Roses in December

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Roses in December Copyright © 2005 by Fiona Glass All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. ISBN: 1-933389-87-7

Printed in the United States of America.

Torquere Press electronic edition / July 2006

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

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Prologue - Winter 1993 It was a Saturday night in Belfast like any other. A little busier with Christmas only a few days away; a little wetter because of the afternoon's rain. The shoppers had all gone home, the stores dark and mysterious behind their boarded windows, but the bars were open, throwing pink and blue striped neon reflections across the greasy pavements. One in particular, with the name 'Shenanigans' and a lucky green shamrock zapping on and off above its door, was heaving. Snatches of The Bluebells' Young at Heart bled onto the street as the doors opened and closed around groups of revellers, teenagers mostly, their thick coats blowing open to reveal the sequinned frocks and silk shirt-fronts beneath. A steady stream passed in and out, chattering like jackdaws, cheeking the ever-patient doormen, making calls on their trendy new mobile phones and greeting new arrivals like long-lost friends. Only one man was alone. Head down, collar up, hands in pockets, he swung at speed along the street, keeping to the shadows until he reached the sheltered hulk of a transit van, parked a safe distance away along the kerb. Ducking, he whistled the first three bars of the Londonderry Air before wrenching the van's back doors open and scrambling inside. "All right, Ger, only me," he said to a second man crouched behind the seats who reared up in alarm at his approach. The second man subsided again. "All set?" "All set. They'll be here any minute now." "So who did you phone?" "The News. Just like Brendan said. The Provos always go to them." "Did you give the right codes and everything?" "Course I did. What d'you take me for, now? Sure and it's all taken care of." He rubbed a hand through thick black hair, dislodging the occasional bead of rain, and shivered inside his denim jacket. "Fucking cold out there." Silence returned to the van, and they sat for a while, blowing on their hands and keeping their heads down except for an occasional glance outside. The dark-haired man drummed his fingers on the back of the seat. "Come on, come on, you're never telling me it hasn't worked...." The clatter of many booted feet rang out, and he gave a triumphant hoot, part cheer, part laugh. "Ha! Here they come, right on time!" A posse of soldiers rounded the corner and headed, running, for the bar. Ten or a dozen, all men, bundled into the thick khaki fatigues of the British Army, rifles slung over shoulders in a manner that seemed careless, until you looked again. They paused by the bar doors, grouping, listening as their leader issued orders,

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then began to move. Two loped off down a side street, heading no doubt for the rear; two more took up covering positions across the street. The rest, it seemed, were going inside. The second man wiped a hole in the mist on the van window with his sleeve. "Is he there? Can you see him?" There was a pause, then, "Yeah. There by the door. Him with the pale face and the eyebrows. That's the one." "Good-looking bugger." "That's what our Sean thought. Daft young bastard." "Hardly his fault, Col. He's only a kid. Wouldn't know any better." "I know, I know. That's why sunny Jim over there's got to pay. I'm not having me own flesh and blood dragged into a life of sin, whatever Father John might be telling me about forgiveness." "I don't blame you, Col. Be just the same if it was my family. You've got to look out for your own." "Don't you worry now, I'll be doing that. Look -- they're going in! Won't be long now...." Sure enough, the officer had finished a conversation with the bouncers and now pointed to the doors. Four men, including the one Col had pointed out, peeled off the group and dived inside, and soon a skein of frightened girls and boys was ravelling through the door. Col began to count. "Five, six... nine.... Not too many, now, or there'll be nothing to keep the Tommies in there. Come on, come on, any second now.... Yes!" His clenched fist punching the air accompanied his shout of jubilation, as a starburst of eyeaching brilliance bloomed from the bar's door, followed by a blast that rocked the transit on its wheels. Smoke billowed and flames began to lick, and a multicoloured rain of wood and brick and worse began to fall from the sky. "That's it -- I reckon we've seen enough," said the second man. "There's not going to be too many more coming out of there tonight. Except on stretchers." Col grinned. "Yeah. We nailed him all right. That'll teach the fucking Brits to keep their pricks to themselves. I hope the bastard's suffering. Serve him right for screwing our Sean, and thinking he could get away with it. Well, come on, get moving. We don't want to be hanging round here half the night waiting for the bloody RUC." The second man spat on the floor at the name. "Okay, okay, keep your fucking hair on. I'm going as fast as I can." He crawled forward through the gap in the front seats, settled himself behind the wheel, and cranked the key in the ignition. "Bloody funny when you think about it," he added, crashing the gears into first. "They'll all be blaming the Provos. They'll never know it was us!" "Why d'you think I did it this way?" said Col. "Hey, stop off at the Ivy Tree on the way back, Ger. I reckon a celebration's in order!" Roses in December - 4

Part One - Autumn 1994

“Come here, let me help you with that.... All those buttons -- and you’re all fingers and thumbs today.” “I can’t help it, I can’t stop looking at you. God, you’re beautiful without your clothes on. So nice -- oh, that’s so good. Don’t stop, oh, yesss.” “Like that, do you?” “It’s... wonderful. Don’t stop -- I need you, need you to do that to me. Oh! Oh God....” “Know just what you like, just what turns you on, don’t I? You won’t find anyone else like me.” “I don’t want to. It’s you I want. Just you, always. Don’t leave me. Say you’ll never leave me.” “Nah, won’t leave you, will I? Love you too much for that. Love you forever, I will.” I. The journey to the new hospital seemed to take forever. Nat, hunched in the back of a taxi and wincing every time they hit a bump, watched in despair as mile after mile of countryside sped past, without the smallest hint they were getting closer to their goal. An hour out of the station at Crewe, he chucked his paperback to one side and began to fidget. After two, he rapped on the glass between himself and the driver and said, "You sure this is the right way? They told me the place was isolated, but I didn't think it was at the North Pole." The driver, a pudgy, unshaven man in a grey U2 T-shirt with sweat stains under the arms, spat out the cigar stub he'd been messily chewing since Crewe, and scowled at Nat in the rearview mirror without turning round. "Okay, mate, keep yer hair on. I'm doing me best. I don't usually come this far out of town." Nat eyed the meter, ticking round at a rate of knots. "Don't tell me you're lost?" "Karl's Kabs don't get lost -- it says so in our advert. It's got to be somewhere 'round here." Glimpsed through a handy gate, the pattern of fields, hedgerows, and russet-tinged trees stretched to the far horizon, or at least as far as the dim brown smudge that marked the start of the moors. The Staffordshire moors -- high tracts of heath and hill and rock that he'd explored on family holidays years before; long before all this, when they'd still been a family, when his parents still spoke to him and acknowledged his existence beyond a single terse Roses in December - 5

card at Christmas. He shook himself. All this buggering about was ridiculous -- at this rate he'd be renewing his acquaintance with the moors a lot sooner than he wanted, and quite possibly be found wandering in circles in the days to come. "Well it doesn't look to me like it's anywhere near here. Why don't you turn round and ask for directions at that last village? Least that way you'll save a lot of pissing about." In the mirror, the driver gave him the evil eye. "You don't like my driving, I can always pull over and let you out," he said, with what seemed like unnecessary relish. Nat opened his mouth, drew breath, and closed it again. Time was when he wouldn't have let that past, when he'd have insisted the driver stopped so he could teach him some manners, preferably at the wrong end of a fist. Not now, though, not with this bloody knee, not to mention all his other problems. Now he was an invalid, helpless, too dependent by far on the goodwill (or otherwise) of those around him. "Don't be daft, where would I go with this leg?" he said, but it was a lot less forceful than it might have been, and afterwards he subsided against the vinyl seat back and sighed again. The driver shrugged and whistled along to something cheerful from the charts that was burbling away on his radio. Nat didn't even recognise the song -- yet another reminder that he'd been cooped up in hospital for far too long, and was in danger of becoming institutionalised. The last time he'd even seen a newspaper had been over two months ago, when the headlines had been full of the new IRA ceasefire. The irony of that hadn't been lost on him, and he'd been so depressed afterwards that the doctors forbade any further interaction with the outside world until he was strong enough to take it. Now, after nine never-ending months, he just hoped the new place would be different. That's what his last doctor had said that Partington was more of a convalescent home than a hospital, and that once he'd spent a few weeks there he'd be on his way home. Home! It was a distant and unreal memory, like a scene viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. Hard to remember his home, hard even to remember what having a home felt like after all the traipsing about from one hospital to another, one specialist centre to another. Besides, he'd be lucky to arrive anywhere the way this driver was mucking about.... Ten minutes later he wondered if he'd misjudged the bloke, as the taxi slowed marginally and veered across the road into a side turning. Tall gateposts loomed to either side of a gravelled drive that plunged like a tunnel between avenues of trees and shrubs, overhanging and very dark. A few hundred yards further on, their way was blocked by an electronic gate, and Nat reckoned he'd never been so glad to see signs of army security -- at least it proved they were getting somewhere. The driver wound his window down and carried on a one-sided conversation into an intercom, and then with a buzz and a click, the gate swung open and they were through. Even now there was no sign of the hospital, just more trees and more drive, looping up to the brow of a hill and back down into a valley where it crossed a tiny stream by means of a massive and castellated bridge. Finally, after several more minutes of driving, they came out of the woods and scrunched to a halt on a wide gravel turning circle, and Nat got his first glimpse of the house that was to be his new home. And almost told the driver to turn round and go straight back.

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"This it?" he asked, his tone wavering from dubious to downright horrified. "It doesn't look anything like a hospital. Where's all the nurses, and the porters, and the ambulances?" "Search me, mate," said the driver, scratching an armpit. "But you saw the gates as well as I did. And there's nowhere else for miles." Well, that was true enough -- they must have covered half the county by now. This must be Partington Towers. And it lived up to its name, at least, with an ivy-clad tower protruding from the collection of gables and chimneys that made up its roofline. It was just that it was so bleak, so completely uninviting. Sooty grey walls, staring windows filled with yards of grimy glass, weeds poking up from the drive and festooning the gutters -- it was more like a Victorian lunatic asylum, or a film set from Psycho, than a place you came to rest and heal. Still, his orders were to report to Partington Towers, and if this was Partington Towers, then report he would. Sighing, he set about manoeuvring his leg out of the taxi without damaging anything, and limped round to haul his holdall out of the boot. He knew without asking that the driver wouldn't do it for him. That gentleman stuck a pudgy hand out of the window, palm uppermost. "That'll be twenty three-fifty, mate. I'm knocking the last couple of mile off, as a favour, like." "Twenty three quid? Christ, no wonder you lot all drive Mercs in your spare time," said Nat, dumping the holdall to rummage for his wallet. "Here -- that's twenty five. Keep the change," he added, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. The driver's fist closed over the money and shot back inside the car at half the speed of sound. "Ta, mate," he said, spat perilously close to Nat's left boot, wound the window back up, and trundled the cab off down the drive. Nat watched it all the way to the first bend until he couldn't see it any more, and a tractor in a nearby field drowned out the drone of its engine. Depression oozed over him like spilled coffee on a priceless rug. True, the driver had been about as charming as dung, but the taxi represented his last link with normality and his old life, and he still wasn't too good at coping with change. Added to that, he was knackered, his leg was giving him hell, and he'd have been quite pleased if the building in front of him had metamorphosed quietly into his old bed in his old hospital ward, and he could have measured his length on the covers and gone to sleep. He stared at it hopefully for a minute or two, but it remained, stubbornly, a grey stone wall pierced here and there by tall sash windows in urgent need of a lick of paint. It didn't help that the weather had changed -- the sun vanishing behind a pall of dark cloud and the breeze that had chased cloud-shadows over the surrounding hills falling away. With the wind had gone all the usual sounds -- so much so that he could hear the rustle of a falling leaf in the trees behind, and the faint snap as it landed on the ground. The tractor had gone, the jets from Manchester that usually buzzed the chimney-tops in this part of the world were strangely absent, and no birds sang. There was just him, and the occasional scuttering leaf, and that was all. He could quite easily have been the last person left on earth. He shook his head, not wanting to follow that line of thought at all. It was a ridiculous idea, anyway -- this was a hospital of sorts; there must be somebody about. Bending stiff-legged, he retrieved his holdall and peered at the house again. It was a sorry sight and no mistake -- if he'd had to guess he'd have said it was uninhabited, or even derelict. Hardly the best place to house a load of nutters and has-beens.... But that was the Army for you. Roses in December - 7

He took a step towards the front door, and as he did, the sun came out again, a dull red glare escaping through a chink in the clouds. It washed the walls in blood and reflected from the windows in a blazing glory of fire. Taking that as an omen, although whether for good or ill he couldn't have said, he hefted his bag over one shoulder, limped up the steps to the front door, and rang the bell. *** Inside, the contrast could hardly have been stronger. The bell had turned out to be yet another intercom. Once he'd reported who he was, the door had opened, apparently by itself, and he'd stepped into a large, high-ceilinged hall. Outside might have been quiet, but in here it was a veritable ants' nest with nurses scurrying and porters shoving wheelchairs about, the chunter of voices and the endless clack of heels on wooden floors. In spite of the sudden warmth and light and bustle, Nat felt every bit as isolated as he had outside. This place existed just fine without him. Everyone knew their respective places except him; everyone knew everyone else except him. It was a bit like the first day at a new school, except that here he had the added drawbacks of a sore knee and a crashing headache to contend with. He stood for a moment just inside the door, conscious of his rumpled appearance after the journey. Wrinkled clothes, fringe flopping into his eyes.... Damned hair was too long, anyway -- the habits the army instilled in you stayed with you for life. He put the holdall down and began to make running repairs, slicking his hair back with one hand and twitching his uniform into order with the other. And all the while his eyes were busy, watching the confusion, seeking to make sense of a disordered situation, just as he'd been taught. Finally he realised that what had seemed like the random scurryings of ants did, in fact, have a pattern. Most of the movement in the hallway centred on a large desk in the corner, bristling with computer monitors and manned, if that was the right word, by a severe-looking young woman with scraped-back hair, wearing a smart number two uniform. Ah -- the reception desk, or control centre, or whatever they wanted to call it -- and further evidence that this was indeed his rightful destination. He picked up his holdall yet again, and took a zig-zag path towards the desk, avoiding collisions with three nurses and a trolley on the way. His knee was still bad enough for him to be wary of sudden contact. As he approached, the young woman looked up from her bank of monitors, raised an eyebrow at his stripes, and stood to attention. "Can I help you, sir?" Her voice sounded as though she smoked at least sixty a day, but her attitude was helpful enough. At last, a friendly face.... "I hope so," he began, dropping his holdall yet again as his arm started to ache from the strain. God only knew what he'd packed in there; the latest move had come as something of a rush. "Sergeant Brook, reporting as requested. Er, this is Partington Towers?" "Yes, sir." "Thank God for that. You don't exactly advertise." "No, sir. Sergeant Brook, you said? I'll just let someone know you're...." Roses in December - 8

Before she could finish the sentence, a louder series of clicks announced the approach of someone across the parquet floor. Nat turned, cranking his stiffening neck muscles, and found a nurse -- no, wrong uniform, make that a sister -- hovering at his elbow. Unusually for a nurse, she wore heels, but even with those, the top of her head was only level with his shoulder, and she reminded him of a small and harassed mouse. "Sergeant Brook?" she said, peering up at him. She must have liked what she saw, because her face, plain in repose, suddenly sparked to life with a wide and friendly smile. Nat sighed. He'd forgotten he still had that effect on women. Tall, dark, and handsome, or so he'd been told. It was a killer combination, and right now he really wasn't in the mood. He stood to attention automatically, even though he probably outranked her. "That's me." "Oh, thank goodness. We were beginning to worry. You're nearly two hours late." The last was said in faintly accusing tones, and he wondered why everything these days seemed to be his fault. "Er, yeah, sorry about that. The escort put me on the train okay, but the taxi driver got lost on the way over from Crewe." "I see. Well, never mind that now. Come with me, and I'll show you to your room. Wilson, bring the Sergeant's bag." Wilson was the lass behind the desk. She stepped forward and took Nat's holdall, and the three of them set off in a comical procession -- the sister in front, Nat hobbling along for all he was worth six paces behind, and Wilson bringing up the rear. Somewhere in the maze of corridors the order changed and he found he was getting left behind; by the time they'd left the main house and marched through a series of Nissen huts tacked onto the rear they were faint blurs on the horizon and he wondered if he would ever catch them up. Perhaps he should just give up now, stay where he was, and hope they came back for him -- better to be a coward than get lost on his very first day. Before it came to that, at the far end of the last hut before Timbuctoo, he was ushered through a side door and found himself in his new room. It was a single, and his first impression was that it was clean and bright, if sparsely furnished. There was a narrow metal-framed bed, a locker for his stuff, a wooden chair, and a washbasin in the corner, and that was that. Well, it was hardly the Ritz, but then this was hardly a holiday. As long as the bed was comfortable he'd be fine. At least, he'd be fine if the sister would stop flitting about and leave him in peace. She was like a particularly irritating fly, buzzing round the room, drawing the curtains, turning down the bedcovers, showing Wilson where to put his bag. Finally, she seemed to run out of things to do, and stopped in the exact centre of the room, blocking Nat's path to the bed. "Well, I think that's everything," she said, smiling again. "I hope you'll be comfortable here. The bathroom's two doors down on the right and Elsie -- she's one of our volunteers -- will be along later with some food. Until then I suggest you try to get some rest. I expect you need it after the journey." And I would if you'd just leave me alone, Nat thought, struggling not to let his impatience show. If he was serious about getting better he needed people like this -- it was stupid to Roses in December - 9

antagonise them the minute he arrived. "Thanks," he said, sidling towards the bed and hoping she took the hint. Thankfully, she did -- or she'd remembered that she was needed somewhere else. Heading for the door, she said, "Right then, Sergeant, I'll leave you to get unpacked. Oh -- I almost forgot. The bell's by the head of the bed. If you need anything at all, just ring and ask for me. My name's Sister Andrews. My friends call me Rose." Once again he fought to keep his face impassive. All those evenings spent playing poker with the lads were having some benefit after all. "Thanks," he said again, and breathed a sigh of relief as she left, before turning it into a snort. Rose, indeed. Just what kind of trouble would he land himself in if he started to call her that? Not only would it give her all the wrong ideas, but it was damned unprofessional to boot. He eyed the bed. Were they as strict here about boots on the bedspread as they were everywhere else? Probably -- which meant he had a choice between struggling with the laces or settling for the chair. In the end, in deference to his throbbing head, he chose the latter and subsided onto its wooden seat with a groan, leaning back until his hair just brushed the wall. Christ -- what he wouldn't give to be fit again, and jetting off on the next tour of duty with his mates, instead of all this creeping and crawling and feeling so damned sorry for himself. He'd lost track of where his unit was now. They'd come back from the Province a good six months ago, he knew, but after that nobody had bothered to keep him up to date. The chair was as uncomfortable as it looked, and after ten minutes he eyed the bed with longing again. Bugger these boots.... Bringing his good leg up he balanced it gingerly on his knee and unpicked the laces, which had got themselves into a knot, then dragged the boot off with a sigh and wriggled his toes. That was better -- now for the tricky bit. It was hard to reach your feet when you couldn't bend one knee, but luckily he was more flexible now than he'd been a few weeks ago and could stick his leg out sideways and just about stretch. After a good deal of squirming he got the other boot off, followed by his socks, and dumped them in a heap. That was one good thing about hospitals -- they didn't have kit inspections and every now and again he could be as messy as he liked. Hauling himself from chair to bed he found the mattress wasn't too bad -- a bit soft in places perhaps, but at least it supported his leg. He punched the pillow a couple of times, lay down, and almost immediately felt his eyes begin to close. Sister Andrews had left the light on, though, and the unshaded bulb was shining straight into his face. He fished round by the bed until he found a pull-cord that he didn't think was attached to the bell, yanked it experimentally, and the light flicked off. After that, he drifted off to sleep. The dream started again almost straight away. Light fading to darkness, and pools of smoke so thick they made you choke, and the sound of crackling as the flames crept closer, and odd groans and half-heard screams. His back felt as though someone had hit it with an axe, and there was a strange weight on his leg, and he couldn't move. Couldn't move, and the fire was heading this way... couldn't move, and he knew he was going to die.... A bang and clatter at the door jarred him awake, and he lay for a moment, disorientated, as light streamed through the open door and a figure loomed over the bed. Who was that? One of the murdering IRA bastards, come to finish him off? But no, this wasn't the bar; this was a

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hospital, and he was safe. He wiped the sweat off his face with one hand and struggled to sit up. "Hang on a mo, just let me put this down and I'll give you a hand," said the figure, clarifying as his sight cleared into an elderly woman with fluffy white hair and a laden tray. The aforementioned Elsie, presumably, with his tea. "That's okay, I can usually manage better than this," he said, trying to wriggle upright against the pillow, which had slipped and was digging into his back. "Guess I must have dozed off." "Then I'm sorry to wake you, love, but I 'ave to bring the trays round at six. Here," as she dumped the tray on the locker and stuck a bony arm under his shoulders. "Heave ho! That's got you right." "Yeah. Thanks." He'd come up a bit suddenly and was waiting for the nausea to strike, but for once nothing happened. Whether that was Elsie's comforting, motherly presence, or the fragrant steam wafting from the general direction of the tray, he wasn't sure, but it had to be a good sign. "Smells great," he added, doing a fair impression of one of the Bisto kids. "What is it?" "Steak and kidney pie, mash and peas," said Elsie, settling the tray across his lap, lifting the cover from the plate with the air of a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat, and producing knife, fork and napkin from the top pocket of her overalls. "Plain, but good. We've got a kitchen here, you know, so it's all homemade." "It's fantastic," said Nat, through a mouthful of gravy-soaked mash. "Glad to hear it, love. You eat up now -- you look as though you could do with it. Bit peaky, like. I'll be back later to pick up the empties." He waved a gravy-smeared knife at her farewell and re-applied himself to the plate. He'd had nothing to eat since a plastic-ham sandwich on the train, and was starving, and the food really was good, with tender chunks of beef and -- miracle of miracles -- real fresh peas, which made a change from all the tinned and frozen stuff at the last place. He cleared his plate, scraping as much of the gravy off as he could without actually licking it, then balanced the tray on the locker for Elsie to collect. The whole process took less than ten minutes, and then he sat and twiddled his thumbs. Now what? The evening stretched before him, a vast blank canvas of possibilities. Presumably there was a television lounge somewhere, and a shop, and perhaps a gym and swimming pool. He could go and explore... or as Sister Andrews had said, there was his unpacking to do, not that that would take him long. It was hardly rocket science to transfer the contents of one holdall to the tiny selection of storage spaces in the room. And at least he could investigate just what he'd shoved in the bag, and what he'd left behind and would need to replace in the days ahead. Grabbing his bag, he set to work. His dress uniform, not too badly creased, went on a hanger on the hook at the back of the door, along with his dressing gown, second pair of boots in the bottom of the locker, jeans and shirts on the middle shelf, and clean socks and undies in the drawer at the top. His washbag he stood on the shelf over the washbasin, having first Roses in December - 11

removed a sliver of old soap and somebody's used razor blade from one end. At the bottom of the bag he found his precious collection of books, which were presumably what had been weighing him down. He chucked those on the bed until the top of the locker was free and he could stack them in easy reach. He hadn't been sleeping too well since the blast; it was comforting in the middle of the night, when he woke drenched in sweat from yet another replay of events, to switch on the light and reach out for a book. They were only paperbacks, mostly battered beyond repair, but he'd managed to collect a few of his favourites -- thrillers by Clancy and Ludlum, an adventure set in the SAS, and best of all, three slim volumes of poems. He'd no sooner stowed his empty bag under the bed than Elsie came back for the tray. "Up and about? You look better already. Told you the food was good." He grinned. "I feel better. Hadn't really eaten since breakfast. Well, not unless you count a British Rail sandwich." Her shudder was eloquent. "Bit of R&R and a few square meals, and we'll 'ave you back on your feet in no time. That is what you lot call it, isn't it? R&R? I picked that one up from a captain we 'ad in here a few years back. Ever such a nice gentleman, he was." "That's right." He wished it was as straightforward as she'd suggested, but privately he had the feeling it would take a hell of a lot more than that. You didn't get over post-traumatic stress disorder with a couple of weeks in bed, and this leg wasn't exactly behaving itself either. The depression was seeping back, colouring his surroundings a deep shade of grey, and he let Elsie's chatter wash over his head. Until something she said penetrated the fog, something about the captain reminding her of 'her Richie'. It was said in such a wistful tone that he immediately looked at the third finger of her left hand. Sure enough, a heavy gold band sat there, slightly incongruous on her thin fingers, all bone and knotted joints. "He's dead, then, your husband?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the black mood hovering ominously just out of reach above his head. She seemed surprised. "Harold? Oh, yes, love, he popped off many a long year ago. I still miss him, of course, but there -- you 'ave to take whatever life throws at you, as my old nurse used to say. Now, enough of my rambling, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Elsie Webster. What's your name, love? We was expecting two new ones today, Sergeant Brook and Captain, erm, Thrake, I think it was. Bet you're the captain -- you've an officer's way about you." Nat grinned again and denied all knowledge of the captain. "I'm Nathaniel Brook. Nat to my friends." He realised he was echoing 'Rose', but thankfully Elsie didn't seem to mind nearly as much as he had. "I'll call you Nat, then. It’s less of a mouthful," she said. "Right, that's me done for the night. I'd best be getting home -- don't want to miss Coronation Street." The lure of soap opera was lost on Nat, but he was curious to know where round here she could live. There'd been precious little sign of civilisation whilst the taxi driver was getting lost. "Is it far?" he asked.

