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Say it With Flowers
"What on earth are you doing?" Joe called from the lounge window.
Margaret, wrapped against the autumn chill, knelt on the lawn beside a large bag of bulbs.
"Isn’t it time you put my tea on?" Joe added before Margaret could tell him she was naturalising crocuses.
He wouldn’t want to know anyway, wasn’t interested.
"Silly woman," he muttered, slamming the window shut. "She must be nearly finished with gardening for this year. I’ll get a roast on Sunday when she packs that in for the winter. A man needs his Sunday roast; my father always had one every Sunday - all year round."
Sure enough, from October to March Joe had his Sunday roasts and Margaret stayed out of the garden. She peered longingly at it; her refuge, salvation from her overbearing husband.
When spiky leaves pushed through the frosty grass she knew spring was on its way; rebirth, new start and her heart sang.
"Why are you always gawping out that window? Can’t you stand looking at me?"
How Margaret longed to answer freely. Soon enough she would, and in style.
He would be sure to get the message. She estimated there would be two maybe three roasts to go.
"Margaret, have you got that kettle on yet, I’m gasping? Margaret!"
There was no radio playing downstairs.
"Don’t tell me she’s back in that ruddy garden again. It’s barely March!"
Joe tugged back the bedroom curtains.
In the neatest of yellow banners he read in newly opened crocuses - GOODBYE.
