shy to say it and she had liked his bashfulness. He rarely kissed her unless on the cheek. That meant he truly respected her. There were other indicators. She had liked his smooth boyish skin and admired his beautifully manicured hands. His voice was soft and gentle, his demeanour self-effacing. He dressed impeccably in fine cloth and linen and enjoyed going shopping with her. He always complimented her on what she was wearing. He noticed when she wore a different scent and used sweet-smelling lotions. He discussed skin and hair care products with her. He talked of facials and massages. Many men appreciated such things. They didn't all have Sex Reassignment Therapy.
She stopped, aghast. How could she have been so unaware? So great was her desire to be part of a couple that she had built a fallacious liaison without observing or listening to the person she was with. She had really liked him too, as a friend, and now that was gone too.

'You would have understood me, had you waited,' he had said sadly.

Go here to read more Carry On Tuesday stories.

Carry on Tuesday - Barn Dance

A lantern light from deeper in the barn shone on a man and woman in the door

Deeper in the barn
A lantern light shone warmly
To welcome them in.

They stood a moment
The man supporting his wife
And then they stepped in.

Music and laughter,
A caller telling the steps –
They smiled and joined in.

A short while later
He pulled out a stiletto
And randomly slashed.

'No reason for it,'
The police officer said,
'Happily married.'

And the dead victims
Gazing sightlessly at him
Had been happy too.

Thank you to Keith for organising this meme.

See more compositions here

Carry on Tuesday – It was thick and black and covered with dust . . .

They had been clearing out the attic. For decades items no longer required had been pushed up there, out of sight and out of mind. They were things for which there was no current use but which might come in handy later on. How anyone could think that a rusty hamster cage would ever again be useful was a question not to be asked. There was a buggy, too and a doll's cot, both old-fashioned though not in a collectable sense. Oil heaters, used in previous cold homes, gathered dust on their burners. Baby clothes and teenagers' fashions, scout uniforms, wedding finery had been gnawed into holes and used for nesting and bringing up generations of mice. There were spare rolls of wallpaper still in their original wrappings left over from decorating children's rooms twenty years ago. Outgrown riding boots, wellingtons, slippers had seemingly tramped across the boards and then been cast off so that the pairs were separated. Shoes without laces, sandals without buckles, trousers and jeans, buttons missing, zips broken – what emotional hold had these that they were not either mended or discarded but stored under the roof?

All attics have at least one trunk and a couple of old suitcases in them and this loft was no exception. The cases contained a few scraps of paper – receipts and invoices for purchases and jobs completed long ago. The trunk looked more interesting. It held a couple of tin boxes with small toys – zoo and farm animals, cars and trucks, building bricks. Those were set aside for visiting children.

Behind the trunk were mountains of books – old exercise books and school text books. One book teetered atop a pile of larger tomes. It was thick and black and covered with dust. Its boards were bowed and creaking. It looked dull and uninspiring and parts of it had provided a passing snack for small rodents. As he handed it to her to put in the refuse pile an envelope dropped out. She gasped. He, unusually attuned, for memories had been evoked for him in the course of this clear-out through photographs and birthday and Christmas cards, old examination papers, asked why she was thus alerted.

Tremulously she showed him the envelope. Of course it meant nothing to him until she explained that the writing was her grandmother's. She had always been close to her grandmother, her confidante in her final years indeed and her grandmother had always implied that she had left something for her granddaughter, something to enrich her life. He asked her what she meant and she replied that she had no clear idea of her grandmother's intent but that she had always been led to believe that her grandmother had hidden treasures – maybe this envelope contained the clue or the key to that bounty. Perhaps she was about to become an heiress?! There had been family rumours of immense but lost wealth, of valuable artefacts hidden in inaccessible locations.

Carefully she withdrew the fragile single sheet from the envelope, breathing in the faded scent of her grandmother and smiling reminiscently. She was eager yet reluctant to discover the knowledge at which the writer had hinted. She closed her eyes, prolonging the moment of realisation, breathed deeply and focussed on the words in front of her.

These are my last words to you, my darling Granddaughter. I have lived my life by them and I hope you will too. Contrary to family rumours I have never had great wealth or wondrous possessions. I enjoyed the love of a good man, your grandfather, who gave up his expectations of power and money to marry for love. Your great-uncle, his younger brother, became then the beneficiary of your Great-Grandfather's fortune, taking over the administration of the business. I was never happier than when married to my beloved husband. I received this from him and lived by it .

She looked at the words, in such beautiful calligraphy, and suppressed a sigh; she had expected nothing and in return she had received a treatise by which to live . . .

'This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.'

She fell into hysterical laughter and her husband, concerned, watched her.

'Let's get on, clearing this mess,' she said and he agreed for tomorrow the estate agents would arrive to evaluate the house – and the selling price would be agreed. Perhaps that would be the prize.

Click here to see more variations on Carry on Tuesday

Carry On Tuesday

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams . . .

She thought she was asleep and kept telling herself she was asleep even though she could hear a fox barking in the distance. She must sleep well for tomorrow would come all too soon and there would be so much to do on what would be such an unforgettable day. Her mind raced as she tossed and turned in the tangled bed coverings.

Gradually she became aware of his hand on hers squeezing her fingers in the old familiar way. Love expresses itself in so many ways – a wink, a gesture, a gentle nudge. She sighed and relaxed and the fox’s shrill cry faded as she slipped further into the delicious heavy-limbed approach to deep sleep. That loved and loving hand caressed hers, stroking soothingly, leading her into sweet dreams and promises of joys to come.

With the full bright of the day came awakening. She stretched and smiled as she turned to her husband. She could still feel the warmth of his body next to hers but he was not there. Today, this momentous day, was the occasion of his funeral.

Read more stories at Carry On Tuesday