Roses in December - 12

"What? Home? Oh, no, only as far as the village. Down the back drive and round the corner past the church. And if the weather's bad my next-door neighbour gets the van out and gives me a lift. He works here and all, in the garden." "I hadn't realised there was a village," said Nat, annoyed that they'd missed it. They could have stopped and asked for directions, and saved themselves that bloody awful trek. "I don't know that most folks do. It's only small. Used to belong to the Towers at one time, of course, but that's all changed now. You need anything else for the night, love, before I go? Cup of tea, glass of milk? The water from the tap's all right to drink, as long as you run it a bit. Otherwise it comes out warm." He shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Don't miss Corrie on my account!" "That would never do." She clattered herself and the tray back out, and shut the door, leaving him and the depression alone together. He fought against it for a while, telling himself firmly that it was just a phase, that it would pass soon enough, and that it was just another part of being ill. Something must have worked, because eventually the spinning black tunnel receded, leaving him with a sudden craving for tobacco -- and no cigarettes. Blast! And now Elsie had gone home, and he'd forgotten to ask her where he could buy more. He could always ring the bell, of course, but he was reluctant to renew his acquaintance with 'Rose' just yet, and besides, she was more likely to know that he wasn't really allowed to smoke. Given some of the more colourful medication he'd been on lately it was a very bad idea, and one he didn't often give in to, except for times like this when he was at his lowest ebb. This time, though, unless he wanted to go rummaging around the hospital and get himself hopelessly lost in all those corridors yet again, he was just going to have to make do without. Giving in to the resultant attack of the fidgets, he began to pace the tiny room, but was forced to stop when he found there was too little space to manoeuvre his leg whenever he wanted to turn round. Inching past the bed to the window, he drew back the curtains, wondering if there was a view. The late autumn daylight had already bled away and the view was nothing more than vague black shapes, without so much a street lamp to shed some light. From that he guessed his room was at the back, perhaps overlooking what must once have been the garden. Most of these big houses had had a few acres to their name -- and hadn't Elsie mentioned a gardener earlier? So perhaps this one still had. Visions of gravel paths and sedate nurses wheeling people about in bath chairs rose to mind, and he shook his head. Given the army's cost cutting, the reality was likely to be a lot scruffier than that. Seen too many old war movies, that's your trouble, he told himself, and rested his forehead on the glass, staring sightlessly out into the dark. Truth be told, he didn't quite know what to expect from his stay at Partington Towers. His only experience of convalescent homes was indeed from watching old films, and he was quite sure they were nothing like that any more. The doctors at his last place had been encouraging. "Do you the world of good to get away from it all for a while," one had said. And, "Good Lord, man, three meals a day, a damn good rest, and all the pretty nurses you could ask for -- what's not to like?" when he hadn't immediately jumped at the idea. Roses in December - 13

But he'd had the feeling even then that they were jollying him along, and that nothing could really be that simple, or that good. Something he'd no doubt find out for himself in the morning.

Roses in December - 14

II. Morning brought more in the way of appointments than revelations. After pushing a piece of toast round his plate for breakfast, he was handed a list, and told to present himself at Dr. Latimer's office at eight thirty sharp. The early start didn't bother him, (they'd risen at six come rain, come shine in the barracks) but the appointment was another matter. Past experience told him there'd be hours of hanging about, followed by a brief session when he was asked every question under the sun and told almost precisely nothing in return. He found his way more by luck than navigation to Latimer's door, and plonked himself on a plastic chair in the corridor outside, folding his arms across his chest and preparing for a lengthy wait. So it was something of a surprise when the door opened and his name was called after less than ten minutes. He abandoned the dog-eared copy of What Gun he'd only just picked up and followed the nurse through the door. The room was an unexpected jumble of office and consulting rooms, as though someone had put the elements of both into a blender and poured the resulting mix into a stately home. The main desk was a solid mahogany kneehole monstrosity and two tapestry-clad chairs flanked the fireplace, but the carpet was blue utility cord, and the walls were lined with the usual medical charts. The doctor matched the room. In some respects he was the archetypal army officer, tall and thin, with iron grey hair and a craggy face softened only by the laughter lines at the sides of his eyes, but the floppy white coat hiding most of his uniform, and the half-moon specs that sat part way down his nose, were non-regulation to say the least. Nat wondered whether they were just for show since the doctor was almost certainly a serving officer and would need twenty-twenty eyesight for that. His pips were buried somewhere under the white coat, but Nat knew he had to be a captain at the very least, and snapped off a hasty salute. Latimer half rose from behind his desk. "Sergeant Brook? Do come in. Sit down, sit down. Er, this chair would be best," as Nat tried to take a tapestry one and was redirected nearer to the desk. "Closer to all my notes, you know." He waved towards a towering heap of files with a sweep of his hand. "Yessir," said Nat, and sat bolt upright on the extreme edge of the indicated chair. Latimer sank back down into his own leather swivel chair and hooked the top file off the heap. He began to shuffle through some of the pages, harrumphing under his breath and making spidery jottings in green ink every now and again. Finally he looked up, anchored his specs more firmly on his nose, and said, "Right, let's start with the basics, shall we. Your personal details first, if you please." Nat rattled off his name, rank and number, home address, and date of birth, glad that he could spout them without muffing or tripping over his tongue. He was aware of the nurse, who'd retreated to a desk in the far corner. She began to type busily as he was talking, but he was willing to bet a pound she was still listening with half an ear -- if indeed she wasn't taking down his every word. "Thank you," said the doctor, and put a green tick in a box.

Roses in December - 15

Probably checking I still know who I am, thought Nat, and had to swallow the resulting wry grin. Even at his worst he didn't think he'd been that bad. The next few questions were equally undemanding. He was asked about his original injuries (the listing of which took quite some time) and his treatment at his various hospitals so far. He was just beginning to relax and think he was getting off unscathed when the doctor dropped a bombshell of his own. "Tell me, Sergeant, what sort of progress do you think you're making?" Nat hated questions like that, because there never seemed to be a right answer. If he told the medics he was fine, they might take him at his word and stop treating him, and he didn't think he was ready for that yet. But if he told them how he really felt, they'd either admit him to the nearest hospital psychiatric ward, or mark him down as a hypochondriac, and he'd still be up shit creek. He took a deep breath and tried to remember the reply he'd used last time, which had seemed to satisfy the doctor then. "I, er, think I'm doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstances," he said. "I've been told post traumatic stress isn't something you 'get over' in a matter of days or weeks. I guess I'm doing as well as anyone would." Latimer frowned and ticked a box in a different column of the form that Nat couldn't quite decipher upside down. "Tell me, Sergeant," he barked suddenly, in a tone of voice that was straight off the parade ground. "What happened, exactly. In your own words." "You mean...." Nat swallowed, and stopped. Surely not? Surely Latimer didn't want him to talk about the bomb, to describe the horrors in full, glorious Technicolor detail? "I mean the incident that led to your injuries, yes. My notes don't seem to be quite up to date." Nat knew Latimer was lying, that it was just a ruse to get him to talk, but he didn't seem to have a choice. Just once he wished he could see a civilian doctor, who wasn't also a senior officer whose word was law. It might make everything a bit easier. He swallowed again. "It was in a bar, sir," he began. "In Belfast, coming up to a year ago. We got a call. There'd been a coded warning to one of the papers -- usual thing, time and place, not much more than that. Our unit was on duty, we went in mob-handed to get as many of the kids out as we could...." His voice faltered and he licked his lips. "Bastards set the thing off early, while everyone was still inside...." The swirling grey clouds threatened to part and suck him in. He focussed on the hygiene notices pinned to the wall behind Latimer's head, and forced himself to read them and stay alert. Always wash your hands... never re-use equipment or supplies.... "It was right before Christmas and the place was chock full of kids. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the screams. And all the lights went off and it was dark, and full of dust and smoke -- I couldn't breathe. I wanted to get out, to get some of the kids out, but I got thrown against the wall and something heavy fell on my leg and I couldn't move." Never share needles, even with your friends.... "The place was on fire, sir, and I couldn't get out. All I could do was lie there and listen to the screams as the kids died and the flames spread closer and closer...." He ended on a half choke, half sob. "Sorry, sir...." "That's all right, my boy." Latimer's voice came from a great distance, but sounded kinder. "I'm sorry to have to put you through that, but I had to be sure. Here, have some water." Roses in December - 16

He opened his eyes to find the nurse standing next to him, smiling encouragingly and holding out a plastic cup. He took it and drained the contents; not that it was water he needed right now, but at least it gave him a moment to pull himself together. "We lost four good men that day," he said when he could trust his voice again. "Not to mention seven civilians -- all of them under twenty five. Suppose you could say I was one of the lucky ones." "But you don't really believe that, yet, do you, Sergeant?" "Not really, sir, no. Think I'd have been better off dead with the rest of them. Least that way I wouldn't keep getting these bloody awful nightmares and flashbacks." It was the most he'd ever admitted to a doctor, and for a moment he wondered if he'd said too much. Latimer, though, just took off his glasses, polished the lenses on his white coat, and smiled a tired smile. "You may not believe me now, Sergeant, but those will fade with time," he said. "You've already made good progress, just to be able to talk like this without breaking down. I'd like you to continue with some counselling while you're here, though, just to make sure." Nat pulled a face. "Not sure I like the sound of that, sir. The trick cyclists at the last place were a bloody menace, always poking about in my head. Er, that is…" The doctor grinned suddenly. "I know just what you mean, Sergeant," he said in conspiratorial tones. "But Dr. Martin, our current counsellor, is rather different. Humour me, please -- I think it'll be worth it. Now, I just need a quick look at that knee. I noticed you were favouring it when you came in." After the rigours of the last few minutes, the physical exam was a doddle. Nat still hated putting the scarred and shattered remnants of his leg on display, but Latimer was medical efficiency itself, inspecting the joint as though it was a side of beef on a butcher's slab. Finally he seemed to be satisfied, washed his hands at a small sink, and motioned Nat back to the desk. "You can hop down again now, Sergeant." Nat hopped, and returned to his chair. "I'm going to suggest some more treatment for your leg. I'm not entirely happy with it at the moment -- some of that scar tissue is extraneous, in my opinion. I think with a regime of ultrasound and physiotherapy we should be able to reduce it. Tell me, does it still give you much pain?" "Er, yes, some, sir." "Hmm. Well, I'd like to wean you off some of these medications eventually, but in the meantime here's a repeat prescription." He scrawled something illegible on a form and signed it with a flourish. "That should keep you going for the first couple of weeks. At least until that ultrasound kicks in, eh? Now, any questions?" Nat found it hard not to just shake his head and leave, but he owed it to himself to ask. The question had been burning a hole in his mind for weeks, after all, ever since that snotty little junior doctor had said his piece. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and said, "Yes, sir. Will I walk again?" Roses in December - 17

Everyone always banged on about 'mind over matter', but that particular episode had left his confidence in shreds. The doctor in question, a sharp-featured chap who looked barely old enough to have come through medical school and the standard commissioning course, had stared down his nose at Nat and made his diagnosis in cut-glass tones that rang around the ward. "Of course you realise you'll never really walk again?" he'd said. "The bone's fused quite badly, you know. We've done the best we can with the material, but this is as good as it gets." He'd wandered off to his next victim without another word, and Nat had been left in a trance, fighting back tears that were part fear and part rage. Never walk again? How was he supposed to work if he could never walk again? What the hell would he do? Some counselling would have helped, but nobody seemed to care enough to offer it to him, and by then he was too depressed to ask. And now, all these weeks later, he'd asked, but could hardly bear to hear Latimer's reply. "Walk?" Latimer barked, polishing his glasses again and glaring at Nat under bushy eyebrows all the while. "Of course you'll walk. You're walking now, aren't you? If you mean, 'walk without a limp', well, that's another matter, but I don't see why not once the ultrasound gets to work on that scar tissue -- and as long as you're diligent with your exercises and don't overdo it." And with that crashing contradiction, Nat had to be content. He got lost twice on the way to the pharmacy, but at least it gave him the chance to explore the place a bit more. Everything was on a grand scale, as befitted a former stately home. The ceilings throughout the main house were twelve feet high and framed with ornate plaster mouldings, and in many cases the tiled floors and original windows were still intact. Of course, he reckoned it would look a damn sight better painted any other colour than the current pea-green, and the furnishings were far too utilitarian to give any real impression of its former glory. But there couldn't be many hospitals in England with a disused ballroom on the first floor, or a sweeping staircase straight from a Hollywood ranch, or an observatory in a tower. The duty pharmacist -- who noticeably failed to salute -- said something rude about the prescription when he handed it in. "Sorry?" said Nat, wondering despairingly if he'd come to the wrong place after all. "No worries," said the guy. "I was just wondering when this bloke was going to learn to write. Who is it?" He squinted sideways at the signature. "Oh, old Latimer. I might have known." "Er, yeah. Can you make it up?" said Nat. "I might if I could read the bloody thing. Hang on. Hey, Owen? Got a mo?" A colleague with spots ambled out of a back room and peered at the paper in turn. "Christ. Talk about hieroglyphics."

Roses in December - 18

"Reckon that's codeine or cocaine?" said the first guy, pointing to one particularly frightening squiggle. The other sniggered. "Dunno. Your funeral if you get it wrong, though." "More like his," said the first guy, nodding towards Nat. "Look, sorry about this, but you weren't in any rush, were you? Only I'm going to have to phone Latimer's secretary and get her to confirm this. More than my job's worth if I give you the wrong stuff." Nat shrugged. The guy's informal attitude was annoying, but he couldn't honestly say that he was in a hurry. Besides, he didn't much like the idea of popping the wrong pills and turning green, or dead. "Okay, I'll pop back in ten," he said, and wandered back into the maze. After hobbling around for four of the designated ten minutes, he realised he was going to have to sit down. His knee, never very reliable at the best of times, had developed an ache he recognised of old, probably as a result of all Latimer's tinkering. He sighed, and wished (not for the first time) that doctors could learn some form of examination technique that didn't involve prodding. He made it to the nearest bank of plastic seats and sank into one, stretching the leg out gingerly in front, and was promptly chased away again because it was the queue for the X-ray department and he didn't have a pink slip. "When will you men learn to be in the right place at the right time? I suppose you're meant to be in physio instead, and they'll have been waiting for you for hours," said a particularly harassed nurse, her strident tones following him as he trudged along the corridor. Just around the corner were some different chairs that didn't seem to be attached to anything important, and he flopped down on one of those and rested the back of his head against the wall, closing his eyes and willing the pain to go away. The last thing he wanted was to be interrupted, so when a voice above his head said, "Nat? Is that you?" for a moment he didn't open his eyes. Perhaps if he ignored whoever it was they'd go away.... "Nat?" the voice said again, shattering his hopes. "Nat Brook? Bloody hell, mate, didn't expect to find you here. Heard you'd bought it in Belfast." This time he did look up, into the infectious grin of a small man with ginger hair. Digging around in an unreliable memory produced a name at last -- Todd Taylor, a mate of a mate he hadn't seen since a best-forgotten stag night four or five years ago. He grinned back, ignoring the ache in his knee. "Yeah, s'me -- and you heard wrong! I'm not dead yet -- not that the buggers didn't try. What're you doing in this dump anyway? You don't look ill." "Just visiting. Old Jazzy's in here, too, you know." "You're kidding!" Jeremy 'Jazz' Gordon was the mutual friend and recipient of the stag night, and Nat had known him for years. So there was a friendly face in the place after all -- that might make his stay a bit less grim. "I haven't seen him around." "No, and don't get your hopes up, either. Between you and me, I'd say he'd be better off somewhere else -- a specialist unit of some sort. Poor sod's a bit of a head case. He's never been the same since that fiasco with the hostages, you know." Roses in December - 19

Nat nodded; he'd heard something about that at the time. A bunch of Libyan terrorists had kidnapped a wealthy family in London, and Jazzy had been part of the rescue operation. The British army usually did that sort of thing rather well, but this time the whole thing had been botched, and the kidnappers found out that help was on the way. Jazz had scaled a wall and dived headfirst through a window just in time to watch the family's two kids getting their heads blown off, and had blamed himself for their deaths ever since. "Don't tell me he's still torturing himself with that? Must have been, what, three years ago now?" "That and more, but he's not getting any better. I pop in every now and again, but I'm not sure he knows who the hell I am half the time. Look, sorry, mate, I've got to dash -- promised to pick the wife up from the hairdressers in town at twelve. I'll see you next time if you're still about." "Yeah. Cheers. Good to see you again. Give my regards to, er..." what was the wife's name again? "...Jane." "Will do. Cheers." Todd tore off in the general direction of the front door, leaving settling dust, silence, and depression in his wake. For a moment there he'd had a glimmer of hope that he'd have an old pal to hang out with -- someone to gossip about the nurses with, go to meals with, swap notes about treatment and operations with. But if what Todd said was true, then Jazzy might not know who he was, either. He was as much on his own as he'd been before the news. His leg had finally stopped throbbing, and he hauled himself out of the chair and went back to the pharmacy desk. The jaunty young man had been replaced by his colleague Owen, still with spots, who produced a paper bag of packs and bottles after a lengthy search. "Christ! All these?" said Nat with a sinking heart, wondering how many glasses of water it would take to get this lot down his throat. "Yessir," said the pharmacist, who had at least remembered to salute. "Er, I don't think I've got the orders muddled up. Let me just check...." Standing on one leg, Nat counted to ten before handing the bag back. How long did it take to make up one bloody prescription, for God's sake? Mustn't get angry, though -- anger was bad for his blood pressure. Must just stand here and remember to breathe -- in, out, in, out -- nice and regular and steady -- and everything would be just fine. As soon as this fucking arsehole hurried himself up.... "You going to be much longer? I'm not supposed to stand up this long," he couldn't resist saying. "Er, yes, sorry, sir, everything seems to be in order," Owen replied, scrunching the top of the bag closed and practically thrusting it over the counter at Nat. "Er, if that's all, sir? Dave's on his break and I've got loads of work to do." Nat scowled at him and shuffled off. Bloody insubordinate lower ranks, he didn't know where the hell they dug them up from these days. And just what the hell was in this bag, anyway? Surely there hadn't been this many items on the prescription -- it'd be just typical if he'd got half someone else's order as well and they gave him a heart attack, or violent diarrhoea. And Roses in December - 20

now his leg had started up again, and if he didn't get himself lying flat soon, he didn't like to think what the consequences might be.... By the time he got back to his room he'd worked himself into a filthy mood. Everything seemed to be conspiring against him -- first the long wait for the pills, then the possible mixup over the prescription, then getting lost and making his leg worse. Not to mention the news about Jazzy. He knew from experience that when his knee was this bad he should really lie down, but he was too strung up for that. It had still been dark when he'd left the room and he'd kept the curtains drawn, but someone (Elsie, perhaps) had been in and pulled them back. The autumn sun had already mostly vanished round the corner of the building, but a narrow stripe of yellow still decorated one wall, and the scene outside was that of a summer's day -- blue sky, white clouds, bright sunshine gilding the trees. He limped to the window and stood looking out. He'd been right about the garden, at least in part. The room did look out over a sea of green, but judging by the bit he could see it was in a shocking state -- a wild tangle of foot-high grass and overgrown shrubs. There were some tall pine trees in the distance, and an occasional splash of colour (autumn leaves, late roses) that spoke of the glory of former days, but right now it looked abandoned and forlorn. He felt an instant rapport with it, being rather on the abandoned side himself, and decided there and then to get outside and explore it once his leg was stronger. And speaking of decisions, he'd damn well find Jazzy and spend some time with him, too. Head case or not, he was an old mate, and it would be good to catch up with him again. The doctors in the last place had always been telling him he was too negative, but that was two positive decisions in the space of two minutes, and he was rather proud of himself. He was also completely knackered after the session with Latimer and all his accidental traipsing about. Kicking off his boots, he flung himself full length on the bed, grabbed a book from the nearby stack, and tried to relax enough to get himself to sleep.

Roses in December - 21

III. At is happened his good intentions had to wait. The next few days brought a catalogue of appointments five miles long as each department in turn wanted to have him in, poke him a few times, and assign him their own brand of treatment. He was introduced to the hospital swimming pool and gym, and given a lengthy list of exercises he was expected to complete each day. He endured a patronising session in physio, where the assistant tried to explain the human skeleton to him in primary school terms, and his sarcastic remark that he'd 'never been too sure if the patella was linked to the cruciate ligaments or not' didn't go down well at all. And he reported for his first session of ultrasound, and tried not to yell as half a pint of freezing goo was dolloped onto his leg and smeared around by a frosty metal disc. After the initial shock wore off, it was quite soothing, and afterwards his knee felt easier than it had for ages. He could flex it an inch or so further before he winced, and it didn't hurt as much when he put his weight on it. Physically, then, he felt he was making progress at last. The other injuries -- the broken collar bone and the shattered ribs -- hardly bothered him at all, and he was immensely cheered by Dr. Latimer's remarks about his leg. His head was another matter, and one he was far less certain about. His grandfather had suffered shell shock in the First World War, and although they called it something longer now, it was still the same thing, and still as tricky to treat. He knew deep down that he was better than when he'd first gone into hospital. He no longer tried to dive under the bed whenever anyone said the word 'fire', and the crushing headaches came less frequently than they had. He was still claustrophobic, though, and still nervous of the dark, and the nightmares and flashbacks still taunted him all too often with vivid images of scenes he'd rather forget. On the fourth day after seeing Dr. Latimer he rather nervously presented himself at Dr. Martin's door for a psychiatric appraisal. The office was empty when he went in, so he chose one of the comfortably squashy chairs, propped his leg on a handy coffee table and helped himself to a magazine. It was Horse and Hound and he flipped through the pages at speed, unimpressed by endless pictures of the Hon. Jessica Thrupstone winning her third gymkhana this year. A coffee would have been nice, but the nearest vending machine was some way back down the corridor and he didn't want to wander off and miss his name when it was called. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a door at the back of the room opened and a young woman strode in. She was attractive if you liked that sort of thing, with red hair cut in a bob and long legs that were eye-catchingly displayed in a short skirt and boots. Nat blinked, thought she was the most unusual nurse he'd seen so far, and began to hoist himself out of the chair. "Morning, love. The doctor ready to see me now, is he?" The young woman smiled, showing perfect teeth. "You could say that. Please, stay where you are, Sergeant. I'm Emily Martin. I expect Dr. Latimer told you about me. Although judging by your expression, I'm guessing he left a few things out!" The mistake horrified Nat. He of all people shouldn't be jumping to conclusions like that. "Oh, Christ. I'm sorry," he said, subsiding back in his chair and wishing the worn leather would swallow him up.

