A single rose on a cold stone step by David Holman-Hill Waters

A single Rose on a cold stone step

November’s Irish Sky glowered. Rain drifted in swathes, squalling across the late afternoon landscape. Trees, hunched against the squalls, stood bent and forlorn in the prevailing wind.

No longer green and warm earthen browns, fields, peppered with purple heather, merged into gloomy bluish grey anonymity. Earthy scents hung heavily on the dank air, thickly assaulting the senses.

From the lee of his low slung stone cottage Donal Fitzgerald pulled an old feed sack tighter about his shoulders and stepped out into the remorseless drizzle.

Rain began to drip from the peak of his weather worn cap, running down his ruddy cheeks, soaking his muffler. He tilted his face forward and set himself against the elements.

Trudging the muddy lanes it took a good twenty minutes before, light dwindling, Donal arrived at a clutch of cottages and dilapidating out-buildings nestled beneath a rocky outcrop.

From several cottages lamplight glowed softly. Approaching a peeling blue door Donal knocked and respectfully stepped back. The door was opened by a stout woman in a crossover pinney, her grey hair lank. She looked Donal up and down coldly.

“Ah, good day to ya missus, maybees I could be havin’ a quiet word wid Consumpta?”

“Wait there.” The instruction was said flat and without feeling.

Half closing the door the figure disappeared inside.

Moments later she reappeared, her expression unchanged.

“She says no.”

“It’ll only take a moment missus and I’ll be gone. Would you be good enough to ask again?”

Reluctantly, the figure retreated into the inner sanctum, this time returning more quickly.

“The answer’s no, she doesn’t want to see you.”

Donal stood for a moment absorbing the words, unsure what to do next. Then, reaching under his jacket, he produced a small bunch of crushed flowers.

“Then missus would you be givin’ her these?”

He held the bedraggled bunch toward the doorway.

Wiping her hands on her pinney the figure took the flowers, nodding her head in acceptance of the request and straightway shut the door.

Back in his own cottage Donal removed his sodden boots and added another log to the fire. Easing the cooking pot, hanging from a hinged bracket over it toward him, he ladled out a bowl of the thick warming stew and poured himself a glass of Porter.

Settling into the old chair before the hearth, he ate slowly, sipping quietly at the comforting dark liquid. As the flames flickered his thoughts flickered with them. He dozed.

He couldn’t be sure what woke him. The lamp had gone out and there were only embers in the hearth. Consciousness came slowly.

Something was stirring outside. On rigoured limbs he crossed to the door. A grey dawn was just casting its first early light.

A figure, standing at the gate, turned.

“She said you’d understand.” Offered the figure, pointing to the step.

Donal, still surfacing, looked down. A single rose lay on the cold stone step.

“The brother will be up from Dublin. The wake’s on Tuesday, if you’re minded.”