Roses in December - 22

"Don't worry. I realise I'm not quite what most people expect of a psychiatrist, or an army officer. I should probably warn you that I'm a little... unconventional. Well, very unconventional, really. I don't hold with couches or long mumbling monologues, and I won't be asking you all the usual drivel about whether your father had large breasts." Nat let his breath out and risked a grin. "That's a relief. I was getting a bit sick of answering that one." "I can imagine. Of course your father may have had enormous breasts for all I know, but how admitting it is supposed to help you get better, I have no idea." This wasn't just fresh air, it was a blast pure and cold, straight off the mountain tops. Nat began to relax, muscles popping and bones creaking as he settled more easily into his chair. "So, what is the drill, ma'am?" he asked. Dr. Martin pulled a face. "Oh, heavens, call me Doctor. As for the drill, you tell me. We can have full, formal appointments, or you can treat me like a safety net and drop in when you feel you need a chat. What would you prefer?" "Er, I'm not sure, Doctor," he said. "I don't really know what I need." "No, perhaps it is still a bit soon. Well, I'd recommend appointments to start with, and we can always back them off in a week or two. Shall we say three times a week?" "I suppose so." Nat's heart sank. Even with unconventional methods, that was still three doses of interrogation to cope with every week. "Now, don't be like that, Sergeant. This isn't a punishment, you know -- I really want to help you. I want you to be able to talk about that bombing as if it was just another bad day at the office. I know that may not sound feasible at the moment, but if you work with me, and with the right medication...." "No thanks," Nat interrupted, thinking of the bag of pills he already had. "They stuck me on a load of crap at the last place, and all they did was make me fuzzy. I sat watching the walls breathe half the time. I'd rather be nuts than have that again." She frowned and began ticking off on her fingers. "Number one, Sergeant, you are not 'nuts'; you have a recognised medical condition. Number two, if you have a problem with your medication, for heaven's sake say something. We can't change it if we don't know it's wrong. And number three, the pills I want you to take aren't tranquillisers; they just help to control certain mental conditions. I won't bore you with the details, but I'd like you to at least try them for me." "Okay, I'll give them a go." "Good. Now, as well as the counselling and the medication, we have a number of courses and activities you can get involved in. Call it occupational therapy if you like, although hopefully it's more enjoyable, and more up to date, than sitting about knitting. We've got various sports classes that you could join -- aerobics, swimming, table tennis, nothing too strenuous -- or there's computer courses, or amateur dramatics...." Roses in December - 23

"Acting? No thanks," said Nat, again with a shudder. He had bad memories of his last foray onto the boards, at school when he was fifteen. He'd played a shepherdess in a Gilbert and Sullivan production and the geography master, whose interest was probably unhealthy, had told him in a stage whisper that he 'made a very pretty woman, Brook'. That was bad enough. What was worse was that the comment had been overheard by a lad in the year below, who took great delight in taunting Nat about it every opportunity he got. Nat had put up with it for most of the rest of the term, until the lad threatened to tell Nat's own best friend. That was it as far as Nat was concerned. Knowing the kid often slipped behind the bike sheds for a cigarette after school, he'd lain in wait for him one night and beat seven shades of shit out of him. He'd been so angry he'd gone on hitting the kid even when he was down and on the floor, and had to be pulled off by a couple of sixth-formers who were passing and heard the noise. The lad had never said another word about shepherdesses, but it had spelled the beginning of the end for Nat. He'd enjoyed the power too much and run wild after that, and it wasn't long before his parents gave up trying to control him and shipped him off to boot camp instead. Dr. Martin was staring at him with an odd expression and he wondered if he'd phased out. He'd done that a lot at the beginning, but hadn't been so bad the last couple of months. "Sorry," he said with a shrug. "Tried that at school. I'm not much good at it." "I see," she said. "Well, I won't push you yet, but you don't have to act. There's always scenery to paint or costumes to make...." Visions of powder-puff sleeves and peasant skirts drifted unpleasantly in Nat's mind. "Yeah," he said, but even he could tell it lacked conviction. Best change the subject before she got annoyed. "So, when d'you want to see me again?" She twinkled suddenly. "How soon can you stand it? Shall we say Monday? That should give you a few days to recover from the ordeal." "Sorry." He hung his head, trying to hide his eyes behind that too-long fringe. "I just don't like psychiatrists much." "Yes, well, I hope you'll come to find how different I am. Here's the prescription -- take one three times a day, with food. Which means you'll have to start eating properly again. No more pushing food round your plate!" He jumped and wondered where she'd hidden the crystal ball. Although if she dealt with patients like him all the time she probably knew what the symptoms were without asking. He took the sheet of paper, covered with more hieroglyphics, and levered himself up. "Thanks, Doctor. I'll, er, see you on Monday, then." "Monday it is. And don't worry, Sergeant. This condition is just as curable as your broken leg, given time. Never forget that." No, he'd been right the first time. She really did have a crystal ball. How else could she have known what he'd been thinking, without witchcraft of some sort? Then again, women worked in mysterious ways as far as he was concerned. Pretty much the only thing he knew about Roses in December - 24

them was that patience wasn't their thing, so if he didn't want to bring the wrath of God down on his head, he'd better get himself back to the pharmacy and get these frigging pills made up. And pray to the same God that they didn't make him fuzzy all over again. *** This time he didn't bother waiting. He dropped the prescription off at the desk, told them he'd be back in half an hour, and wandered off again. Lunch wouldn't be served for another hour, and his next appointment in physio wasn't due till two o'clock, which meant (assuming the idiots in pharmacy took as long as last time) that he had about an hour to kill -- the perfect amount to track down Jazz Gordon. Finding his old mate was easier said than done. Unlike most hospitals he'd been in, the Towers didn't have a separate psychiatric unit, because all the patients were supposed to be sufficiently recovered not to need specialist treatment. Instead, like himself, every inmate was housed in a single room, and the rooms were spread around the ground floor like muck in a field. He asked four different people where Sergeant Gordon's room was and got four different answers, and even when he found the right room there was nobody home. By now he'd wasted twenty minutes and was just about ready to give up when he spotted a door bearing a peeling stick-on sign that said 'TV lounge'. Straight away he knew he'd struck lucky. Back in the old days, when he and Jazz were in the same unit, the other lads had always been pulling his leg because he kept up to date with all the soaps. And given that Neighbours was on about now, and given that the poor bugger probably had nothing better to do, chances were that this was where he was hiding. Nat turned the handle and slipped inside, trying to tiptoe until he realised that the volume knob on the telly had been turned up so far nothing short of the last trump would be heard. It was so loud that the bass was rattling the cups on the coffee table, and after a couple of minutes, Nat felt as though he was being flattened against the far wall by the sheer force of the sound. Dragging himself forward, he glanced at the circle of blokes sitting goggle-eyed in front of the screen, but oddly Jazzy wasn't amongst them. Nat felt the edges of his temper starting to fray. Where the hell was the guy? He could hardly have vanished in a blinding flash of light. And trust him to disappear the one time Nat was looking for him. It was absolutely bloody typical. A waft of movement caught his eye -- the curtains, billowing gently in the breeze from a window someone had left open. And silhouetted against the window, sitting in a chair on his own and staring outside, was Jazz. Nat mooched over and stood where Jazz could see him. With the racket from the telly still blaring in the background, he didn't want to creep up behind his mate, tap him on the shoulder, and make him jump out of his skin. "All right, Jazzy, old son," he said, yelling to make himself heard. The reaction was strange to say the least. First Jazz raised his head, then turned it to one side, moving his head on his neck without altering the focus of his gaze at any stage. The effect was like a mechanical toy, and Nat found himself shivering, even as the pallid, blanked-out eyes came to rest on his face. "Yes?" said Jazz, with about as much expression as Action Man.

Roses in December - 25

Oh, Lord, thought Nat, and tried again. "Hi Jazz. It's me, Nat Brook. From the regiment. You remember?" The gaze still held, intense and uncomprehending, until suddenly a chink of light broke through. "Nat! Hey! Great to see you, man. Sit down, sit down, you shouldn't be standing there." Nat took the proffered chair and sat, being rather careful of his knee which had started to misbehave again. "How're you doing, mate?" "Never mind me, what are you doing here? That leg doesn't look too hot." "No, I took a hit in the knee." It was all he could bring himself to say, even with a mate as close as Jazz had once been. "They've been wheeling me from one bloody hospital to another ever since. Thing's been a bitch to heal." "You shouldn't be here, though, should you?" said Jazz. He leaned forward, and his voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that Nat had to strain to hear over the pounding beat of the Neighbours theme tune. "Yeah? Why's that, then?" "Well, I mean, it isn't a real hospital, is it? They hide it pretty well, but I'm no fool. I can tell. Underneath it's something different. Something bad. They'll keep you in here forever, you know, for experiments and what have you." Nat's heart sank in the general direction of China. That first flash of recognition had given him hope, but now it looked like Todd had been right after all. He took a deep breath and forced himself to sound cheerful. "Oh, I don't know, mate, it seems all right as far as hospitals go. They all look the same after a while, but at least the food's okay. And there's a garden. I haven't been out there yet, but they reckon I should be walking without pain in a week or two. Be good to get out and explore it then. Fancy coming with me? It'd give you something to do." "Oh, I don't think they'll let me do that. I'm not allowed out, you know," said Jazz, in the same whisper. "Don't be daft, mate, it's not the bloody Hotel California. You can leave whenever you like, 's long as your CO signs the paperwork...." He tailed off, cursing himself. If Jazz was still this bad, his CO wouldn't be signing his release papers any time soon. "Hey, I bumped into Todd Taylor the other day," he said, changing the subject and hoping Jazz wouldn't notice. "Good to see him again." "Oh, yeah, good old.... Who was that?" "Todd. You know. Your mate from the stag night. Said he comes in here every couple of months or so to see how you're getting on." But the blank look was back on Jazz's face, and he'd begun to rub his fingers over his thumb in a dry monotonous rasp that set Nat's teeth on edge. Someone had changed channels to the Roses in December - 26

snooker, and in the sudden quiet, the sound seemed to magnify until it was all he could hear, like the ominous rattle of a snake. He almost gave up there and then, except that his sense of duty kicked in. Jazz had been there for him in the past; they'd watched each other's backs often enough, heads down, fingers in their ears, grinning with relief that the Provos hadn't got them yet. Christ, Jazz had even come to the rescue with an alibi when there'd been that trouble a few years back. Nat could have been thrown out for that -- he owed it to his mate to stay as long as he could. Glancing round, he spotted a pile of football magazines on a nearby chair, and remembered Jazz's other great love after Corrie and Emmerdale Farm. "D'you still support Arsenal? They're doing okay again this year." Jazz stared at him and shook his head in total bewilderment. Then the glaze over his eyes cleared. "Nat! Christ, didn't expect to see you here. Must have been years!" This time Nat couldn't cope. He clapped a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, hauled himself out of his chair and got himself out of the lounge as fast as he could. He made for the sanctuary of his room, just about managing to close the door between himself and any potential onlookers before he broke down. The tears came then, great racking sobs that shook his whole frame with their intensity, and he stuffed his fist in his mouth and hoped to God that nobody could hear. He wasn't even sure if he was crying for Jazz, or for himself. Not only had he lost his best friend, but he was terrified that he would end up the same way. The army could do that to you if you didn't watch out -- could knock you down, and kick you in the balls, and suck the very life out of you until you were nothing more than a cabbage like Jazz. *** Gradually, as the sunlit strip moved along the wall, anger took over from the grief. It gave him new energy that he needed desperately to walk off somewhere. He was sick to death of the endless beige and khaki corridors indoors, but through the window the garden beckoned, an oasis of green in an otherwise drab world. Scruffy and unkempt it might be, but at least the air would be fresh, and he would feel the sun on his face again. It seemed like a very long time since he'd done that. Tugging on his boots and grabbing a jacket he headed for the Great Outdoors. It took him a while to find a way out. Every corridor he chose seemed to lead straight back to his room, or to the reception hall at the front of the house, or even, once, to the kitchens. Retreating in a cloud of steam and swearing, he tried again, and this time he struck gold. A small glazed door half-hidden just around the corner from his room led into an odd, tacked-on sun lounge that had probably been built to house TB patients during the war, and from there he stepped out onto a wide flagged terrace that ran the whole width of the house. It was blotched with moss and straggly weeds that elbowed their way up between the slabs, but the surface was still relatively even, and he stood for a while, resting his leg after the exertions of his latest route-march. His fingers were itching for something to hold, and he'd have cheerfully committed murder for a cigarette, but that meant tramping all the way back indoors, and now that he'd found the way out he was reluctant to risk losing it again. The tobacco would have to wait, as it had, on and off, for most of the last eight months. If he kept this up much longer he'd find that he'd quit smoking without ever intending to. He breathed deep of the late afternoon air instead. Somewhere along the line he'd missed lunch, but he was still too hyped to be hungry -- and he could always fill up later on chocolate from the vending machine in the main hall. It was only for visitors really, but he'd already Roses in December - 27

discovered that if you were quick you could grab a bar without any of the nurses noticing and ticking you off -- and like the occasional cadged cigarette, chocolate was a sinful pleasure to be savoured when you got the chance. The air was fresh, with a chill to it now that the sun was getting low. These days, in late October, it was pitch dark by six o'clock, and even on a sunny day the light was fading by half past four, sunbeams slanting through the tops of the distant trees. If he wanted to explore the garden, he'd better make the most of what little light remained. The muscles in his leg had stopped complaining for now, so he ambled along the terrace, trying to tense and flex as the physiotherapist had told him. It still hurt a bit, but that and the ultrasound seemed to be working something loose in the joints, and he could already walk for longer and with less of a limp. As long as he avoided getting his boots caught up in the trailing stems of bindweed and whatever this weird thing with spikes was, he'd be fine. The flagstones were bordered by a wild and gloomy tangle that must once have been a shrubbery. Here and there, small paths led into the wilderness, and he chose one at random, expecting it to dump him in a dead end at best, or a man-eating bog at worst. It twisted and turned between the gnarled trunks of laurels whose leaves burst into a canopy a foot above his head, and he soon found he'd lost all sense of direction. Judging by the occasional small stone that rattled against the sole of his boot, it had once been gravelled, but over the years the gravel had been kicked away or trodden into the ground, and it was now little more than a muddy trail, and slippery into the bargain. Nat focussed all his concentration on not slithering into an ungainly heap, and didn't at first notice when he stepped out from amongst the trees. It was only the sudden sound of splashing water that drew his attention to his surroundings, and to the fact that the stuffiness under the bushes had been replaced by clean, clear air. He'd come out onto another terrace, smaller than the first and better kept, with formal beds of roses surrounding a central pool. There was a fountain in the pool in the shape of a cupid clutching a dolphin, and water was pouring out of the dolphin's mouth in a narrow stream that scattered and dripped into the duckweed below. The light had faded quickly whilst he was rooting about in the undergrowth, and it was now quite dim, but he could still see a few late roses nodding on their stems, and the air here felt milder, as though it was sheltered from the elements by some magical force. Visions of the Sleeping Beauty sprang to mind, but he shook his head. That was just plain daft -- and besides, fairy-tale princesses had never been his thing. He wanted to sit and enjoy the air, which smelled of good rich earth and green growing things, but oddly, in a garden like this, there weren't any seats. The only thing remotely resembling a bench was the raised stone coping around the pool, so he limped over and lowered himself onto that. Stretching his leg out, and taking care not to fall in and frighten the goldfish, he shuffled about until he was comfortable, and drew in a deep lungful of air. He felt tired suddenly. Perhaps his earlier outburst of grief had worn him out, or perhaps it was just sitting here, soaking up the warmth and the amazing peace and quiet. It was hard to believe the house was just a few yards away, beyond the hedge of shrubs. He'd have expected to hear something -- windows opening and shutting, the blare of a radio from someone's room, the general buzz of occupation in such a large building -- but there was nothing. Nothing but the gentle sigh of the breeze and the steady trickle of falling water and an occasional buzzing tardy fly.... He hadn't meant to doze off. Starting awake just before he went arse over tip into the pool, his ears strained to catch the sound that had woken him. There! Faint but unmistakable -- the Roses in December - 28

scrunch of footsteps on gravel. So someone else had managed to find this place, too. He wondered who it was. A gardener, perhaps, or one of the other patients who'd slipped out for a quiet fag. The scrape of a match and a sudden flare of flame, bright in the twilight, seemed to bear out the latter theory. The light had faded fast while he was asleep, and he couldn't see if it was anyone he recognised. Not that he knew many people at the Towers yet, but he'd have welcomed a friendly face in all this gloom. But all he could see was the glow of the freshly-lighted cigarette, and less clearly, the lips of the person smoking it. A man's lips, wide and slightly full, that turned up naturally at the corners into a permanent, impish smile. A laughing mouth, a mouth just made to kiss.... He must have been caught staring, like a rabbit in the headlights, because the cigarette lowered suddenly and the lips widened further into a full-blown grin. "Sorry, mate, I didn't mean to startle you," a rough voice said. "I just came out here for a smoke. They don't like it in the house." "That's okay," said Nat. "Stupid place to fall asleep anyway -- I'd have been head-first in the water if you hadn't woken me up." "Feeding the fish," said the bloke, and grinned again. "If they haven't choked to death on all that weed. God knows how long it is since that pond was cleared. The gardener ought to be shot." The footsteps crunched again and he came closer, stopping just short of Nat's outstretched foot. Nat felt he was at a disadvantage, squatting down here at the level of the other guy's knees, but his leg wasn't up to fast standing and sitting yet and he had to make do with craning his neck. Then the other guy dropped to sit next to him, and he got his first proper look at the face that went with the lips. His first thought was that a pixie had been made flesh and blood, since all he could really see was eyes -- huge green mischievous eyes that took up half the chap's face. They were set, wide apart and slightly slanted, in a round, clean-shaven face, and his hair, which looked grey in the dusk, but was probably fair, was cut very short over his ears. The overall effect was oddly feline; Nat swallowed and remembered to close his mouth. "Want one?" the pixie said. "Hmm?" He looked down to find he was being offered a cigarette from a small white cardboard box. He didn't recognise the brand, but to a starving man all food tastes as good. "Well, I don't know. I'm not really supposed...." Need overcame his scruples. "Oh, what the hell. Thanks." He took the proffered cigarette and held it out for a light, shivering as long tapered fingers rested on his own for just a split second too long. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he snatched his hand away, raising it to his mouth and drawing smoke deep into his lungs. He was aware of the other man's eyes on him, and to cover any awkwardness he held the other hand out for a shake. "Brook." His hand was taken readily enough. "Richard Douglas. My friends call me Richie." Nat felt his own lips quirk into a smile. That was the third time that phrase had cropped up in the last few days -- it must be catching. But Richard -- Richie? -- had said something else and he'd missed it. "Sorry? Miles away."

Roses in December - 29

"I said, 'Just Brook'?" "Oh. No. It's Nathaniel Arthur George. Nat for short." He waited for the usual jokes about grandfathers and -- given the initials -- nagging wives, but for once they didn't come. "That's all right, isn't it? I've got an Uncle George." "Suppose so. I still reckon my parents got a bit creative." He shrugged and concentrated on his cigarette. It was harsher than the brands he was used to, but no less good for that, and the hot smoke satisfied the craving that had been building in him for weeks. The silence built between them, but it was companionable rather than uncomfortable and he was happy just to sit and go with the flow. Richie finished his cigarette and stubbed the end out on the stone beside them. "What's wrong with your leg?" he asked, and for one ghastly moment Nat thought Richie was going to put his hand on the knee. "I broke it. It's still bloody sore," he said quickly, and shuffled aside, widening the gap between them -- and hoping Richie would take the hint. "I've been in hospital for months." "Hospital? Then what--" Richie broke off. "Bad luck. I bet you can't wait to get home." Nat thought of his quarters back at base -- one small room and a shared shower and loo. "Yeah." The silence was threatening to come back. He realised that although Richie had asked about his health he hadn't returned the favour. The guy didn't look much like a patient though. For one thing there was no obvious injury; for another he wasn't dressed right, in either uniform or the standard off-duty 'uniform' of jeans and sweatshirt. Instead he was wearing battered old tweed trousers, an ugly grey v-necked jumper, and a shirt that reminded Nat of his granddad, without being entirely sure why. He looked more like an odd-job man than anything, but surely he was too well spoken for that. Although these days you practically needed a university degree to empty dustbins, so perhaps it wasn't as far-fetched as he'd thought. "So, you're army too, then," Nat said, to break the long silence. "Me? Christ, no. I live here. My dad's the estate manager," said Richie. "I wouldn't join the army if you paid me, especially with all this talk of a war." "Well, you don't have to be quite so blunt about it," said Nat, needled by the implied criticism. Before Richie could reply, or things could degenerate into a row, he heard the patter of more footsteps heading rapidly this way through the laurels. Female footsteps this time, if he wasn't mistaken. Sure enough, a nurse he'd never seen before emerged from the shrubbery, grimacing and brushing leaves out of her face. She looked across to where Nat was sitting and called in breathless tones, "Sergeant Brook? Oh, thank goodness, we were beginning to worry. Nobody knew where you were. Sister Andrews sent me to look for you -- you're over an hour late for your ultrasound treatment."

Roses in December - 30

"Oh, bugger," said Nat. "I'd forgotten about that." He took a last, lingering drag on his cigarette before tossing the stub in the general direction of some bushes, hoping to God he didn't set fire to the place. "And if the doctors find out you've been smoking, there'll be hell to pay," the nurse continued. "I can't think why you want to sit out here all on your own, anyway, when we've got perfectly good lounges in the main house. It's far too cold to be sitting about outdoors next thing you know you'll be catching flu, and then we'll get the blame for not looking after you properly." It had got colder suddenly, almost as if she'd brought a blast of chill wind with her, and Nat shivered and hoisted himself to his feet. "I wasn't alone, I was talking to him," he said, turning to indicate his new friend. But Richie had already slipped away, and taken the magic with him. Shrugging, he turned and followed the nurse back through the laurels to the house. *** That night he had trouble getting to sleep, and lay fighting the bedclothes until half past three. Giving up, he clambered off the bed and drew back the curtains to peer out into the night. There was a crescent moon riding high over the trees; it looked small and cold and far away, rather like he felt. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed fresh air, or the nicotine coursing through his veins after so many weeks without, or the fact that his leg muscles were pinging after too much exercise in one day. Anything rather than Richie. It couldn't possibly be Richie keeping him awake, because he'd learned to control himself better than that, and besides, he didn't like men who looked like sprites. That decided, he pulled the curtains across again and stumbled back to bed, and when Richie's face appeared in the darkness to taunt him, he flung a pillow at it and told it to bugger off. It didn't work, of course. Richie's face stayed exactly where it had been in the first place, etched into his mind's eye like acid on glass. "Stubborn bastard," he said, and slipped one hand inside his pyjamas. "Admit it -- this is what you wanted all along." But whether he was talking to Richie or himself, not even he could have said.

Roses in December - 31

Part Two - Winter 1994

"Careful! Come away from the window, or at least blow out the lamp. I wish there were curtains in here...." "In a summerhouse? What for?" "We don't want anyone to see." "Why not? Are you ashamed of me?" "No, no, of course not. But the family.... I can't just forget everything -- I've my position to consider. The good name of the family. You do understand?" "I understand, all right -- understand you don't want to be seen with me. Always on about love, but that doesn't sound much like love to me." "Ah, don't. You know I can't. You know I'll always love you -- I couldn't love anyone the way I love you. Forgive me? You love me, too, don't you? Say you love me." "Yeah, yeah, I love you. Now come over here and warm me up. It's freezing in here without a fire." I. By mid-December Nat had developed a dull but comforting routine. Most days he started with physio and then swam for an hour, which helped to ease his joints. After lunch it was either Emily Martin's turn or that of the ultrasound department, followed by an hour in one of the lounges to rest his leg ('rest, ice, compression, elevation,' as he was always being told). He'd found a particularly spacious lounge on the first floor of the main house, which had probably been the library in former days. Three long sash windows overlooked the terrace and a straggly patch of lawn, and the opposite wall was still lined with shelves. Nowadays the vast collection of books they must have borne had disappeared, but there were a few paperbacks left by previous patients, and it always seemed to be quiet. Nat took to spending an hour up there most days, reading or snoozing in the armchair with the best view. Although he gazed out at the garden most afternoons, he'd only been out there a handful of times, when he could find a spare moment between the welter of appointments, or when he wasn't too tired. The few times he had been out he'd tried path after path, but never succeeded in finding the terrace with the pool again -- although he had discovered one or two surprises. A lake, for instance, almost hidden behind stands of giant rhubarb, and a hideous stone toad that leered at him from the undergrowth and made him jump, but of the infectious grin of Roses in December - 32

Richard Douglas, there was no sign at all until late one afternoon, when he'd retreated to the library with a book to relax and have a snooze. He had the place to himself at first, and was enjoying the rare peace and quiet when the door banged open and a group of nurses marched in bearing a stepladder, a box of Christmas decorations, and a radio blaring out Christmas hits. Hunching deeper into his armchair, he did his best to ignore them, but by the time he'd heard 'Winter Wonderland' for the third time, and had plastic holly and a drawing pin dropped on his head, he'd had enough. He sat and seethed until one of the nurses tripped over the footstool bearing his outstretched leg, and then he snapped. "Give us a break! Can't you lot go off and bother someone else for a change? I was quite happy here on my own before you turned up." A pretty black nurse with snapping brown eyes laughed at him. "Don't be so grumpy," she said. "You want to join in a bit more and have some fun. Do you the world of good, that would." She didn't know about his condition. She couldn't possibly know about his condition. That was what he told himself all the way downstairs, and back along the miles of corridor to his room. She couldn't have known, or she would never have been so rude. She's right, you know, a little voice said in his head, but he shushed it before it could make him feel any worse. All very well 'joining in the fun' when you were healthy and well, but not when you were suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, or whatever they called it these days. All he knew was that he wanted to be on his own more often than not, and still got panicky in crowded, noisy rooms. Back in his room a cleaner he'd never seen before was attacking the floor with a mop, banging it against the skirting boards and splashing water about. Nat grabbed his jacket from the back of the door and fled again, this time to the quiet reaches of the garden where he wouldn't be disturbed. It was raining this morning, a cold fine drizzle that dusted softly onto the grass and left it coated in tiny glistening drops. It was damp enough to be unpleasant, and he turned up his jacket collar, shoved his hands in his pockets, and began to wish he'd brought a brolly, too. Further away from the house the rain came on more, beating on the path and splashing his ankles with mud. The word 'masochist' echoed through his brain. What in hell was he doing out here, tramping about in the wet with water dripping off his nose? He should really get back before he was soaked right through. But that was easier said than done. With his head down against the rain he hadn't been watching where he walked, and he was now in a part of the garden he'd never seen before, with a narrow valley and lots of tall pines. How the hell he got back to the house from here was anyone's guess -- and there weren't exactly any shops where he could stop and buy a map. Just as he was flipping a mental coin as to whether he turned right or left, he spotted a figure hurrying between the trees and his heart leaped. "Richie?" he called, but the rain took the shout and hurled it straight into the ground, and the other man hadn't heard. Ignoring the slippery ground, he hurried to catch up.

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For some reason it seemed to take a very long time. Richie -- if it was him -- had his back turned, and was deaf and blind to every wave and shout. He was walking fast, too, striding along with his arms swinging and his shoulders hunched, as though he was late and stressed out. Finally, just as Nat was starting to panic about his knee, something got through and the figure stopped. Nat broke into a stiff-legged gallop, anxious to reach the man before he changed his mind. Closer inspection revealed that it was indeed Richie, which was a relief. He'd have felt pretty silly after all that yelling if it had turned out to be somebody else. "Hi, I thought it was you," he said as he approached. "Er, yeah," said Richie, shifting his weight onto one foot. "You late for a funeral or something? I've been following you for the last ten minutes, trying to get you to stop. And it's all uphill." "Sorry. Have to be somewhere, that's all." "Yeah?" His new friend's manner was so abrupt, he began to wonder if he'd imagined the companionship of their previous meeting. "Er, look, you do remember me, don't you? It's Nat. From the garden the other week." "I remember. Look, I'm sorry, Nat, I can't stop. I'm late meeting someone. I'll see you around, okay?" "Yeah, okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to make you late." The full lips he remembered so well twitched into the briefest of smiles. "That's all right, you weren't to know. Cheerio, then." And before Nat could return either the smile or the farewell, he'd turned and was striding away. Nat stood with his hands on his hips and watched Richie go. That was a bugger and no mistake. Richie had seemed friendly enough before, so what had got into him today? Was he upset because Nat had left without saying goodbye? It hardly seemed likely, but something must have made him so under-impressed. Anyone would think he was scared, the way he'd just taken off -- scared of the person he was going to meet. But that was ridiculous. Richie might be slim, but he was wiry and feisty, and from the little Nat had seen of him, he'd seemed amply capable of looking after himself. More likely that Nat himself was getting morbid -- the result of being cooped up in hospital so long. It was none of his damn business what Richie got up to in his spare time, anyway. If they were fated to meet again, they would, and if he never saw the guy again there were plenty more fish in the sea. He flipped his mental coin, chose the left-hand path, and began to trudge back in the general direction of the house, but it was with a strong sense of anti-climax that he finally spotted the roofs and turrets ahead. *** Back indoors he towelled himself off as best he could and went in search of a hot drink to quell the shivers that were shuddering through his frame. Roses in December - 34

The main hospital kitchens were in the old part of the Towers, next to the cavernous central dining room where the patients and staff took their meals. Each wing had its own little kitchenette, though, where the cleaners could store their mops and wash up, and where the patients could make themselves cups of tea. There was little in each beyond a sink, a kettle, and a fridge, but it saved a tramp through the corridors to the dining room or the shop. Although it was only five o'clock Elsie was already at work, suds up to the elbows, washing mugs in the sink. "Afternoon, love," she greeted him with a conspiratorial smile before tackling an unlucky tea-stain with vim. Nat felt his mood lift. "Afternoon yourself. Any chance of a cuppa?" "Kettle's just boiled. Help yourself." He did as he was told, pouring a cup of treacly brew and stirring in milk, then hoisted himself onto the table where he could sit and swing his leg. Elsie turned briefly and eyed his dripping hair. "You been swimming, then?" "Hmm? Oh, no, that was this morning. It's raining out." "Not that much, surely?" she said, nodding at the fine drizzle misting the window. "You're soaked right through!" "Yeah, it got heavier the further away from the house I was." "Oh? You been out for a walk, then?" "Yup. I thought I'd explore the garden a bit. I saw it the other week but didn't get a chance--" "The garden?" Elsie interrupted, in such tones of horror that he stopped and stared at the back of her neck. "Yeah, you know, the one out the back here. What's left of it anyway. Seems like a nice place to get out and stretch my legs. I'm sick of being cooped up indoors." Elsie swung round, a mug dangling forgotten from one yellow, Marigold-gloved hand. "You shouldn't be messing about out there, Nat. It's not safe." Nat stared again. That was a bit weird, coming from someone as down-to-earth as Elsie. What did she think would happen to him out there? Kidnapping? Abduction by aliens? Being eaten alive by sentient plants? Maybe she'd been watching too many horror movies in the last few months. "Well, I'll admit it was bloody slippery out there in this rain -- and it's in an awful state once you get away from the house. But it's only a bit of mud and a few brambles, and they never hurt anyone." "It's not the brambles I'm worried about," said Elsie, closing her lips in a thin white line and turning to scrub furiously at a cup.

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"Well, what are you worried about, then?" said Nat, but in spite of repeating himself twice, she wouldn't reply, just shrugged her shoulders under the flowery housecoat and carried on with the washing up. He took the rest of his tea back to his room. It was mercifully free of cleaners and the floor was dry again, and he perched on the bed, sipping and gazing out at the garden beyond. It was hard to see what Elsie was going on about from here. Although the place was very unkempt it didn't look sinister, just forlorn. He could only assume that she'd had a bad experience out there once and it had turned her against it, or that she'd got a bee in her bonnet and was being melodramatic. He'd seen that in old ladies before; they'd sit on the bus digging around in their handbags, convinced they'd left their keys or their glasses behind. Maybe Elsie was just like one of those. Even so, what the hell was wrong with everyone today? First Richie had snapped at him, now her, and he hadn't done a damn thing to deserve it. He sighed. Less than a week until Christmas and the only three friends he had left in the world were all ignoring him for one reason or another. Looked like the festive season was not going to live up to its name in spectacular fashion this year. *** By the next day Elsie had either forgiven him, or forgotten the entire conversation. She brought his tray round at six as usual and stayed for a motherly chat whilst he polished off a plateful of decidedly English curry and rice. "You got plans for Christmas, Nat?" she asked at last. He paused, apparently intent on stabbing a pea, but really giving himself time to think up a reply. "Not really. I'll be spending it here, I guess." "Oh? Not got family to go to?" Most of the patients would be released from the Towers for the holidays to spend time with their loved ones. Trouble was, Nat didn't really have any loved ones. "Er, no, not really. I've, er, lost touch with my parents, and I'm not married or anything." Elsie treated him to a searching look. "No, I don't suppose you are," she said, but didn't elaborate. "Oh, well, never mind. They put a bit of entertainment on for those that can't get home. A carol concert, and a proper turkey dinner, and a cinema screen in one of the biggest lounges showing some nice Christmas films." Nat suppressed a shudder. That meant hour after hour of The Snowman and other such sentimental tripe -- not exactly his idea of fun. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers the last time he'd checked, and at least he had somewhere to stay, even if it wasn't his first choice. With his parents not speaking to him, and his former unit treating him as though he didn't exist, choice was something he didn't have much of.

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II. The rest of the week rolled past in a blur of tinsel and jolly seasonal songs, and suddenly it was Christmas Day. Nat woke with a headache and didn't feel much like joining in, but the prospect of spending the day on his own was even worse, so mid-morning found him downstairs in the hall, mingling with the few patients who hadn't gone, a smattering of staff, and a few hardy souls from the village. Sherry and miniature mince pies were doled out, and everyone stood round in corners looking like pregnant storks. At precisely twenty-eight minutes past eleven a crocodile of children from the village school marched in and took their places under the Christmas tree at one end of the hall. They were dressed in white velvet with silver wings on their backs, but Nat decided the angelic appearance was misleading as they ground through a selection of carols and popular songs. One small girl had a cold and sang the whole repertoire in a frog-like croak; another had forgotten the words and refused to even open her mouth; whilst two boys at the back pulled the wings off a third (having no doubt practised on unsuspecting flies) and made him cry. The end result was excruciating. There were only so many times Nat could cope with Mistletoe and Wine; but sung off key and out of time it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He began to watch the exits for a suitable means of escape. Luckily the torture and the concert finished together before he disgraced himself by running for the hills, but the ordeal wasn't over yet. Before he could make his move, trays of refreshments were handed round, and a tape deck was set up belting out yet more jolly Christmas hits. Helping himself to a handful of nuts, Nat forced a smile and tried to mingle and chat, but he was having problems just staying put. The room was hot and crowded, and the noise level soon soared, and he only kept the panic at bay by sheer strength of mind. Various parents and villagers took pity on him and tried to get him to talk, but by the time he'd admitted that no, he didn't play golf to the third father in a row, they rather lost interest in him and wandered off. He drained his sherry, dropped his last salted cashew in a convenient pot plant, and hoped for better things from the Christmas lunch. Sadly, it wasn't to be. The kitchen staff had done their best, but producing a full turkey dinner on a limited budget was always going to be a challenge the army couldn't meet. The meat was slices of turkey-roast, as pallid and tasteless as milk; the potato was instant mash, and the sprouts were soggy lumps. Nat chomped through as much as he dared and tried to cheer himself up with a glass of thin red wine, forgetting that he'd already fortified himself with sherry and he wasn't supposed to drink. Sure enough, the alcohol reacted with his pills to make him achey and depressed, and by the time they cleared the tables for the Queen's speech, he'd decided it wasn't fair. His stomach hurt, his head hurt, his leg was aching like a bitch, and he couldn't even get drunk. When two blokes at his table struck up a protracted conversation about racing pigeons, he made his excuses and left. His room was quiet after the babble in the hall, and he stood at the window for a while, just soaking in the peace. He could hear the wind sighing through the trees, and the faint drip of water falling from the eaves into the tiny puddle on his sill, and the distant squawk of a television set, and... absolutely nothing else. It would be even quieter outdoors, though, and he could walk off all that stodge. It was grey and drizzly and damp, but it wasn't pouring with rain, or cold, and a walk might be just the thing he needed to kick his mood into touch.

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Shrugging into his jacket, he clattered outside, put his head down against the rain, and crossed the flag-stoned area to the grass beyond. He was still trying to find the terrace and pool where he'd met Richie before, and if he was honest with himself, he was hoping Richie would be there again, too. But no matter which way he turned, and how much of the garden he explored, he never seemed to be able to find it again, and today was no different from the rest. He marched across the lawns with their circle of adoring rhododendrons; he brushed through shrubbery and into thick woods that would be a mass of bluebells come the spring; he even found a track up a hill that led to a ring of overgrown yews and nothing more. But of the terrace (and Richie) there was no sign at all. He sighed and tramped back down the hill, favouring his leg, which was starting to ping. This was ridiculous -- if the bloody thing didn't want to be found, then he'd have to stop looking. There were plenty of other nice bits of the garden to look at anyway, even if they were all rather tumbledown and wild. Once again he remembered Elsie's strange warnings about the place and wondered what she'd meant. Okay, so the place was a jungle, but he'd hardly have described it as unsafe -- at least, not if you stuck to the paths. He'd had a near miss with a hunk of ivy-covered stone the other day, but that was hardly the stuff of nightmares. Bugger the old dear and her hints -- just what was she trying to achieve? If she'd been trying to scare him off for some reason it hadn't worked. He was brooding so much he wasn't looking where he was going. The next time he became aware of his surroundings, he was back on the terrace without the slightest idea how he'd got there, and the rain had stopped. It looked just the same as it had before: paths swept, beds weeded, the fountain casting its thin stream high into the air; but the roses had gone, presumably blown to tatters by the last autumnal storm. He lingered for a while, listening to the water rattling on the lily pads, feeling relaxation seep back into his pores as he drew the sweet scent of newly-wet herbs deep into his lungs. He was lucky to have found this sanctuary; already he could sense it easing his problems back into proportion. However ghastly Christmas might have been, it was still only a single day. The clouds had broken without him noticing, and a pallid late afternoon sun was casting rainbows in the fountain's spray. A sudden gleam of white from the corner of the terrace caught his eye, and he wandered over to investigate. It was a balustrade, in lustrous white marble, flanking a flight of steps that he'd never noticed before. Steps that disappeared into the foliage below, just begging to be explored. Never one to turn a challenge down, Nat clutched the balustrade's cool rail and began to clamber down. Given the state of the rest of the garden, he expected the steps to be chipped and cracked, but in fact they were smooth and free from leaves and moss. He made it to the bottom with no trouble at all and found himself on a different path, straight and gravelled and bordered with flowerbeds at least a yard wide. And waiting on the path, at the foot of the stairs, was Richie, bundled into an old-fashioned flying jacket with the inevitable cigarette dangling from one hand. "Oh, hullo," he said offhand, as if he'd been expecting Nat for hours. Nat took a cigarette from the box Richie held out, and puffed until the tip glowed red to cover his lack of words. He wasn't sure how he felt about this. Part of him was jumping for joy to see Richie again (although which particular part he wasn't going to admit), but part still smarted at the way he'd been left standing in the woods the other day. Eventually he took the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to say, "You here to stay this time?" and winced at the sarcasm that sharpened his voice. Roses in December - 38

Richie, though, seemed to feel he deserved it. "Yes, I'm sorry about that," he said in placatory tones. "The chap I was meeting doesn't like to be kept waiting." He turned to walk along the path and Nat fell into step at his side, unconsciously matching the rhythm of their pace. He felt a prickle of something -- surely not jealousy? -- at the idea of Richie meeting another man, but the apology sounded genuine enough, and when he glanced up, the green eyes were sad. He nodded and risked a grin. It was as though the noonday sun had burst forth at his side. The shadows vanished to be replaced by a beaming smile. "You've made a break for it, too?" Richie murmured with a conspiratorial wink. "Yeah. Hate Christmas." "Christmas?" For a moment Richie's eyes rested on him, startled and open wide, but then he shrugged. "I know what you mean. It can be a bit beastly, can't it?" "It sure was today. Bloody awful food, bloody awful people, room crammed to bursting...." "Have another smoke. That'll calm your nerves." "Thanks." They walked in silence for a while, following the path. The herbaceous borders had been freshly dug and bedded down for winter, with neat piles of stalks lying at regular intervals along the path, ready to be swept up for compost, no doubt. The earth looked rich and dark. Richie was the first to break the silence. Finishing his cigarette, he crushed the butt against his thumb nail (stained dark yellow from previous encounters, Nat saw), and flicked it to one side. "I didn't realise you were staying all this time. I'd have come out here sooner if I had." "Yeah?" He flicked his own stub into the same bush as Richie and wished he could read something significant into the act. He couldn't keep the hope out of his voice, and cursed himself and the tide of red coursing like spilled paint up his neck. Bloody idiot -- he'd given the game away good and proper now. Richie would notice and run as fast as he could in the general direction of Wales. But perhaps not. "Oh, yeah," breathed Richie, and reached to touch his hand. Nat's mind went blank. The sudden swell of need threatened to choke him, and he could think only of the fingers resting warm against his own, the thumb that was rubbing circles on his knuckles, over and over. He pulled, reeling the other man in, until the slim body was pressing against his own, chest to chest and hip to hip. Richie came into his arms as if he'd been born to them, full lips seeking his own with a hunger that surprised him. Then their mouths met, and he spiralled away, borne on a rising tide that swept all logical thought before it. Somewhere in the woods a pheasant coughed. Coming back to earth with the proverbial bump, Nat gave a horrified gasp and let go. Jesus Christ! What was he thinking of? Standing here in the middle of the garden, in full view of anyone who came past, French kissing another bloke? It only needed one of the nurses to see and report him and that would be his Roses in December - 39

career finished for good. "Stop, not here," he managed to croak, stepping out of temptation's strangling reach. "Anyone could see." "Ah, screw them, they don't care anyway," said Richie. "They can't see further than the ends of their own noses, especially if you're not Family." He sounded bitter, and Nat could feel the furrows of a frown where his fingers still rested on one cheek. Then the etched lines softened, and a dimple suggested a smile. "Hey, have you seen China yet?" "You what?" Confused by the twin change of mood and subject, Nat wondered what the hell China had to do with anything. "No. Ireland, the Gulf, a German training camp for a while.... Never China. There isn't much call for the British Army out there." "Not the real place, you idiot. Here. In the garden." And when Nat could only shake his head, "Come on, then. I'll show you." The light was fading fast, and he should really be getting back to the house before he was missed, but something inside him thought 'what the hell'. Richie led the way at a breakneck pace, back along the path and up a shallow flight of steps that led onto a different terrace, without the pool. Nat sensed he was being laughed at, but was too busy keeping up to do anything about it. Finally he panted himself to a halt and called, "Hang on, mate, slow down, will you? I'm still hopping about on this bloody leg." "Sorry," said Richie, turning back, contrite. Their pace slowed, but the way was still a confusing maze of paths and steps that blew Nat's sense of direction to the four winds. They marched through a rockery where the path twisted and turned between gullies and ravines; they clambered up beside a waterfall that sprinkled a fine mist of spray in his face; and finally the path curled down under a high rocky cliff. "The Great Wall of China," Richie flung over his shoulder, but whether it was a joke or not, Nat couldn't tell. They came out by a lake. It was too dark to see much, but Nat could hear the soft music of water lapping pebbles at his feet, and the scent of damp rich earth filled his nose. Twin stands of giant rhubarb framed the stygian view, grey on indigo on black, until the moon rose and splashed silvery light on the pallid timbers of a little 'Willow Pattern' bridge. At the far end of the bridge a steep-roofed summerhouse nestled amongst the trees. As they got closer he realised it was a pagoda, roofed in pan tiles and covered in red and gold paint. It was fronted by a veranda that led out over the pool, and along the balustrade hung a row of tiny bells. Nat shook the nearest one and it tinkled, the sweet high note clashing with Richie's throaty laugh. "Well, that's prosperity sorted, then." "You what?" said Nat. "All the bells have different meanings, apparently. You know -- health and wealth and long life. Typical Oriental mumbo-jumbo. The third one along's for love." He knew he shouldn't, but some inner demon drove him to reach out and tug the bell Richie pointed out. It chimed once, a lower tone than before, and then the echoes caught it, tossing it back and forth across the lake in a rising crescendo of one repeated note. Both men held their breath, shivering in the cool air as the dizzying harmony faded to a silence charged with hidden sound. Roses in December - 40

"That's odd. I've never heard it do that before," said Richie. "Must be an omen." "Good or bad?" said Nat. "Dunno." Richie shrugged, the lift of his shoulders raising his fur collar round his ears. "Never mind; all that mystical stuff's best left for the fairies. Are you going to stand there all night, or are you coming indoors?" And taking a key from a nail by the door, he let them in. Inside it was warmer, and surprisingly cosy once Richie had lit a couple of oil lamps. In the sudden glow Nat blew on his fingers and gawped. As summerhouses went it was both large and well-furnished. Rush matting covered the stone-flagged floor, colourful cushions were scattered on the ornate wooden Chinoiserie day-bed and chairs, and there was even a brazier and a plant stand with an aspidistra. Moonlight peeped through the tiny gothic windows, adding liquid mercury to the gold of the lamps, and Richie's face gleamed in the eerie light. "Bit exotic, isn't it?" said Nat. "Beats our garden shed hands down!" Richie dragged an armful of cushions off the chairs and chucked them in a pool of lamplight on the floor. He flopped down onto them and held out his hand. "I'm not supposed to come in here, really -- it's just for the Family. Still, they probably won't come out checking after dark." It was the second time he'd referred to the ‘Family’, and Nat wondered for a moment who he meant. After all, there was nobody but the army up at the house -- medics, nurses and patients alike. Perhaps it was simply Richie's own family that he referred to in an unusual way. Perhaps he, too, was estranged from his folks, which would make another bond between the two of them. But before Nat could even think of asking, the arm snaked out further and pulled him down. He went with it, awkwardly, capsizing onto one knee and then onto his stomach at Richie's side, and marvelled at the difference a couple of hours could make. Back at the Christmas lunch he'd been uncomfortable and depressed; here all his woes seemed to have melted away in quiet companionship and the shared joy of sex. He and Richie had hardly swapped a dozen words since they'd met, yet Nat felt more at home with him than all the chattering jackdaws back at the house. "Do you always think this much?" said Richie in tones of mild annoyance. Arms that clung like clematis wrapped themselves round his body and a warm wet limpet of a mouth latched onto his and refused to let go. Nat stopped thinking and surrendered, senses swimming in a balmy sea of arousal and pleasure and a sense of coming home. It was a long time since he'd done this; not since Ireland, in fact, with young -- what was his name? -- Sean. And even before that it had been a while, because he'd got into the habit of doing without rather than risking his job. Now his body was making up for lost time, and he himself was getting left behind in the rush. His cock was as hard as an iron pipe, digging into his thigh inside his jeans, and he was panting as though he'd just run a hundred-metre race. His skin prickled as sweat broke out, and his head felt light as all the blood migrated south. “Gotta get my trousers off,” he gasped, aware only of the ache of hard flesh trapped behind a zip. Richie wriggled an arm free, setting up yet more wonderful vibrations in the process, and tugged at the fastenings of his fly. Caught between the dual pressures of his own cock and Richie’s thigh, the zipper wouldn’t budge, and Nat resigned himself to coming in his pants. But then some special magic touch of Richie’s jerked the thing free, and he felt the chill of air Roses in December - 41

on sweaty skin as his trousers were dragged over his hips. For one horrified moment he remembered the macabre jigsaw of his leg, and wondered if Richie would take one look and scream. Richie, though, was made of sterner stuff -- or too turned-on to care. He flung Nat’s trousers across the floor; shirt, boots, undies and socks, all at the speed of a runaway train. Nat followed suit, burrowing his way into Richie’s layers of clothes -- jacket, sweater, shirt, even a disreputable vest -- until he could get at the skin buried beneath. Lowering his head, he fastened his mouth on one pale nipple and sucked, and Richie moaned and bucked. Feeling the response sent Nat over the edge. He flipped the pair of them over and clambered on top before grabbing the curly head in both hands and kissing as though he would never let go. Richie moaned again and wrapped his long legs round Nat’s waist, pressing down, his intention clear. Nat managed to hold off long enough to say, “I haven’t got any lube.” “You what?” was Richie’s mumbled reply from the depths of Nat’s armpit, which he was exploring with a wet and mobile tongue. “Lube. Oil. Whatever.” “Oh, that. Don’t need it. Just spit on your dick. And hurry up -- I want you in me, now.” Nat gasped and gave in, and with only a mouthful of spit to ease the way, plunged into Richie’s body and rode him until the stars came out to match the moon.

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III. Next morning when Nat woke there was a strange bright patch on the ceiling. He lay in bed and stared at it for a while, trying to work out what it was. It was too high up to be sunshine, and besides, his room faced more or ess south west and caught the afternoon sun. And there was nothing shiny outside his window that would reflect like that. Puzzled, he clambered out of bed and drew back the curtains, and was promptly dazzled by a flood of white light, because they’d had a white Christmas after all, just one day late. Yesterday’s drizzle had turned to thickly-falling snow, and a soft white duvet already blanketed the garden, deadening sound and smothering all signs of life. It looked inviting, and the thought of finding Richie and pelting him with snowballs brought a child-like grin of mischief to his face. Luckily, Boxing Day was a bank holiday, and all but the most essential of treatment had been cancelled, so he had the day to himself. He’d started taking his meals in the main dining room, but to save time this morning he limped along to the kitchen and pleaded with Elsie for some tea and toast. “Don’t tell me, you’re going outside to build a snowman,” she said, handing over the tub of marge and a knife. “You men are all the same. First sign of snow and you all turn into little boys again.” “Absolutely,” said Nat. “Wouldn’t be any fun, otherwise, would it? Anyway, I can’t remember the last time we got snow like this in England. It’s too good to miss.” “Yes, well, just you be careful in that garden. Regular death-trap it is, full of broken steps and tree roots, and the paving slabs all over moss. You’ll take a tumble if you don’t watch your step, 'specially now when it’s all covered up with the snow." It sounded to Nat as though she was trying to rationalise her outburst of the other week. Listening with half an ear, he promised to take care, and crunched the last of his toast. In deference to her worries he did at least borrow a pair of wellies from the porter’s room, then shrugged on his jacket and marched out into the blizzard. It was coming down fast, and the flakes got everywhere -- in his mouth, on his eyelashes, down the back of his neck where it melted, sending trickles of freezing water down his back - but he was so intent on kicking through the drifts that he barely noticed. The wind had blown during the night, driving snow deep into the furthest crevices of the garden, or piling it into vast white mounds that came past his knees, but now all was still and the silence was absolute. Not a bird sang, not a breath of air stirred the glittering perfection of the strange white world around him. He’d wanted to find that pagoda again, to ring the love-bell and hope that Richie answered the door. But it proved impossible. The snow made odd hummocks of everything, obliterating all but the most prominent features of the garden, and he found he couldn’t get his bearings at all. He wandered the paths at random, ploughing a lonely furrow through the pristine scenery, but all he got for his efforts was cold feet and a runny nose. There was no sign of the lake, or the Wall of China, or anything he could recognise from the night before. More disappointingly, there was no sign of Richie, no matter where he looked.

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Well, it was a holiday after all -- the guy had probably gone to visit family or friends. Or maybe he’d gone back to work? For all their intimacy the previous night, he realised he knew shockingly little about his new friend -- what he did for a living, for starters, or whether he had a regular boyfriend, or even where he lived. It was quite possible he was only visiting Partington whenever they’d met. Whatever the cause of Richie’s absence, snow wasn't nearly as much fun when you had nobody to share it with, and there wasn't much point trudging about by himself out here. He'd be better off curled up somewhere warm and quiet with a book until he felt like facing the world again. Heading for the door, he kicked the worst of the snow off on the step before returning the boots to the caretaker's cupboard and shuffling back to his room. But when he got there it was anything but quiet. A couple of nurses were dashing in and out with fresh laundry, and while he stood aside to let them past, a bell rang to signal the downward progress of the lift. Seconds later the lift doors parted like a mechanical Red Sea, and a porter began to manhandle a bed towards his room. “What’s that for?” he called, confused. “Mine wasn’t broken, was it?” “Nah, nothing wrong with it as far as I know, guv. This is for the new guy.” “New guy? What new guy? Where am I going?” “Search me, guv. I’m the last to find out round here.” “Not quite the last,” said Nat, fuming, and elbowed his way through the crowd into his room. The first person he saw was Sister Andrews, tucking in the blankets on his bed, which had been pushed against the wall. The room, which had been on the small side to start with, was crammed with furniture, an extra locker and chair having appeared since his departure an hour or so ago, and now resembled Aladdin’s Cave. He’d practically have to take up mountaineering to get from his bed to the sink. The Sister looked up as he squeezed in. “Ah, good, Sergeant, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you -- you have a habit of disappearing whenever I want to talk to you. Oh, do be careful, you’re dripping all over the carpet.” The flakes of snow that had stuck to his hair and clothes were melting in the warmth and seeping steadily downwards, but he shook his head, ignoring the gathering puddle. “Never mind that, what the hell’s going on? I thought this room was a single.” “It is, usually, but you’re going to have to share for a while. We’re always at our busiest at this time of the year, thanks to the pre-Christmas bombing campaigns, as I’m sure you of all people will understand. There’s a new batch of patients turning up on Wednesday, and we’ve run out of places to put them. I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenience, but there’s no help for it, I’m afraid.” She was right -- he did appreciate the point about the bombing campaigns. It was how he’d been hurt, after all. His protest died unspoken on his lips, and he nodded brusquely, although inside he was still annoyed. They could have told him, couldn’t they? Given him some sort of warning? He could have done with some time to get used to the idea.... “So who’s coming in here, then?” he said.

Roses in December - 44

“I have no idea -- it’s Sister Patterson’s responsibility to allocate the beds,” she replied with a sniff. “There, that’s all straight again. The nurses will make the new bed up, then we’ll be out of your way. And thank you for not being difficult, Sergeant.” He nodded again. “Not that I had much choice,” he said dryly, and she clicked her tongue at him. “Now, now, don’t be so cynical. It really doesn’t suit you.” Feeling childish and rebellious, he stuck his tongue out at her, but she’d already vanished, heading up the corridor at her usual breakneck pace. He could hear her heels clicking on the lino, tappity-tap, tappity-tap, all the way to the lift doors. Shortly after that, the porter finished crow-barring the second bed in next to his, the nurses wrapped it up in sheets and blankets, and finally they all went away and left him in peace. *** Two days later Nat woke with a sense of foreboding. Something told him this was going to be a very bad day, although for a moment he couldn’t remember why. Then recollection kicked in -- oh, God, yes, sharing a room again. He grunted and pulled the blanket over his head. Just what he didn’t need -- an invasion of privacy to add to all his other woes. He’d got used to having a room all to himself, it was heaven after the comings and goings on the ward at the last hospital, and he’d already forgotten that he ever thought he might be lonely. Now he had some bloody tommy stuck in here with him for weeks on end, and the beds were so close they’d practically be joined at the hip. Not his idea of fun. He lay in bed and sulked until the door crashed open, heralding the arrival of his new room mate. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Far from the butch, shaven-headed thug of his nightmares, the lad who hopped in amidst much clattering on a pair of battered crutches, was young and boyish, with brown hair, dark eyebrows and immense grey eyes that seemed to take up half his face. He was also very pale, and when one crutch caught round the legs of Nat’s locker, he stumbled and collapsed onto his bed with a despairing groan. His left leg was encased in plaster from ankle to hip, and Nat winced in sympathy. Cast or no cast, that had to have hurt... and the young man was lying awfully still. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, conscious of a prickle of concern that he wouldn’t have thought possible a few minutes ago. The pallid face turned to him, and he was relieved to see it was grinning. “Will be, as soon as I’ve got used to these fuckin' things,” the young man said, waving a crutch in a half-hearted way. “Whoever designed ‘em should be strung up by the balls. They’re forever getting wrapped round something.” Nat knew exactly what the lad meant, having had his own spell on the things after his first few bouts of surgery. He answered the grin with one of his own. “Mine were great for propping doors open,” he said. “But not much else.” “Yeah. You, too?”

Roses in December - 45

“Mmm. Nearly lost my leg. Bombing in Belfast.” It was the most he’d managed to tell anyone, other than the doctors, but for some reason he felt easier talking to someone who was obviously in the same boat. “Christ -- that’s bad. Bloody IRA -- and the other lot are just as bad. Shoot the lot of 'em, that’s what I say.” After a couple of lengthy stints in the Province, Nat secretly agreed with him, but was distracted from saying so by a sudden realisation. “You’re from Liverpool, too,” he said. “Yeah, Knotty Ash -- and don’t start on the ‘Diddymen’ jokes. I’m not in the mood.” “Don’t worry. I’m from Walton. It never ceases to amaze me how many people ask if you were born in the prison hospital! I’m Nat, by the way. Nat Brooke.” He held his hand out across the narrow gulf between the beds and felt it grasped. “Patrick Owen. And before you ask, me Mam was Irish and me Dad was Welsh. You’ve lost your accent.” “We moved away years ago. Been living all over since then -- London, mostly, but we had a spell in the Midlands and a couple of years at the North Pole.” “Eh?” “Well, Newcastle actually, but don’t tell the locals I said so.” “Oh, right. Used to call it Penguin-Land up there, when I was a kid.” “Quite.” The conversation languished for a while, but Nat reflected that it was the longest time he’d spent talking to anyone except medical staff (and perhaps Elsie, and she was too much like his mother to count) since the explosion. Maybe he was getting better at last -- or perhaps the tryst with Richie had helped? It could have released some of the pent-up tension of the past few months, relaxed him, made him more comfortable with himself. It was ironic when you thought about it, though. Nothing for years, and then two came along at once, like buses. If he hadn’t already fallen for Richie he could easily be tempted by Patrick. That handsome young face, the boyish charm and ease of manner, the infectious grin that appeared when he was unsure of himself.... Yes, very tempting indeed. The creak of bedsprings as Patrick hauled himself to a sitting position brought real life rushing back. What the hell was he thinking? The lad hadn’t given him the least bit of encouragement, or the slightest sign that he was gay, and probably preferred buxom blondes or pretty nurses to a sour old warhorse like him. What was that old saying about giving someone an inch and they’d take a mile? It certainly applied to him at the moment, and it was stupid. He had to stop thinking like this before he embarrassed himself, or Patrick, or both. “You had breakfast yet?” he said, forcing himself to be prosaic. “They'll still be serving for about twenty minutes if you’re hungry.”

Roses in December - 46

“You bet. Starving. Haven’t eaten since last night -- they moved us out first thing before the trolleys came round.” “Same here. Just give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll show you where to go.” In spite of all his army training he was a bit squeamish about getting dressed in front of an audience. He’d shared quarters in the barracks often enough in the past, but his leg hadn’t looked as though someone had attacked him with a chainsaw back then. But he needn’t have worried, because Patrick wriggled himself into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. “Oi! You ready, then?” said Nat a few minutes later, having shrugged himself into his uniform and run a cursory razor over his whiskers. “Mmm? Oh, yeah, sorry. Hang on, just need to get these ruddy crutches straight.” Using the crutches as levers, he hauled himself upright, and Nat led the way down the rat’s nest of corridors, holding doors open and, when the got to the dining room, carrying Patrick’s tray. It made him feel oddly protective, like a boy with a new puppy. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. Yes, he’d been responsible for the blokes in his unit, but they’d been macho types well able to look after themselves. Patrick was different. Patrick was small and vulnerable, and he felt a swelling of male pride just knowing that he could help. “Wanna know how I did it?” a voice interrupted his thoughts. “Oh, er, what? Sorry, I was miles away.” “Thought you were staring at me leg. You haven’t asked yet.” “No, I don’t always at first. Blokes don’t always want to talk about it. So, how did you do it?” “Parachute jump,” was the succinct reply, accompanied by a scowl. “Wasn’t even on an op, just a training session. Fuckin’ chute failed and down I came. Lucky I landed in a tree, otherwise I’d be pushing up the daisies, but they still said I’d never walk again.” “Yeah, the bastards told me that, too. Not an op, you said? Does that mean you’re in the Paras, too?” He couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of his voice. Patrick was a good three inches shorter than him, and he himself would hardly qualify as the tallest man on earth. And even allowing for weeks of debilitating treatment (and hospital food), his build didn’t look strong. Appearances could be deceiving, though, as he very well knew -- perhaps the lad wasn’t quite as fragile as he’d thought. “That’s right,” Patrick was saying with an air of quiet pride. “Second battalion. You?” “Third.” “Funny we never met before, when you think about it.” “Ah, well, just have to make up for lost time,” said Nat, and then realised what he’d said. “Look, sorry to rush off, but I’ve got an appointment with the physio, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. See you later.” He made his escape with more speed than good manners, Roses in December - 47

desperate to get away before the blush that was creeping up his neck reached his face. Of all the stupid.... Talk about dropping himself in it. He must be getting careless, because after a lifetime of hiding, he’d blurted something incriminating to two different men in a few days. Okay, so Richie hadn’t minded, had been delighted in fact, but then Richie had very fortuitously turned out to be gay. Next time he might not have that luck.

Roses in December - 48

IV. The snow half-thawed and lay round in sinister blackened bolsters, like alien pods waiting to hatch, and then after a couple of weeks the sun came out and the last grey and white patches crawled reluctantly across the lawn, leaving bedraggled green in their wake. Nat found that the therapeutic effect of sex with Richie wore off with the snow, and spent days wallowing in the depression that had been haunting him, on and off, since Christmas, and doing his best to avoid Emily Martin. In the first he was worryingly successful, but in the second fate decided not to play ball, because instead of accepting it when he skipped a session she tracked him all the way to his lair in the library and insisted on holding it there. He was already in trouble with her for refusing to be more positive, and this time her patience was at an end. “Really, Sergeant, you’re not helping yourself,” she said at last. “You could at least try not to be so negative. Sitting about and brooding for hours won’t do anything for your long-term health, you know.” "I'm fine," he said, studying his boots and wishing she would leave him alone. "I'm not going to just go away, you know," she said, reading his mind again. "I'm not giving up on you, not when you've made it this far." And when he didn't immediately reply, added, "Is it so hard to admit it, even to me?" “I suppose not,” he said with a sigh. “It’s just that nothing seems very easy right now. It feels like everything’s on top of me and I can’t climb the heap to get to the light at the top. I don’t know, maybe I just need more time. You and Dr. Latimer are always saying it takes time to get over something like this.” “I’m not sure that’s quite what we had in mind,” she said. “And please don’t quote my own words back at me -- I can remember perfectly well what I said.” She smiled to rob the words of their harshness. “All I mean is that it’s not very healthy for you to wallow in your own misery like this. You need to get out and about round the hospital more; talk to people, join in some of the activities. You seem to have developed an interest in that garden -- why not organise a gardening club, or buy yourself a camera and take some pictures of it? By all means take things slowly, but at the moment you’re not making any forward progress at all.” He nodded, but kept his mouth shut. Easy for her to say, of course; easy for her to issue instructions and have all these bright positive ideas, but she wasn’t the one with chronic depression. It was bloody hard work making 'forward progress' when part of him didn’t want to be bothered, wanted simply to retreat into himself and never come out. Once again she seemed to have secret access to a crystal ball. “Don’t be too discouraged, Sergeant. You are going to get better, you know, whether you like it or not! Well, I’ll see you again at the same time on Friday, and I want you to have made some progress for me by then. I want you to tell me about one positive thing you’ve done in the next two days. That’s not asking too much, is it?” Coming away from the session, he felt more fed up with life than ever, and more obstinate about disobeying her. The time he’d asked for wasn’t just to come to terms with the bombing; there was the whole issue of his lifestyle and his sexuality at stake here. The meeting with Roses in December - 49

Richie felt like a crossroads in his life -- he’d chosen a path now, and for better or worse, he could never go back, and because of that he had some important decisions to make. Like whether he admitted his homosexuality once and for all and left the army to be by Richie’s side; or whether he hid his light under a bushel for a few more years yet, lost Richie in the process, but kept his career until he was old enough to retire. The army or his lover... his lover or the army. It was a terrible choice to have to make, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it yet. Perhaps in a few more weeks, after a few more sessions of treatment, he’d be in a better position to decide. In the meantime, though, he was going to have to do some fairly intricate juggling to keep Dr. Martin off his back. It was getting complicated and made him exhausted just thinking about it. He wished he could simply forget all his problems, bury them in the sand along with his head, and get back to a life of normality at the barracks. Something told him, though, that it was never going to be as easy as that. Still brooding, he trudged back to his room. Patrick was off having some treatment of his own, but the late sun was pouring through the window, casting leafy shadows on the far wall. Nat took one look and grabbed his jacket; he’d been cooped up indoors too long, and needed a brisk walk to shake the cobwebs loose. Besides, there was always the chance he might see Richie again. He caught up with his lover by the old stable block just as the last rays of sun flung themselves over the treetops and painted the weather-vane on the roof gold. “Been wondering where you were,” said Richie, offhandedly. “Come round the back here, got something to show you.” “I’ll just bet you have,” said Nat with a leer. But when he followed round the corner of the building he found Richie holding something small that glinted silver in his hand. Bending closer he saw it was a ring, plain and chunky, with a clear glass top set with a four-leaved clover, preserved forever like a fly in amber. “That’s nice. Where did you get it?” “Charlie gave it to me. Don’t like it much, though -- too heavy for me. You take it.” “Richie, no! I can’t, not if it’s a present....” “Yes you can. Liked it, didn’t you -- you said so. You have it, then. Looks like you could do with the luck anyway with that leg of yours.” And taking Nat’s hand he placed the ring in the palm and curled his fingers over it. The silver was warm from Richie’s touch, and Nat rubbed it gently as though it was something very precious, then tucked it away in his trouser pocket. “Well, if you’re sure.... Thanks.” “What -- don’t I get a kiss for it, then?” Richie’s full lips folded down into a pout, although his eyes gleamed with mischief. Nat couldn’t resist either the pout or the glint. Framing the round face with both hands, he pulled them together, backed Richie into the brick stable wall, and bent his head for a kiss. At first their lips were barely touching, soft and dry, tentative and chaste, but then Richie’s arms came up and wound themselves round his neck, and Richie’s tongue poked out and licked the outline of his mouth. He moaned and felt his knees buckle; straight away Richie took charge, spinning them round so Nat had his back to the wall, and then Richie slithered down, unfastening things as he went. Roses in December - 50

“Oh God,” Nat groaned, as his prick met fresh air, and then, “Oh, sweet Jesus Christ!” as the air turned into a warm and willing mouth. Richie was a past master at giving head, using lips, tongue, and even the gentle scrape of teeth in just the right proportions to send Nat off the top of the scale. He came with a shout, spurting his seed deep into his lover’s throat -- and Richie took the lot. It was all over much too soon. He felt heavy and unsatisfied in spite of the release, and worse when Richie stood up, wiped his mouth and stepped out of his embrace. “Aren’t you going to... I mean, can’t I....?” But the unruly hair bounced in an emphatic shake of the head. “Sorry, I can’t stay. Got to be meeting someone in a minute -- don’t want to give the show away. It’ll look a bit odd if I can’t, you know, raise a bit of interest for them.” He grinned, teeth very white in the gloom, and shrugged. “Don't tell me -- the charitable Charlie. Well, don’t let me keep you,” said Nat with more than a hint of acid in his voice. “Ah, don’t be like that. Made a special effort to see you, I’ll be late as it is.” He leaned back in and pecked Nat on the cheek, then waved cheerily, shoved a hand in his jacket pocket, and loped away into the shadows. As he went, Nat heard the scrape of a match and saw the brief flicker as he lit up another cigarette. A tang of tarry smoke assailed Nat’s nostrils, and he had a strange feeling that his own emotions were blazing on a pyre, and the resulting smoke spiralling up to the heavens. It was the first definite proof of a rival for his affections and he couldn’t help being jealous. How could Richie leave him in the middle of making love to go to somebody else? Didn’t their relationship mean anything to him? With a sinking sensation in his chest Nat realised that he knew so little about his lover -- just his name, and what his mouth tasted like, and how it felt to be inside him. And that was all. Briefly, he wondered whether Charlie was a man or a woman -- these days the name could be either. The latter, he rather hoped. He didn’t think he could cope with the thought of his Richie in another man’s arms. Feeling a sudden draught down below, he realised his willy was still hanging out of his pants, and glanced round furtively, hoping nobody had seen. Luckily, it was deserted out here, the tall bulk of the stables casting a concealing shadow over the corner where he stood, but even so, he knew he should be more careful. Next thing he knew he’d be arrested for indecency and that really would put paid to his army career. Tucking the limp flesh away with extra care, he peeled himself away from the wall’s comforting support and headed back to the hospital. There wasn’t much point staying out here any longer -- it was dark, it was cold, and Richie was off seeing somebody else, and all the garden in the world wasn’t going to change that. It was the dark and cold that proved his downfall. That, and the fact that he was so busy brooding he wasn’t looking where he was going. Half way up the steps to the terrace there was a dip in the stone where yesterday’s drizzle had pooled; the water was only an inch or two deep, and in the rapidly falling temperature had frozen right over. And in the light from Roses in December - 51

Nat’s torch it looked just like liquid. He put one foot down on it, raised the other to climb the step, and his foot promptly slid out from under him. With a despairing cry he tried to right himself, to grab for the rail, to find anything to break his fall, but failed. Like a tree cut down in the prime of life he wavered, toppled and fell full length -- and landed with all his weight on his bad knee. There was a sickening crunch, the world span for a moment, and everything went black. *** When he awoke it was dark, and there were faces hanging over him, faces wearing worried expressions, and for one horrible moment he thought he was back in Shenanigans with the flames edging closer and people dying while he lay helpless on the floor. He felt sick, felt the hot lump heaving up his throat, and looked round wildly for somewhere to spew. But the cold damp earth beneath his head didn’t feel like splintered wood; the chill breeze blowing round his legs wasn't the thick unbreathable smoke and dust; and the scent of wet leaves couldn't be coming from the building burning before his eyes. Slowly, the nausea faded, and took the blackness with it, and he was back in the garden at Partington Towers with Sister Andrews and two of the nurses bending over him. “Sergeant? Sergeant! Can you hear me?” the sister was saying. “Don’t try to move now -- it looks as though you've broken your leg. We’ll fetch a stretcher and get you back inside.” Even as she spoke a couple of porters arrived, and she sprang into action, spreading a blanket over him and directing them as they lifted him, oh so carefully, onto the plastic board. Even then it hurt, enough for the faintness to come back, and he drifted in and out all through the garden and along the corridors, with odd sounds rousing him for a moment, and odd sights catching his eye. He remembered the fire extinguisher for some reason; and the lift door closing, and the faint prickle of alarm he always had now in the suddenly enclosed space; and the clock on the wall in the waiting room, its hands set at ten to six although he’d thought it was much later than that. He heard it ticking, and the porters discussing Stoke’s chances in the football on Saturday, and then he heard someone say, quite clearly, “We’re going to have to cut it off,” and felt the blood leaving his face. His leg? Please God, no -- not after all this time and all the effort they’d spent saving it.... But then Sister Andrews was back, and she was saying in a clear voice, “Your trousers, Sergeant. We’re going to have to cut your trousers off. We can’t get at your leg to see the damage otherwise. It will only take a moment.” He nodded weakly, too choked to reply, and bore the discomfort in silence as they bumped him about to slit the trouser legs. There was a brief moment of pain as a doctor examined the knee, and the walls began to fade again. The last thing he heard was the doctor saying, “...losing blood, get theatre prepared,” and then the darkness closed over his head and he knew nothing more.

Roses in December - 52

Part Three - Spring 1995

“You’re seeing somebody else, aren’t you? No, don’t bother to deny it, I saw it -- saw you with my own two eyes. Talking to him, walking with him. I've seen you together twice now, when you thought I wasn't looking.” “Don’t be daft. Where would I meet anyone else round here? Anyway, wouldn’t want to, would I? Got you. You’re all I need.” “You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you any more. You’re nothing but a liar.” “No, no, I swear. Look, come here, over in the long grass, let me touch you.... Come on, there's no-one to see us.” “Ahh... I shouldn’t.... I know your sort -- you’re just trying to take my mind off... oh, yesss.” “Better?” “Oh, yes. Much better. Ohhh....” “Say you forgive me?” “You think you can wrap me round your little finger, don't you? I suppose so, just this once, but don't count on it again. Here, let me return the favour. I'll take your mind off him once and for all, whoever he is. You won't need anyone else by the time I've finished with you.” I. Spring that year was a long time coming. There wasn’t much more snow, but the days were bitter, and the nights worse, and what rain there was froze into sheets of black ice that lay round for days at a time, catching people unawares. Elsie said the local hospitals were full of patients who’d slipped or tripped or crashed their cars, and the health service was struggling to cope. “Not that there’s much news in that,” she added darkly. “The NHS is always struggling these days if you believe half of what you read. Mind you, I shouldn’t moan. When I was a kid there was no such thing, and if we got sick my dad had to pay for the doctor to come. Terrible really, when you think about it.” Nat grunted and picked at the counterpane, only half listening to the stream of words. He hated being in bed during the day, but since his fall his immune system was shot to hell, and he’d picked up flu twice in the last few weeks, and was still wobbly enough to need an afternoon nap. He’d been asleep when Elsie came in with his afternoon cup of tea, and his concentration hadn’t kicked back in yet, which was making him feel grumpier than usual. In Roses in December - 53

any case, he couldn’t drum up much interest in the woes of the health service; in fact, these days he had trouble getting interested in anything. The doctors kept telling him how lucky he’d been -- lucky that Sister Andrews had been out in the garden looking for him; lucky that Partington, unlike most convalescent homes, had its own operating theatre for emergencies. Without that, he was told, he might very well have lost his leg; as it was he was merely back in plaster from ankle to hip, bored, itching and frustrated as hell. Trouble was, he didn't feel lucky. It wasn’t fair. That was what he felt most of all. He’d been making such good progress before this; he might have been out by now, spending his last few weeks pottering about on holiday somewhere nice and hot before rejoining his unit. Now it could be months before he was fit again, and whenever he remembered that a pall of black depression sank down from the ceiling and settled over his head. He wasn't sure he'd have coped without Patrick and Elsie. Elsie didn’t mother him, exactly, but she made a point of popping in every day, bringing him a cup of tea or coffee, or an old newspaper somebody had left in the kitchen, and chatting away about nothing for ten minutes at a time. It gave him a respite from thinking about himself, and although he wasn’t always as grateful as he should be, he did know it was good for him. And Patrick -- well, Patrick was a walking miracle. Even though they hardly knew each other he seemed to sense Nat’s moods, to shut up or go out when Nat wanted peace and quiet, to stay and talk when he needed company, or even just to sit with him when things got really bad. And bad they certainly got. It was better than the first few days after the explosion, when he’d had word deafness and only responded to shouts of ‘fire!’, but the headaches returned and with them came the strange moments of amnesia and disorientation, when he thought he was back in the Province or on a mission somewhere, or even a child again. It was unnerving when it happened, and he worried himself half to death about it, even though Dr. Latimer was reassuring. “Perfectly natural, my lad,” he’d said, only last week. “It’s just shock and reaction to the anaesthetic -- they’ve brought on a bit of a relapse. Nothing to worry yourself about.” But that was easier said than done. Elsie was still in full flood about the country's political woes when the door opened and Patrick swung himself in, nippier on his crutches now he was used to them. He grinned at Nat, who did his best to summon an answering smile. The little room was suddenly very full of people, and it was making him uncomfortable. It seemed hot, so hot he could hardly breathe, and any minute now the flames would start creeping towards them. He had to get out, had to get Patrick out before they were all burned to a crisp.... Fighting the bedclothes, barely aware of his surroundings, he heard Patrick’s cheery voice saying, “Think you left a tap on in the kitchen, Elsie love, there’s water all over the floor.” A force nine gale ensued as Elsie charged off in a stiff-legged gallop, and the room slowly returned to normal. Nat took deep calming breaths, and the flames and darkness receded, until all he could see was Patrick’s worried face peering at him over the top of the Sun newspaper. “Thanks,” he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Nearly lost it there for a minute.”

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“No problem. Thought you were looking a bit twitchy, like. You'll 'ave to back me up with Elsie, though. God only knows what she’ll say when she finds out there’s no dripping tap!” “You made that up, then?” Nat was impressed. Not many people liked him enough to lie for him. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.” “Yeah, well, like I said, you can do the explaining to Elsie. Anyway, want a chocolate bickie? I nicked a couple from the kitchen when she wasn’t looking.” “Does the sun come up in the east?” said Nat, perking up. Chocolate digestives were his favourite. He waited with barely concealed impatience while Patrick dug around in a pocket and fished out two rather fluffy biscuits, then grabbed one, blew off the worst of the fuzz and demolished it with gusto. “Great. Thanks. Hey, don’t tell Latimer I’m stuffing this, will you? I’m supposed to be on a diet. I’m not getting enough exercise or something. Now there’s a surprise,” he added, rapping his knuckles on his plaster-clad leg. “I won’t say anything if you don’t,” Patrick promised, and retreated into his newspaper. Hoisting himself up on his pillows Nat squinted at the shrieking banner headlines. ‘Pootie plays possum’ was today’s informative offering, in letters three inches high. Who the hell was Pootie? Soap star? Minor royalty? The England football manager? With the Sun it could be any of the above, or even all three at once. Nat shook his head. He’d been out of circulation too long -- if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up as institutionalised as poor old Jazzy Gordon, and hardly remember who or where he was. He wondered what a nice lad like Patrick saw in a rag like that, with its boobs and its bums and its salacious tittle-tattle passing for news. Plenty of his army mates had panted over the page three girls, but then they’d been red-blooded males with the hots for anything young, female, and remotely attractive. But Patrick wasn’t like that, Patrick was different. After six weeks of sharing a room he was nearly, not quite but nearly, certain that Patrick liked men. Not that he’d ever said anything, but Nat could usually tell -- years of living in the closet had done that for him. You soon honed your technique for sending and receiving signals when one wrong choice could get you kicked out of your job. “Want this?” said Patrick, seeing and misjudging his interest in the paper. “No thanks. Should be getting up really. I hate lying round in bed.” “Oh, I don’t know. I can think of worse places on a cold winter’s afternoon.” “Yeah?” Nat felt a surge of hope in spite of himself, but his companion didn’t elaborate. “Anyway, it’s nearly spring.” “Well, it doesn’t feel like it. Had to go across the yard to the pool this morning; they had the corridor closed for cleaning. It’s cold enough to freeze penguins out there.” “You’re just lucky to be allowed out of doors,” he said, aware of a sudden longing for the garden. It had been weeks since he’d been out there, not since his fall in fact. The weather had been too bad, the danger of slipping again too great, and he’d been confined to quarters or at least to the inside of the hospital once he could manage the stairs again. The arctic blast of the last few weeks probably meant everything would be late coming out, but there might Roses in December - 55

be snowdrops by now, or even a crocus or two in the sheltered spots under the trees.... He could hardly wait for the better weather, the warmth of spring, when he could sit outdoors in the sunshine with a book and a cigarette, or set off exploring for China, or lie in the long grass with Richie. “Anything out yet?” he added, unable to stop himself. “Eh?” “Flowers. In the garden. Daffodils and what have you.” “Oh. Right. Sorry, mate, didn’t look. Not really my thing, gardens -- we only had a balcony at home. Mum used to put some things in pots, but it’s not the same, is it?” “No, I don’t suppose it would be.” Nat thought back to their own little oasis with the apple tree he used to climb as a kid, and his mum’s flower bed and his dad’s vegetable patch, and the tiny square of lawn with the sundial at its centre. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but looking back, he supposed he’d been luckier than most to have it. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like growing up without a garden -- no fresh air, no running about with a football, no French cricket on the lawn in the long days of the summer holidays. Of course, that had been back in the days when home was still a haven, before he’d started to realise he was different and make his parents so uncomfortable. The love of gardens had stayed with him, though, however much he’d changed. “You’ll be able to see for yourself soon enough, won’t you? When is it you get that cast off your leg?” “End of the week,” said Nat. “Fingers crossed. They said six weeks and that’s what it’s been. I can’t wait to get rid of the thing. It’s driving me mad.” “Know just what you mean, mate,” said Patrick. “I’ve got another month in mine.” *** It was actually another week before the doctors decided Nat’s leg was strong enough to take the strain of walking without the cast, and even then he was swathed in an elasticated bandage from ankle to mid-thigh. “What’s this for?” he asked with deep suspicion as they rolled it over his foot. “I wanted to see my own bloody skin for a change. I haven’t been able to wash properly for weeks.” The nurse who was doing the rolling raised her eyes heavenwards. “It’s only a support bandage, for goodness sake. Doctor says your knee isn’t strong enough to manage without one yet. You can take it off when you want a shower. You mustn’t sleep in it, anyway.” After the intense itchy irritation of the plaster, the bandage felt light and cool, and he had to admit the joint was still tender when he put any weight on it. Maybe ‘doctor’ knew what he was talking about after all.... He practised walking without the confines of the cast in the corridor outside his room, with Patrick as an interested spectator, until a different nurse came to shoo him away. It was Sister Andrews.

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“Really, Sergeant, it’s about time you bought yourself a watch,” she scolded. “I spend half my life chasing you round this place to remind you of your appointments. They’ve been waiting for you in physio for the last twenty minutes. And not for the first time, I might add.” Nat stuck his tongue out behind her back and swapped grins with Patrick. “Ah, well, must dash,” he said in a fake posh accent once she'd gone. “Can’t keep the good people in physio waiting -- wouldn’t do at all, don’t you know.” As jokes went it wasn't all that funny, but Patrick creased up, bent double and clutching his crutches for support as he giggled like a schoolboy. Nat took one look at the handsome little face, mouth stretched wide in laughter, eyes brimming with mischief, and his heart turned over. “I’ll, er, see you later, then,” he said, suddenly awkward. He turned away before his own face could betray him, but as he limped along the black and white chequered lino, he was aware that behind him the laughter had come to an abrupt end.

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II. On a bright breezy morning in early April he was finally certified fit enough to go out in the garden again. He bundled himself up in a thicker jacket because the wind was still cold, took the stick that Sister Andrews ran after him with, listened to her lecture on being careful and not breaking anything else, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the door. Straight away his mood lifted. The air was clean and cool, the sun felt warm on his face, and there were cloud shadows chasing each other across the tops of the trees. The crocuses were mostly over, but a few defiant daffodils trumpeted their wares from the tangled beds near the house, some of the shrubs had buds that were just waiting to burst, and in a sunny patch by the old sundial an early bumblebee was rummaging in a clump of celandine. He ambled for a while, enjoying the sights and sounds of spring, and the wonderful feeling of having been let out of a cage. He wasn’t paying particular attention to where he was going, so as usual it was a surprise when he found himself back on the terrace. It was weird. He never could find the way to the place when he looked for it, but let his feet and mind wander and all paths seemed to lead here, rather like Rome. Oh, well, now he’d stumbled across it again, perhaps Richie would be hanging about nearby. He shuffled down the steps one tread at a time, taking extra care not to slip again, and on the path at the bottom he turned to the right. He’d never been this way before; it led under a stand of tall scots-pines into a rocky glen, lined with ferns and rhododendrons that snaked along the banks of a narrow babbling stream. Could this be Scotland? The garden seemed to be divided into different nationalities -- he’d already seen China, of course, and the terrace could conceivably be Italy, or the France of Versailles. It was all rather fascinating, in a charming and Victorian sort of way. It was sheltered under the trees, and the path was carpeted with a thick spongy layer of old pine needles that gave off a wonderful scent of resin when he trod on them. The sun was surprisingly hot on his back, and a few flies were taking advantage of the warmth to dart in and out of the shadows, their high-pitched whine a sharp counterpoint to the gentle murmur of the breeze in the pine trees. It could almost have been summer. Richie seemed to think so, too. When Nat found him he was lying flat on his back in a patch of sunlight, basking in his shirt sleeves. The thick flying jacket with its fur collar was nowhere to be seen, and he’d rolled his sleeves past his elbows. He had nice forearms, Nat noticed -- lean but strong, the tanned skin lightly dusted with hair. “You look comfy,” he said. “Room for one more?” Richie opened an eye, squinting against the sun like a medieval gargoyle. “Oh, it’s you,” he said finally, and shuffled a few inches to one side. “Make yourself at home.” “Thanks, I will.” He chucked his stick aside and lowered himself awkwardly to the ground, trying to find somewhere to sit that wasn’t booby-trapped with prickly eruptions of needles. "Ouch," he added, sucking a thumb that had made brief but violent contact with a particularly vicious thorn. "Bloody pine trees. Should keep them all in Scotland where they belong." "Well, they are, in a way," said Richie. “This is the Scottish glen." "Scotland as well as China? Whoever built this garden liked his nationalities."

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"Yeah. There's Egypt, too, believe it or not." Nat could believe it, quite easily. This place was unlike any other garden he'd ever been in and all the more enticing for that. It was evocative and mysterious and unique, and beat the hell out of the beds of salvias at the local park. Richie had been watching his efforts to get comfortable. "Hey -- your leg looks bad again. Can’t bend it, can you? That why you haven’t been to see me for ages? Thought p'raps you were jealous of Charlie.” “No, I slipped on the steps by the terrace, when they were all over ice a few weeks ago.” “Few months more like. You must’ve lost track of the time. Ah, well, comes to us all sooner or later, 'specially an old geezer like you.” “I am not old,” said Nat, propping himself up on one elbow and scowling. “I’m only twentynine, I’ll have you know.” “Yeah. Like I said. Bloody Prehistoric. Four years older than me, anyway.” It was the first time he’d volunteered any information about himself apart from his name, and Nat hoarded the knowledge to himself, unwilling to show how much it had affected him. “Child,” he said in lofty tones. “Dirty old man,” said Richie. He flipped over suddenly and rolled himself on top of Nat, with his arms either side of Nat’s face, grinning down. Nat could feel the warmth of his body pressing all the way down against his own, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, groin to groin. He kissed the grin, and felt two hands clutch at his hair, and a hot bulge begin to jab against his hip. Good. That meant Richie was as aroused as he was. He wrapped his own arms round the warm body and got his tongue past Richie’s teeth, and was rewarded with a lush groan. “Ahhh, don’t stop, feels good,” his lover panted, digging the bulge in harder. “Bloody sex addict,” Nat mumbled, but he complied, skating one hand down the slope of Richie’s back to land on his bum, thumb tracing the contours of the crease in his trousers. Richie was right -- it did feel good, and they were hidden away down here where nobody could find them.... “What are you two doing?” said a piping voice from two feet away, and he jumped so hard he hit his head on the ground. When the stars cleared he found he was looking up at a small girl, about eight years old, wearing an old-fashioned pinafore dress and bright red shoes. Her eyes were huge and her mouth was open in a little ‘o’ of surprise, and Richie was already clambering off. “What are you doing here? Thought you were doing your lessons.” “I was. Mme Rochaud has a cold. She said I could go early. What are you doing?” It was said with all the innocent curiosity of a child, but it still made Nat cringe. Richie, however, was made of sterner stuff.

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“Buzz off and leave me in peace, will you?” he said. “Can’t be doing with you hanging round me morning, noon and night. Chap’s got to have some time to himself, hasn’t he.” “So you can do that?” “Yeah, that’s right. Now go away!” She pouted. “Oh, all right, then. But I do think you’re mean!” She turned with a flounce and began to stalk up the path. “And don’t say anything to anyone,” Richie called after her. “I mean it, Else. Could land me in a lot of trouble if you’re not careful.” “I won’t,” she said, and trotted up the glen until not even the scarlet of her shoes could be seen between the trees. Nat released the breath he seemed to have been holding forever. “Who. The fuck. Was that?” “That’s Elsie. My kid sister. Don’t worry, she won’t tell on us; she doesn’t like the Family much either.” There it was again -- that odd reference to the Family, whoever they might be. This time, Nat wasn’t going to be put off. “What family?” he said. Richie got to his feet and stared at him. “The one that lives in the house, of course. God, don’t you know anything? Hey -- race you to the pagoda!” He set off at a loping run, and Nat had to abandon the questions as he struggled to keep up. These days he always seemed to be tagging along behind, and he hated it. Before the bombing he'd been regimental cross-country champion three years running (so to speak), his stocky build hiding a surprising turn of speed. Now he was reduced to this arthritic-penguin waddle, and thanks to his latest fall, might never get his full mobility back. Resisting the childlike urge to yell ‘hey, wait for me,’ he gritted his teeth and followed Richie's greyhound form all the way back to China. They were approaching the Great Wall from a different direction, and the first thing he saw was a massive stone frog. It was a bit hard to miss, really, since it was squatting on a wall leering down at him, and for one startled moment he wondered if they’d been putting LSD in his tea. But no, it was solid enough, if utterly grotesque. “One of your ancestors?” he called. That made the flying legs stop. “Oi,” Richie said in a growl, coming back and prodding him in the midriff with one long finger. “Not having you casting aspersions on my family, thank you very much. Anyway, get a move on. The pagoda should be deserted this time of day.” The key was still hanging on its nail by the door. It seemed very trusting in this day and age, and Nat could only think the authorities weren’t afraid of burglars in such an out-of-the-way spot. After all, look at all the trouble he had finding the damn place on his own.... Besides, there wasn't much to nick. Richie let him in and grabbed him, starting up again precisely where they’d left off. The interruption didn’t seem to have dampened their ardour -- in Nat’s case it had served only to increase his frustration -- and buttons ripped and belts went flying in their scramble to get each other naked. Richie came into his arms like a fish, slippery with sweat, and the fuzz on his chest teased Nat’s nipples, sending a shock through his veins. He Roses in December - 60

groaned, and thrust his armful against the wooden wall, and began to hump, rubbing their cocks together with desperation. Richie’s head went back and his fingers dug almost painfully into Nat’s arse, clamping them together, closer and closer, moving faster and faster, until with a shout he came. The feel of warm seed on his skin set Nat off, too. He thrust once, twice, shoving his lover hard against the bare planks of the wall, needing to feel Richie submit. He opened his eyes, saw Richie looking up at him under a wild tangle of hair, and felt senses and cock explode. He clung to Richie a moment longer while his own life pumped out, and then his knees buckled and he pulled them both to the floor. “I’ve got splinters in my arse,” said Richie later, from where he lay in Nat’s arms. “Not that I’m complaining. Just thought you’d like to know.” Nat grinned and kissed his ear, too shattered to reply. The sex had blown his socks off, or would have if Richie hadn't ripped them off first, and left him a limp bundle of overstretched muscles and overtaxed nerves. It was nice just to lie like this, with Richie half on his chest, stroking the long back, his mind drifting midway between awareness and sleep. Funny that Richie’s sister had the same name as ‘his’ Elsie -- and it was an unusual name to give a kid these days. Unless they’d called her after the cleaner? It was always possible; she was a motherly sort and might have meant something special to Richie’s folks. He wondered whether there were any other kids besides Elsie and Richie. The girl hadn’t looked more than eight, perhaps ten at the most, and from there to twenty-four was a considerable gap. “Your sister’s a lot younger than you,” he ventured once his lips were working again. “You noticed,” said Richie drily. “Big surprise to Mum and Dad, that was. Nice surprise, mind.” “She looked like a nice kid.” “She’s all right. She’s just Elsie. You know.” Never having had a sister of his own, Nat could only nod. “The only trouble is she won’t leave me alone,” Richie was saying. “She looks up to me like some kind of god, which is all very well until she starts following me about. Gets me in all kinds of bother sometimes. Sees things she shouldn’t, hears things she shouldn’t. Sisters can be a right bloody menace, I tell you.” That set a few alarm bells ringing. “Still, you said she won’t tell anyone.” “Nah, not our Elsie. Just as well really, taking her lessons up at the house with the family’s children. She’d have every chance to drop me in it.” “Is that what she meant about Mme Rochelle?” “Rochaud. That’s right. About the only good thing the family’s done for us is paying for our education. Not that it’s had much effect so far. Well, look at me -- sneaking out to the woodshed and having it off with strangers!” Richie waggled his eyebrows and Nat laughed. Roses in December - 61

"That can't be all you do," he said, taking the risk and fishing for some more information. "Feels like it sometimes," said Richie with a pout. The ruse hadn't worked, and there was a moment's silence that suggested his lover had realised exactly what he was up to and didn't like it. “Not that I’m a stranger now,” Nat added, to cover the awkwardness. Richie's face cleared. “Suppose not, really. I don’t seem to see you very often, that’s all.” “You will, now my leg’s mending again,” Nat promised. *** When he got back to the house 'his' Elsie was brewing tea. It had gone chilly again and he blew on his hands, thinking that a hot cuppa was just what he needed. He hoped he hadn’t done himself a mischief -- lying round in that pagoda with no clothes on for the best part of an hour probably wasn’t the most sensible thing he’d done this year. Although it hadn’t felt cold at the time -- possibly because he’d been snuggled up to Richie, who had enough body heat for two. Nat felt his cock twitch at the thought, and had to speak severely to it before Elsie could see the bulge. “That for me?” he asked, pointing to a steaming mug she’d just poured out. “That depends,” said Elsie, turning her back on him. She sounded cross, and he hoped she hadn't seen anyway and been offended. Hopefully it was something more mundane than that - a row with one of the other cleaners or somebody traipsing muddy footprints over her nice clean floor. “Yeah? What on?” he ventured. “On whether you’ve learned any sense yet,” she said, spinning round and startling him with the intensity of her glare. “You wouldn’t listen, would you? Well perhaps now you’ll believe me.” Nat’s jaw dropped. What on earth was she talking about? And what had he done to make her so angry? “Hey, come on, Elsie, calm down.” “No I won't calm down, not till I've got it through your thick skull. And don’t you go thinking you can patronise me, Mister Mouth-and-Trousers. I won’t have it.” “But I wasn’t...." He broke off and tried a different tack. "Look, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I really don’t know what you’re on about.” “Don’t you?” Her mouth was a thin, grim line. “Well, if it hasn’t sunk in yet, then more fool you. The garden. That’s what I’m 'on about'. First that fall you had and now this.” "But...." Oh, yes, now he remembered. She’d said something once before, about it being creepy, or something. Well, if she wanted to think that it was her problem, not his, and she could damn well take her bad mood out on somebody else, because he wasn’t going to stick Roses in December - 62

around to listen to her. It was much too depressing after such a fantastic time with Richie. "I happen to like the garden," he said. "Dr. Latimer and my psychiatrist are busy encouraging me out into it at every opportunity, and I think they know a bit more about my condition than you do, Elsie. So if it's all right with you, I'll be going out there quite a bit more in the coming weeks. Besides, it's spring. You don't expect me to sit about indoors in lovely weather like this, do you?" "And that just proves my point," she said cryptically, and it wasn't until he followed her gaze to the scudding grey clouds and thrashing branches outside the window that he realised what she meant. The sunshine of earlier had vanished for the day, then -- but that was April in England for you, and hardly something to be worried by. He was beginning to wonder if she was a bit batty, and he'd simply never noticed before. "Okay, fine, so the sun's gone in. Big bloody deal," he snapped. "I'll see you later." When you're in a better mood, and not likely to depress me to hell and back.... Collecting nothing more than a sniff in return, he picked up the cooling tea and mooched back to his room.

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III. It was a whole three days before he remembered the stick. The walking stick Sister Andrews had given him, that he’d dumped somewhere in Scotland when he’d met Richie, and totally forgotten about since. His memory must be worse than he'd thought -- especially as it had taken a comment from Patrick to remind him. He was manhandling himself upstairs two at a time for his next appointment when he met his room-mate hopping down. “Doing all right without your stick, then?” the lad said, and he was so delighted with his progress that it took a few minutes to sink in. Yes, he was getting on just fine without his flipping stick, because said flipping stick was lying in a patch of grass somewhere, sopping wet with dew and probably half eaten by ants. Funny that neither Richie nor his sister had brought it back for him, but perhaps it was so well hidden they hadn’t spotted it. It was mildly annoying to know he'd forgotten it, but he was managing so well without there was no rush to fetch it back. He waited for the next sunny afternoon and went on an expedition to find it. It shouldn’t be too hard to track Scotland down again; he simply had to turn right at the bottom of the steps from the terrace and there it should be. But there was only one problem. The garden started to work its black magic on him again, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t find the terrace. Paths crossed and re-crossed; steps led invitingly upwards to nothing more than wasteland, and he was starting to lose his temper. Okay, so the garden was large, wild and confusing, but he’d been out often enough to be able to find his way round without a map by now. But no matter how far he walked, Scotland remained annoyingly out of reach. In the end, in deference to his knee, which was starting to ache, he gave up. Using a high brick wall as a point of reference, he began to follow it back to the house. It seemed to stretch to the ends of the earth, but he knew for a fact it led the right way because he’d seen the other end, not far from his room. Sure enough, after he’d walked for a few minutes he saw Partington’s gables in the distance, but was sidetracked by a small arched door in the wall. He’d seen this before, too, but it had always been closed. Now it stood enticingly open, and feeling rather like Peter Rabbit in Mr. McGregor’s garden, but too curious to care, he peered through. It led into a vast kitchen garden, totally enclosed by the wall, with ranks of vegetables, battalions of fruit bushes, and a whole army of apple trees. And unlike most of the rest of the garden, it was neat, cared-for and freshly dug over, with flowers edging the vegetable beds and peach blossom cascading down the walls. He didn’t have far to look for the master of all this order: a few rows away beyond a line of cabbages was a bloke in battered corduroys and a loud checked shirt, digging holes for potatoes. When he saw Nat he paused and gave a cheery wave. He had an honest, oblong face dominated by a long nose and a wide and friendly grin, and looked so dependable that Nat felt instantly he could trust him. "Morning!" he called. "Morning, squire. What can I do for you?" “I’m after directions if you can help me. I’m trying to find Scotland.”

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“Scotland! Oh, well now....” It was clear from the man’s expression that he thought Nat was bonkers -- an escaped lunatic from the local asylum, perhaps, or one of the worst cases from the Towers itself. Like Jazz, a little voice muttered inside his head before he managed to shut it up. Nat hastened to reassure the man. “It’s all right, I didn’t mean the country -- I’m not that far gone! Someone told me part of the garden was supposed to be Scotland. The bit near those tall pine trees, with the stream and the rhododendrons. I went there the other day but I can’t find it now.” The man’s suspicion abated but didn’t vanish entirely. “Well, now,” he said again, scratching his head. “I know the pine trees, right enough, but it’s the first time I’ve heard it called Scotland. But yeah, I can show you the way. Best take you myself, this garden’s a regular maze if you don’t know your way about.” “Thanks very much,” said Nat. “I’m Nat, by the way.” “Fred. Fred Bailey. I’m the gardener here. We still grow most of the fruit and veg for the 'ospital on site, and there’s usually enough left over for the local villagers, too. Helps the army make ends meet.” “I can imagine.” So that was why the food at the Towers was so good -- they grew most of it themselves, right here on the doorstep. It made sense to use the garden seeing as it had probably come ‘free’ with the house. And if this chap was the only gardener working here it was hardly surprising he could only tend small sections of the whole -- he simply wouldn’t have time to manage the intricate, sprawling acres all by himself. Fred left his spade half-dug into one of the beds and led Nat back into the depths of the garden by a roundabout route that Nat didn’t recognise at all. Presumably working here had its advantages -- like knowing all the short cuts. As he walked he talked, or at least threw comments and questions over his shoulder at Nat. “So you’re staying at the 'ospital, then?” “That’s right. I’ve been here since November.” “Oh, yeah? They looking after you all right? Plenty worse places to stay, any road.” “It’s not bad as hospitals go,” Nat agreed. “It’s nice having the garden to get out into.” “Ah. Fresh air and exercise -- that’s what my grannie always used to say. You busted your leg, have you?” “Yes. It got smashed up in a bomb attack, and then I fell over on it just as it was getting better.” “Bloody typical, that. Sod’s law, isn’t it? You mind how you go over these rough paths, now. Nearly there.”

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Sure enough, the Scots pines were looming up ahead, casting their spindly shadows across the path. It didn’t look quite the same as he remembered, but this must be the right spot there could hardly be two identical stands of trees in the one garden. “Well, thanks for bringing me,” he said. “I’ll, um, just poke about round here for a bit if that’s okay.” “Fine by me. Lost something, have you?” “Yes, a walking stick, actually. I, er, dropped it out here the other day and forgot about it. I’ll probably end up having to pay for it if I can’t find it.” He was still trying to get his bearings, to pinpoint the exact spot where he and Richie had lain, but his memory seemed to be playing more tricks on him. Surely the grass had been shorter than this -- and where the blazes was the stream? “Well, I’d best be off,” said Fred. “Got the rest of them spuds to heel in. You sure you’ll be all right out here?” Nat emerged from a wild clump of azaleas. “I’ll be fine. Thanks again.” “No problem. Might see you around in the garden.” “Probably. Assuming I ever find my way out again. I’m beginning to think the whole place is cursed. None of the paths ever lead the same way two days running.” Fred grinned again. “It’s not that bad, really. You just 'ave to get to know it, that’s all. Well, I’ll be seeing you.” Left to himself, Nat continued to rummage around in the bushes. He’d have to look Fred up again at some point -- he seemed like a nice chap. All the same, Nat was glad he hadn’t had to explain the real reason why he’d lost that walking stick. That could have been very embarrassing. ‘Er, well, I was shagging your colleague’s son, you see, and I got so carried away I lost my stick.’ Yeah, right. He could just see that explanation going down like the Titanic. And where was the blasted thing, anyway? He’d searched every damn clump of grass for yards around but there was no sign of anything except nettles and the crawling mass of a wood ants’ nest. Leaving that alone in rather a hurry, he poked about for a while longer, and finally admitted defeat. Either he was looking in the wrong place after all, or someone had found the stick and made off with it. Either way, it was out of his hands, and if anyone asked, he’d just have to own up and fork out for a new one. How much could a plain wooden walking stick cost, for heaven’s sake?

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IV. That Saturday it was Patrick’s birthday. He disappeared to the day room for the afternoon with his Mum and Dad who’d travelled down from Liverpool to see him, and arrived back at tea time brimming with good cheer and gifts. Nat’s thoughts went for a moment to his own parents, sitting all comfortable in the ivory tower of their chintz bungalow in Lytham, and then he brought the shutters down, just as he always did. He knew there was about as much chance of them ever visiting him as there was of Wales starting the next world war. His mum might have kept in touch, bless her, for all she disapproved of the army, but his dad hadn’t spoken to him in years, not since that embarrassing encounter outside the Gay Paree nightclub in Blackpool. An old school friend who was openly gay had dragged him there as a sort of stag night just before he joined the army, saying it was his last chance to have some ‘fun’. He’d spent the night in a variety of clinches with a variety of blokes, and come away feeling sated and sore, but very happy. Staggering out onto the pavement at two o’clock in the morning with his arm wrapped lovingly round said friend’s shoulder, the last person he was expecting to clap eyes on was his own father, out for a retirement ‘bash’ with a bunch of mates from work. Nat’s toes still curled at the memory of his father’s expression -- the mingled surprise, disbelief, and dawning horror that had stared back at him from the familiar blue eyes. Next day, in spite of a crashing hangover, he'd tried to explain, but none of the stories he’d cobbled together had satisfied the old man. Exactly a week later he flung Nat out of the family home -- metaphorically and literally -- and refused ever to speak to him again. And when his dad insisted on something, his mum -- the archetypal doormat -- followed suit. These days he didn’t often think about it. There wasn’t much point, really -- you couldn’t shake the elderly out of their beliefs, however illogical or outdated those beliefs might be. And what with his mates and his army career and the overseas travel that entailed, he barely had time for anything else, especially not two miserable old biddies who were prepared to sacrifice their only son sooner than let go of their principles. He did wonder occasionally whether they missed him, and thought probably not. Theirs had never been what you’d call a close family, and his dad had his golfing cronies and his mum the local choir, and they were probably quite happy in their own narrow little world, in their own narrow little way. Nat had been a threat to that world, and they’d dealt with the problem by removing it at its source, and all three of them were probably happier as a result. And it was only now, when he was off his best and had too much time to think, that he found himself wondering what his life would have been like if things had been different. He sighed, and shook his head. It was Patrick’s birthday, for heaven’s sake, and here he was moping about like a wet weekend in Wigan. Time to snap out of it and show a bit of party spirit. “What have you got there?” he said, nodding towards a large red book the lad was clutching to his chest as an obvious prize. Twenty minutes later Patrick was still waxing lyrical about the signed 1986 Liverpool Football Club annual his parents had bought. “These are like hen’s teeth. It’s the year they did the treble, you know, winning the league and all them cups. And it’s signed by the whole team, all the famous names -- Steve McMahon, Ian Rush, Bruce Grobbelaar... even Kenny Dalgleish as team manager. Could be worth a fortune one day -- God knows how much Mum and Dad paid for it.”

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Nat listened to the recital with half an ear, thought back to the last present his parents had given him, and distracted himself again by trying to peel some Sellotape off Patrick’s sleeve without leaving a mark. He was still occupied with this fiddly task when Elsie popped her head round the door. “Ah, there you are. Been waiting for you to get back. We heard it was your birthday, and me and some of the nurses clubbed together and got you this.” ‘This’ turned out to be an enormous birthday cake on a tray, complete with candles and Patrick’s name in flowing icing script. Privately, Nat thought it was hideous, but he appreciated the thought that had gone into providing it. And judging by the way Patrick’s face lit up, so did he. “Oh, thanks, Elsie love. It’s smashing. Can I have some now?” She smiled in a doting fashion. “I don’t see why not. Spoil your appetite for dinner, like as not, but what them doctors don’t know won’t hurt. You stay there and I’ll take it back to the kitchen and cut it up for you.” As good as her word, she arrived back a few minutes later struggling with a tray full of cups of tea and a plate laden with slices of cake. Nat leapt to clear the top of the locker so she could put her burden down, but she barely acknowledged him. He sighed. So she was still giving him the cold shoulder, was she? He hoped she’d have forgotten about that by now, but it seemed she was harbouring the grudge. Whatever the grudge was -- he still had no idea. She fussed over Patrick, handing him his tea and a plate of cake and a fork, and standing over him while he began to eat. Nat had noticed his roommate had this effect on women -- one look at that boyish face and infectious grin, and they came over all motherly. He supposed he couldn’t blame them, really, since the lad had pretty much the same effect on him, but in Elsie’s case it was more blatant than that. She'd turned her back on him, and his tea and cake were left firmly on the tray for him to help himself. He sighed again and reached for a mug. He didn’t fancy the cake anyway -- it looked a bit too 'pink' for his tastes, and the smell of cheap strawberry jam wafting up from the tray confirmed his fears. Besides, someone had said there was roast beef tonight, and he wanted to leave room for that. He stirred his tea moodily and turned so he could look out of the window. Behind him Patrick and Elsie were chatting like old friends, but he didn’t feel like trying to join in, in case she cut him dead and embarrassed the hell out of him. He’d simply sit here and look at the view until she'd gone. It was a nice view at the moment. Tiny green leaves were sprouting on all the shrubs, and the old magnolia was a mass of creamy pink blooms, occasional petals breaking off to land like miniature boats on the green sea of the lawn. A chaffinch was hopping from twig to twig; every so often it fluttered down to the ground and took off again bearing a beak-full of moss. Presumably it was building a nest somewhere, which meant he had the babies -- fat, fluffy and discontented -- to look forward to. The chaffinch perched on a branch near the windowsill and fixed him with a beady eye, chirping hopefully with its head on one side. It looked expectant, and although he didn’t have any breadcrumbs he did have cake. Hooking his plate off the tray he crumbled part of a slice, avoiding the icing and sticky red jam, then cracked the window open and scattered the crumbs outside. Straight away the bird flew down, balancing on the narrow white ledge and Roses in December - 68

pecking the morsels up; it was so close he could see every one of its feathers delineated in minute detail, and the tiny claws on the end of its feet. So small, and yet so perfect.... “And that’s a waste of perfectly good cake,” said a sharp voice from inside the room, and he was jerked back to reality by the slam of the bedroom door. Patrick had paused with a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth and his eyebrows in his fringe. “What the hell’s wrong with her?” he asked. “You two always get along like a house on fire. Now she’s hardly speaking to you. You haven’t gone and said something to upset her, have you?” “I don’t know.” Nat hunched his shoulders. “She’s been like that for days. Something to do with the garden, but she won’t say what.” “The garden?” “Mmm. You know I go out there for walks? Well, she doesn’t seem to like it for some reason -- the other day when I got back in she started yelling at me. I still don’t know why.” “Weird. I dunno, maybe someone attacked her out there once, or she got lost in the shrubbery or pecked by birds, or something.” “Yeah. Maybe. Whatever it is I wish she’d get over it -- I really miss talking to her.” “Ah, she’ll come round again in a few days. You know what women are like!” Nat wished he could share the optimism. What little he knew of women suggested they could remember things like that for weeks -- his Mum used to store up all her wrongs and throw them back at his Dad one by one, weeks or even months later. ‘And another thing’, she’d say. ‘And another thing, Ken Brooke’. They’d laughed about it together from time to time, mimicking her when she was out of earshot, until the day she’d overheard. She never said it again, and they'd never stopped feeling guilty about it. Still, all this mooning about in the past wasn’t helping Patrick celebrate his birthday. “Hope you’re right,” he said, and tried to forget about the whole thing. “Haven’t said Happy Birthday yet, by the way. I'll spare you the torture of listening to me sing it. How old are you -- or shouldn’t I ask?” “Idiot! I’m twenty-five. That's why I've got all these pressies -- bit of a thing in our family when you get to that age.” “Oh -- you’re the same age as....” said Nat, before he remembered. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about Richie, was he? Not if he wanted a job to go back to when all this hospital stuff was over. “Mate of mine,” he added lamely. “One of the lads in my unit. He popped his clogs in that bar in Ireland.” It wasn’t true, but he didn’t think Patrick would check. At least, he hoped Patrick wouldn’t check.... “Anyway, come here. You haven’t had your birthday hug yet.” He stood up and enveloped the younger man in a bear-hug. The lad felt nice in his arms, but he was careful to keep it manly, slapping him on the back a few times and then letting go. Roses in December - 69

More than anything he wanted to stay in the embrace, to tighten his hold, to slip his arms round Patrick’s waist and bring him in close for a kiss. But he still wasn’t sure the kid was gay, and until he was sure -- one hundred per cent sure -- he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. It simply wasn’t worth the risk. *** Patrick was quiet for the rest of the afternoon, immersing himself in his annual and responding in monosyllables to everything Nat said. Nat guessed the excitement had been too much for him and left him to it, pottering about getting himself ready for dinner. Finally, when his watch said it was twenty-five past six, he said “You coming, then?” “Nah, you go. Think I’ll stay here. Not really hungry.” “I’m not surprised. It’s all that cake,” said Nat, and went off to the dining room by himself. It was beef for dinner, accompanied by crisp roast potatoes and a helping of spring cabbage so fresh he suspected it had been grown by Fred. It was delicious, as was the fresh fruit salad for afters (not a cheap pink strawberry to be seen), and he decided he'd been right to pass on the cake. Once he'd cleared his plate and drunk the small cup of watery coffee that was all they were allowed, he tried to decide what to do next. He didn’t much fancy going back to his room because Patrick was probably asleep by now and would only be disturbed if he came crashing back. He supposed he could wander off to the library instead, or better yet, go and see Jazzy again. His one and only visit to his old mate had been way back before Christmas, and it was about time he plucked up the courage to try again. He’d pop down there now and see if he could catch him. Heading for the door at the far end of the dining room, he had to pause as a chap in a wheelchair cruised past. He turned to make sure the chair had space to get past in the doorway, which gave him a grandstand view of the back of the dinner queue. And that’s when he saw Patrick, standing in line with a tray and laughing with the bloke behind him. For one blinding moment he couldn’t even think, so intense was his anger. How dare Patrick do that to him? How dare he lie about not being hungry, and then slink off to the dining room the minute Nat’s back was turned? The world stood still on its axis, and then the door swung shut behind the wheelchair and slammed into his knee. The pain was so intense it brought involuntary tears to his eyes, but it did bring him back to his senses again. What the hell had he been thinking? Just because Patrick was in the dining room didn’t mean he was involved in some sort of conspiracy -- it simply meant the lad had changed his mind. And he needed to be careful, because if he carried on too far down that road he might get paranoia, or worse. And talking of paranoia, he had Jazzy to go and see. He shrugged the momentary mood away and set off up the usual rats’ nest of corridors, wondering as he trudged along why hospitals always chose drab olive green to paint their walls. As a colour scheme it was dreary and depressing and tended to remind you of all sorts of substances you’d much rather forget. Pity they couldn’t live dangerously and try a nice cheerful sunny yellow for a change, or even a cosy red. At least the latter wouldn’t show up the bloodstains on the walls, he thought with sudden gallows humour.

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There was no sign of Jazzy in his room, which was occupied by a large hairy-looking bloke in a neck brace struggling to wash his nether regions at the sink. Nat apologised for disturbing him, shut the door on the affronted glare and went to find one of the nurses. “Sergeant Gordon?” she said when he finally tracked one down. “Oh, I’m sorry, he isn’t here any more. They had to take him back to a proper hospital. Well, he was getting to be a danger to himself and the other patients, you know, and we haven’t got a secure unit here. Hang on a mo, I’ll go and see if I can find out where he went. You could always write to him I suppose.” “Thanks,” said Nat, and hung. He wasn’t sure what use it would be writing to a man who didn’t remember who he was, but the address might come in handy. He could always track down the phone number and call to find out how his mate was getting on. “There you are,” said the nurse, arriving back with a scrap of paper. “He went a couple of weeks ago, you know. We really couldn’t do anything more for him here.” She sounded sad, as though she really cared about her patients and didn’t like admitting to failure, and Nat smiled at her to try to cheer her up. “It's okay. I know he wasn’t himself -- he hadn’t got a clue who I was last time I came to see him and we used to be best mates. It’s a bit sad, but there you go.” He took the piece of paper and studied the address, which was in the nearby town of Stafford. The name of the hospital meant nothing to him and he assumed it was a specialist place for people with mental problems. Well, at least there Jazz would be in expert hands and would hopefully get all the treatment he needed. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a phone number, have you?” he asked. “Thought I might try ringing the place later.” She shook her head. “Sorry, that’s all there was in the office. Directory enquiries might be able to help.” “Yeah. Okay. Well, thanks again. It’s nice of you to take the trouble.” “That’s all right. I liked Mr. Gordon, we all did. Ever such a nice gentleman, it seems such a shame he’s not getting any better.... Oh goodness, is that Mr. Frogg’s bell again? I’ll have to dash, that’s the eleventh time he’s rung in the last hour, and sister’s already said he's not to do it again....” She flashed him a smile and raced away on four-inch platform heels to subdue the recalcitrant Mr. Frogg. Deciding there was no time like the present, Nat headed for the public phone in the reception hall. He was in luck, since there was only one person using it to call a taxi. Usually there was a queue, but presumably most of the patients were still busy stuffing themselves with dinner. He waited for the chap to finish, juggled the coins in his pocket, dialled 192 to call directory enquiries -- and that’s when he really started having fun. “What name please?” said a bored-sounding operator on the other end. Nat gave the name of the hospital and spelled it, twice, as she seemed to have difficulty understanding her own language. He then went through the same process for the town, and held as requested, only for the operator to come back after an eternity and tell him there was no such place. Roses in December - 71

“But that’s ridiculous, of course there is,” he said, his irritation mounting by the second. “I've got the address right here in front of me -- Clarendon Parade, Stafford. Can’t you check again?” But she was adamant. “I've already checked. There’s no such hospital in that town. Do you have another enquiry or will that be all?” “No, that’s all. Thanks for nothing,” said Nat in weary tones and rang off. Well, that was the end of that idea, unless he could get the number from somewhere else. But who on earth would have it, if even British Telecom had never heard of the place? After a few minutes of head-scratching, inspiration struck in the form of Todd Taylor. He’d been visiting Jazzy pretty regularly up to now -- perhaps he would have more information. Pouring his last handful of small change into the open maw of the phone, he dialled the number from memory, and when Todd answered, felt his luck had changed. “Todd? It’s Nat. Nat Brook.” “Oh hullo, mate. Nice surprise to hear from you, I must say. What can I do for you?” “I was after a phone number for Jazz if you’ve got one. Been trying to track him down and the nurse said he’d gone to this hospital in Stafford, but BT reckons it doesn’t exist. Have you any idea what the number is?” There was a moment’s heavy silence on the other end of the phone. Then, “Oh, Christ, hasn’t anyone told you?” said Todd. “Told me what?” “I’m really sorry, Nat, but Jazzy’s dead. Topped himself last week, a few days after they moved him. They’re holding some massive enquiry 'cause he got hold of some pretty lethal pills that he shouldn't have had access to. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried, either -- they were supposed to have him on twenty-four hour suicide watch but somebody fucked up.” Nat felt the floor buckle up and hit him on the back of the knees. Of all the sheer, unexpected, ghastly news to have to hear.... “Nat? Nat, mate, you still with me?” Todd was saying. “Er, yeah, still here,” he croaked. “Sorry, bit of a shock, you know.” “I expect it must have been. Look, I can’t talk now, I’ll come and see you on--” But the pips were sounding and Nat lost the rest of the sentence in a frantic scrabble for more change, and then he was cut off and Todd had gone. He fumbled the receiver back onto its rest and got himself back to his room; thankfully Patrick wasn't back from dinner yet, so he had the place to himself. Sitting white-faced on the edge of the bed, he stuck his head between his knees and waited for the nausea to fade. It took some time, grey veils clouding his eyesight and an annoying buzz sounding in his ears. Eventually, when he thought he could make it to the washbasin without throwing up, he fetched himself a drink of water, then sat again and sipped it and tried to gather his thoughts. Roses in December - 72

It had been a shock, yes, but hardly a surprise. He knew Jazzy had been ill for months, if not years, and if the nurse upstairs was to be believed, he wasn’t getting better. Perhaps what he’d done was the best thing in the circumstances; living in that state for the next thirty years wasn’t really living at all. A part of Nat’s mind, the part that shied from the sheer finality of death, screamed ‘no’, but another part decided that finality wasn’t always such a bad thing, if it meant an end to suffering and pain. Poor old Jazzy. He was going to miss the guy -- they’d been friends, on and off, for a long time. He must remember to ask Todd when the funeral was, and pull himself together in time to attend. The trip away from the Towers (his first since he'd arrived) and the crowds might be a problem, but he owed it to his mate to make the effort, at least. Dot-and-go-one footsteps outside the door heralded Patrick’s return. His earlier anger, forgotten in his reaction to Jazzy's death, soured the pit of his stomach again and for once he felt he'd be better off alone. Grabbing a book at random he sidled past Patrick in the doorway, made an excuse, and ran for the blessed, unpopulated sanctuary of the library. At least there, with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t have to yap endlessly about the other patients, or pretend a keen interest in football, or hide his growing attraction for yet another night. He’d just choose a comfy chair in a quiet corner, settle down with his book, and only slink back when Patrick was likely to have gone to bed.

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V. “You seem withdrawn and edgy today, Sergeant. Is there something bothering you?” He was in the middle of one of his more informal sessions with Emily Martin, usually requested when he was in danger of coming apart. He hadn’t needed as many lately, but the news of Jazzy’s death had affected him more than he’d realised, and he’d had another nightmare last night, the first for quite a while, and woken up shouting to find Patrick holding him down. It had been unnerving to say the least, and straight after breakfast he’d spoken to Dr. Martin’s receptionist and asked for the next available slot. Now, holding a plastic cup of coffee in one shaking hand, he thought ruefully that talking to her was easier said than done and that 'edgy' wasn’t the half of it. He’d been fidgeting with this and that ever since he’d arrived, had already snapped a pencil and spilt his coffee, and felt like nothing more than a ball of unravelling wool. He realised Dr. Martin was waiting, and shrugged, wondering how the hell to put what he was feeling into words -- how to make her understand when he barely understood it himself. But he supposed he had to try -- one, she’d supported him pretty well these past few months, and two, like a cat at a mouse-hole, she wasn't likely to give up. Flicking the rim of his coffee cup with his fingernails, he shrugged and said, “It’s nothing really. Just a mate of mine, Jazzy Gordon. I heard yesterday he’s killed himself -- bit of a shock to the system, that’s all.” “In that case, I have an apology to make,” said Dr. Martin. “I didn’t realise you knew Sergeant Gordon, or I’d have broken the news to you myself. It might have been less of a shock coming from a professional.” He shrugged again. “Maybe. Doesn’t really matter how you dress it up, though -- it doesn’t change the facts. Poor bloke must have been desperate.” “Yes, I think he was. And do you know why that was, Sergeant?” “No.” “Because he wouldn’t help himself, and he wouldn’t let anyone else help him either. It may sound harsh, but Sergeant Gordon’s beyond help now and I have to concentrate on the living. And that includes you, Sergeant Brook. I just hope you don’t end up the same way, for the same silly reasons.” Nat was surprised. He’d never heard her sound quite so vehement before, or seen her pretty hazel eyes flash quite so much fire. And surely she was preaching to the converted, because surely he wasn’t as bad as old Jazzy? “I come to see you regularly, don’t I?” he said, feeling uncomfortable under the force of her stare. “Yes, you do, but that’s not enough. I've already stressed the importance of being positive to you, and you got out of that one by breaking your leg, which hasn't gone unnoticed." "But--" he began, before noticing her twitching lips. "Fair enough. But this is different -- it's got nothing to do with being positive. Or otherwise."

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"To a certain extent, yes. But it’s not enough to come here and sit and talk about what’s on the surface all the time. I can already see what’s on the surface. What I can’t see is what you’ve got buried deep inside, too deep for anyone to access except, possibly, you. And if I can’t access your thoughts, your real thoughts, Sergeant, then my hands are tied when it comes to helping you. Just as they were with your friend.” Now he was seriously alarmed. His secret thoughts were his alone, and if she thought he was letting her anywhere near them she had another thought coming, however much it might ‘tie her hands’. “I'm sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with as much firmness as he could muster. “I’ve talked myself hoarse about that bombing, and given you all the details I can remember. I don’t know what else you want.” “Then you’re taking a very great risk,” she said. “I’m not stupid, Sergeant. I can tell you’re keeping something from me, something that’s very important to you -- and that something is holding back your recovery. Until you decide to cooperate fully I’m afraid there’s very little more I can do.” Nat met her gaze with a level one of his own. “I see,” he said. “In that case, I’d better go, hadn’t I? Thanks for everything you’ve done so far, Doctor. I really appreciate it.” She nodded, tight-lipped, and he dug himself out of the armchair and left without another word. *** Half way back to his room he caught a glimpse of green through a window and his legs changed direction of their own accord. He needed some time to himself to think through what Emily Martin had just said, and where better than the garden? It would be quiet out there, and warm enough for shirtsleeves in the sun, so he wouldn’t need to bother with a jacket. He’d just slip out through the nearest side door and have a mooch until his ruffled feathers were back in place. It was quiet -- quiet and humid and still. He could hear the flies buzzing in the undergrowth, and smell the rich scent of damp earth and wet grass, and the strange, pungent odour of Mayblossom. It had rained heavily overnight; in the laurel wood water was still dripping from the leaves, and the patches of moss in the shade were slippery underfoot, so that he had to watch his step. The hazard-spotting was mechanical, though, because his brain was still seething with rage. She was right, of course. That was what was so bloody annoying -- she’d hit the nail right on the head, because he was hiding something, from her and everyone else, and even at times from himself. As a good professional psychiatrist she’d realised that much, and added two and two to make about fifteen. Yes, he was a homosexual; yes, he’d been hiding that fact for years; but that had nothing to do with his current rate of recovery. Presumably she thought he was covering up something much more relevant to the bombing -- a sense of guilt, perhaps, or a mistake that had cost his men their lives. But it wasn’t like that at all, and admitting he was gay was hardly going to help him get over a bombing. He couldn’t tell her that, though, which meant she would never give up trying to winkle it out of him -- at heaven knows what sort of cost. What price doctor/patient confidentiality when she discovered he was breaking the law? Roses in December - 75

So, what could he do? Well, he could come clean and tell her the truth and suffer the consequences; or he could invent something less explosive that might put her off the scent; or he could stop seeing her altogether. Neither of them were practical solutions to his problem, though. Tell her the truth and he might never wear that famous maroon beret again; divert her attention with admissions of guilt, and he could end up in all kinds of shit. He shuddered. Christ, that didn't even bear thinking about. He’d have a word with Dr. Latimer in the morning and ask to be taken off the blasted woman’s list. That way, she couldn’t do any more damage than she already had. A wet branch slapped him across the face and brought him back to his surroundings. As so often when he was out here he hadn’t been paying attention to where his feet were going, and now he found he was looking at something he recognised from his meetings with Richie the high sandstone cliffs of the ‘Great Wall of China’. Which meant he couldn’t be far from the lake, and the little bridge, and the pagoda with its line of bells. And where Richie’s garden was, Richie might be, too.... He quickened his pace, eager to find the pagoda again, and ring the love bell and see if Richie replied. The path zig-zagged down between the rocks, a little muddy but otherwise just as he remembered it, but when he got to the bottom he paused for a moment, confused. Surely this was China -- and surely he should be able to see across the lake from here? But the view was obliterated by a jungle of bamboo and hostile giant rhubarb, and the ground at his feet was a mess of brambles and thick, oozing mud. Admittedly, it had been dark last time he was here, but he didn’t recall this hemmed-in feeling, and when he’d shone his torch it had cast a rippled silvery path across the lake to the arch of the little bridge. Perhaps he just hadn’t gone far enough along the path? But going further only produced more bamboo, more rhubarb and more glutinous mud, and the bridge and the pagoda remained stubbornly out of view. Until he turned a final corner, and the bamboo parted like the Red Sea. Nat took one look at the view it revealed, and stopped so suddenly he still had one foot in the air, hardly able to believe what his eyes were telling him. The pretty lake had shrunk to a muddy, reed-choked pond; the bridge was no more than a line of rotting piles jutting from the ooze, and the pagoda was a burned-out shell, roofless and charred, with weeds rioting through the gaping holes where its windows had once been. What the hell had happened? Where was the graceful pavilion of a few weeks before? Where was the veranda and the red-and-gold paint and the line of little bells? And why had nobody told him there’d been a fire? The blaze must have been a regular scorcher to have caused this much damage -- you’d have thought all the staff would have been gossiping about it, even if he’d been too out of it to hear the fire engines and sirens himself. It was all very weird. Carefully, he placed his foot back on the ground, then lifted his other foot and put that down, too, moving closer one step at a time. The nearer he got, the less anything made sense. There were brambles rioting through the open gaps where the pagoda’s gothic windows had been, and a young sycamore straggled out through the roof. It took years for plants that big to take hold, for timbers to crumble and a roof to collapse. Which meant... what, exactly? Had it all been a dream -- the pretty Chinese garden and the reflections on the water and the cushions and the tinkling sound of the bells? Would the more familiar elements of his nightmares hit him now -- the screams and the darkness and the terrifying spread of the fire? His snort of laughter echoed in the still air. Now he knew he was nuts, to be wishing the nightmares on himself. But that was better than the alternative; in fact anything was better than the Roses in December - 76

alternative -- that this was reality; that the wonders of China had never existed outside his head. He sank down on the cracked stone base of the pagoda and put his head in his hands, willing himself not to give way. An eternity of deep breathing later, the dizziness began to fade, and he was back in the garden in spring, with the sun shining through the fretwork of broken timbers at his back and a couple of coots pacing solemnly towards the pond. In their blackand-white livery they looked like ushers at a funeral, and he shivered and rubbed the goose bumps on his arms. For God’s sake get a grip on yourself, Nat.... Things were scary enough as it was without him adding to the effect. Once he was capable of logical thought again he began to think it through, and to come up with some answers that weren’t so scary after all. The first time he’d seen the garden he’d been ill and lonely and even a little bit scared, and desperate for somewhere of his own -- a sanctuary he could retreat to when things got really bad. And the clues to the garden’s former glory, together with the haven it represented, had worked on his damaged mind to conjure up vivid images of how it must once have looked, which explained why he could never find the places of his dreams in the clear cold light of day. Put like that, it made perfect sense -- and now he knew what was happening, he could put a stop to it. He didn’t need that sort of security now he was recovering, anyway. He had Richie to talk to, and Patrick and the other folks at the hospital, and Elsie when she wasn’t in a mood, and perhaps that chap Fred in the kitchen garden. And his books. And the real-life garden might only be a fly-blown windfall compared to its former self, but it was still a good place to go for walks. Especially as he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder for shadows, now that he knew the shadows weren’t real. As he hauled himself to his feet, the toe of his boot caught something hard in the mud -- a narrow cone of metal. Bending for a closer look, he realised it was one of the pagoda bells, half buried in the ground. Which just went to prove his theory was right. He must have seen this before, perhaps when he’d come that first time with Richie, and his subconscious mind had stored it and reproduced it in full glorious Technicolor without him ever being aware of it. With one finger he levered it out of its muddy grave. It was grubby and etched with verdigris, and there was no way of telling whether it was the love-bell or not, but it still tinkled sweetly when he shook it. He clutched it tight in his hand for a moment before tucking it away in a pocket; he’d clean it up and cadge some polish from Elsie, and keep it as a souvenir. A reminder of his imaginary adventures, and of the garden as it must once have been, and of how far along the road to recovery he’d come since then. He decided to go back to the house the long way round and see whether anything else looked familiar now he was looking at it with new eyes. He took the path at the back of the pavilion which led round in a big arc to the stand of Scots pine trees. Ah, yes, the Scottish glen. Well, the stream had obviously been filled in years ago, and the rhododendrons had bolted and choked the bottom of the ravine, but it was recognisable now he knew what he was looking for. And if he followed this path it should bring him to the flight of steps where he’d had his fall, and up them to the mysterious, elusive terrace where all his adventures had first begun. He couldn’t find the steps at first, and passed them twice before he realised where they were. The whole sunken path seemed to have been raised and levelled at some point, and now only the top one-and-a-third steps protruded from the ground, their stonework so mossy they blended with the soil. He trotted up and there, sure enough, was the terrace, or what was left Roses in December - 77

of it after years of neglect. Shrubs had run wild, box hedges bolted, and the central pool had cracked and dried, its fountain knocked askew. But a few straggling roses still thrust their blooms towards the light, and with the sun casting dappled shadows like this, it was a pleasant place to sit. He’d have to remember his cigarettes next time, assuming he could buy them from someone. Smoking was discouraged in the hospital, and the WRVS shop stocked nothing so unhealthy. Thinking of smoking reminded him of Richie. He wondered if his lover knew about the fire, and if he was upset. He’d seemed fond of the pagoda, and Nat had the impression he spent a lot of time there, with the family, with Charlie, even on his own. He sat for a while longer, wondering how to break the news if Richie didn’t already know. Then it hit him. The realisation hammered him in the stomach like a rock hard fist, and he felt sweat prickle his forehead and his skin grow cold. Because if the glorious garden of yesteryear had been a figment of his imagination, just what the hell did that make Richie Douglas?

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Part Four - Summer 1995

“Shut up. Shut up! I’m not listening to another word. You’re nothing but a liar. I said that once before and you turned me round, just like you always do. But not this time. This time I know you’re lying, and this time there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.” “You saying you don’t want me, then?” “Yes. Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I want you gone, do you hear? Out of my life for good, you

and your endless damned temptation. You’re evil!”

“Ah, come on, that’s a bit....”

“I said, shut up. And don’t start looking at me like that, all innocence, as if you don’t know

what you are. It won’t work. Not any more. I’m immune to it now.”

“But where am I going to go?”

“I don’t care. You can go to the devil for all I care, back to your master in Hell. Just get out

of here and get off my land. I don’t ever want to see you here again, do you understand?”

“I understand all right. You don’t love me any more, that’s what it is. Bloody marvellous,

that is, after everything I’ve done for you.”

“Everything you’ve done for me? What about all the things I’ve done for you, and your

family? You find it easy to forget all that, don’t you? Anyway, I’m not standing here arguing all day. I’ve got work to do. You pack your things and you leave on tonight’s train, is that clear?” “Look, just give me one last chance. Please? Love you really....” “No, you’ve had your last chance now. I’m not wasting another minute on you. And don’t

think you can try putting the black on me, either -- I’ve made arrangements for that.”

“So cold.... You’ve never been this cold before.”

“You brought it on yourself. Don’t you see? You only have yourself to blame. Now go away

and don’t ever come back.”

I.

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June came and went, and July found Nat still stuck at Partington after suffering a relapse. He told Dr. Latimer it was due to Jazzy’s death, because there was no way on earth he was going to admit the truth. He could just imagine the reaction if he started banging on about imaginary gardens and friends he only talked to in his mind.... They’d have him in a straitjacket before you could say ‘nutter’, and possibly certified to boot. All the same, it was hard to cope without any expert help; he’d grown so used to running to the doctors with his problems that managing alone was a bitch. And his excuse was true in a way, because he did miss his old friend. Todd, as good as his word, called in to see him, and turned up the following week to take him to Jazzy’s funeral. The regiment had given their approval for full military honours, with flag folding and gun salute and all due pomp and ceremony, but Nat hardly noticed all that, or the thunderstorm that broke right in the middle of proceedings, soaking the assembled mourners and clattering so loud the vicar had to shout. All he really remembered afterwards was the wet rain running down his cheeks, and Jazzy’s parents, grief-stricken and bewildered, clinging to one another, and his own desperate longing for someone -- Richie, perhaps, or Patrick -- to cling to in his turn. And the flowers, of course. Endless heaps of sprays and baskets and bouquets, all dead the minute they’d been cut. It seemed odd to honour the dead with a load of dead plants, but appropriate enough in its way, and he wouldn’t have minded so much if it wasn’t for the lilies and their overpowering, sickly stench. A scent that got up his nose and lingered, so that he could still smell it for hours afterwards, reminding him too vividly of things he’d rather forget. It was the first time he’d been out in public since his arrival at the Towers, and he disgraced himself with a panic attack in the car on the way back. Todd was good about it, stopping the car in a lay-by and opening all the windows and doors, and handing over a cigarette into the bargain. Nat guessed he was used to dealing with crack-pots after all his visits to Jazz. “Sorry,” Nat said when the tremors wore off. “No problem, mate,” said Todd. “I’m amazed you got through the salute without a wince. And I won’t even tell the doctors!” All in all he was glad he’d made the effort to go. It was an ordeal, but no worse than plenty he’d faced before, and he couldn’t have let Jazzy go without some mark of respect. And it represented something of a triumph, because it showed him he could still go out in the world without coming completely apart at the seams. That worked wonders on his battered confidence, which was just as well given his uncomfortable conversation with Dr. Latimer a few days later. “I understand you’re not seeing Dr. Martin any more?” the old man had said, frowning over his spectacles. “Do you really think that’s wise, my boy? I know you’re making good progress, but you’re not out of the woods yet. I’m told you had a fit of the shakes in the dining room yesterday when one of the porters dropped a tray of plates.” And just who had passed on that nugget of information, Nat wondered with a scowl. This place was getting more big-brother-like every bloody day. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said after a pause during which he weighed the pros and cons of telling Latimer the truth -- or at least as much of it as he dared. “Dr. Martin told me she couldn’t do anything more for me. There didn’t seem much point going back to her after that.” Roses in December - 80

“I see,” said Latimer, his eyebrows doing a regular Irish jig. “In that case, you leave it to me. I’ll have a word and see what I can do.” A day after that, there was a knock on the door and when he went to investigate he found Dr. Martin had come to see him. She’d picked her time carefully; Patrick was off having his stitches examined and Elsie was busy hoovering in the corridor outside his room, which would keep all but the most determined souls at bay. “May I come in?” she said, and when he nodded, settled herself on the edge of Patrick’s bed and waved him to sit on his own. “I’m here to apologise, Sergeant,” she began. “I seem to be making a habit of that lately, don’t I? I’m afraid I didn’t realise how much your friend meant to you. It was a bit silly of me, and I’m sorry if I caused you any more unhappiness than you were already feeling. Tell me, were the two of you very close?” “Erm, well, close enough I suppose. We were friends for years.” “Ah. I see. Well, that makes a lot of sense, and answers a few questions I’ve had for a while now. Don’t worry, Sergeant, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. Whatever you tell me during our little talks is bound by the doctor-patient confidentiality rules, you know.” He suddenly realised what she might be hinting at. “Oh, no,” he blurted. “It wasn’t like that.... I mean, Jazzy and I -- we were just.... Oh God! Look, I don’t want you thinking....” She rescued him from the morass of half-finished sentences by springing to her feet. “It’s all right, Sergeant, really. If you don’t want to tell me about it I won’t force the issue -- I fully realise what’s at stake here. But if you need someone to talk to I want you to know I’ll always be here.” She pulled a face. “God, listen to me -- I sound like a character out of a soap opera. But you know what I mean. It’s never easy losing a loved one. I’m only sorry it didn’t click sooner. I’m not usually that dense.” With that she whisked out of the room, and he was left sitting on his bed with his head in a whirl. At first he didn’t know whether to be relieved she’d finally realised, or shaking in his boots. True, she’d said she wouldn’t tell anyone, so that was one thing less for him to worry about, but he hadn’t liked what she’d said about it answering all her questions. That sounded way too ominous for his peace of mind. And he wasn’t exactly dancing the rumba with delight that his sexuality had suddenly become so obvious, either. If he wasn’t careful, the next he knew he’d be wearing feather boas and camping about like bloody Boy George. Of course, it was ironic that she’d fixed him up in her mind with the wrong bloke -- he and Jazzy had never been more than mates. And she didn’t seem to suspect his growing attraction to Patrick, or to have discovered Richie’s existence at all. So... maybe she wasn’t quite the brilliant young professional psychiatrist she thought she was? On this cheering thought he toed off his boots, hoisted his legs onto the bed with the rest of him, and prepared to snooze away the time till lunch. *** With Emily Martin back fighting in his corner he didn’t feel quite so isolated; nor was he so dependent on Patrick. Once again, he didn’t think he could have coped without his roommate. Roses in December - 81

The young Scouser had finally been released from his plaster-cast prison, and to celebrate Nat took him straight out into the garden. Even in its present dilapidated state there was still plenty to see, from the peaches ripening on the walls in the kitchen garden, to the wild jungle of China. They pulled faces back at the stone frog, skimmed stones across the surface of the lake, played hide and seek in the rockery and nicked a handful of half-ripe strawberries while Fred’s back was turned, for all the world like a couple of kids. Nat hadn’t had so much fun in months, and felt oddly proud of the garden, as though he’d had some hand in creating it. It wasn’t true, of course -- you only had to look at the height of the trees to see they’d been around a lot longer than he had -- but he still sensed that faint possessiveness every time they went out. Following doctor’s orders to exercise their respective legs, they walked for hours, sometimes chatting about this and that, sometimes in companionable silence. He never felt the need to force conversation with Patrick; they seemed easy with each other whether they talked or not. It made a refreshing change from so many of his army mates who brayed all the time whether they had anything interesting to say or not. And besides, he liked having the company, liked having someone to share the garden with. Once Patrick needed to piss, and rather than dash the whole way back to the house, he answered the call of nature in nature’s own way, against the trunk of a tree. Nat took one look at the stubby cock leaking its precious fluid and his legs turned to sheet steel, fixing him to the ground so he couldn’t move or even look away. Luckily the lad didn’t seem to have noticed his scrutiny, but it was a long time before his arousal died away, and the picture stayed in his mind for days. And yet, the one night when Patrick was fast asleep, and he was as horny as hell and needed to do something about it, it was Richie’s face that filled his mind -- Richie’s green eyes and mischief-laden grin, Richie’s slim-yet-strong limbs, Richie’s body pressed beneath his own as he slipped a hand inside his pyjamas and began to stroke his cock. He tried to blink the spectre away, to replace it with pictures of Patrick taking his piss, but it wouldn’t go, and stood right next to his bed, seeming to watch as though it was really in the room. And when he came, with a groan stifled in his pillows to save waking his snoring friend, it seemed as though Richie bent over him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Always good with me....” he heard, whispered on the faint breeze, stirring the curtains at the open window. But when he sat up there was nobody there, and it had all been yet another dream.

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II. In spite of the dreams, the real Richie remained hidden away no matter how often he dragged Patrick round the garden, and Nat became more than ever convinced that he’d simply imagined his impish young lover. Missing him was a dull ache now, like a tooth that had been drawn several days ago -- the immediate sharp pain had gone, but it left a noticeable gap. And although he tried hard not to think about it too much, it had shaken him that he was capable of conjuring an entire person out of thin air. The garden was more understandable, because he’d had a pattern to work with -- clues that pointed to its original appearance. But with Richie there was no such model. Presumably his subconscious had taken bits and pieces from lots of men he knew, or had seen in films and on TV, and added them into one glorious whole. But it was odd that he didn’t recognise the salient parts, or remember who they’d belonged to; and it was even more miraculous that the person thus summoned was so attractive. Since the explosion, his dreams were horrifying enough to make Dante’s Inferno look like a welcome break. In the end he put the whole thing out of his mind, because the weather turned hot. Day after day rolled by in a white haze of heat, the sun beating down out of a coppery sky and embalming the countryside in a vast shimmering bowl. No cloud marred the perfect sweep of the sky, and no breeze stirred the leaves as they hung limp from the trees, and even the birds had gone quiet. And the human inhabitants of Partington took one look at the breathless wards and unventilated corridors and decamped, en masse, into the green oasis outside the walls. At first Nat was annoyed that his special place had been invaded by so many strangers, but he cheered up when he realised they were mostly keeping to the lawns -- the scrubby areas of grass that ran from the windows to the terrace below. Few, if any, of the patients were tempted to venture further into the thickets, which meant the secret, abandoned heart of the garden was in no danger of being overrun just yet. Even so, he spent several days in a state of high alert, watching the gaggles of mooching men for signs of imminent exploration. He couldn’t watch everyone forever, though -- and so what if they did find China, or Scotland, or any of the other hidden gems? Those places wouldn’t mean the same to anyone else, because they wouldn’t have the wit to see through the wilderness to the beauty that lay beneath. He and Patrick sun-bathed with the rest, on towels spread over the crisp grass and wearing shorts that they’d bullied one of the nurses into buying for them from the local store. In Nat’s case they were a bit tight, but it was better than stewing in full uniform in this heat -- and besides, there was nobody who mattered to see. One day they tired of the throng and found a secluded spot of their own, in a grassy courtyard Nat had never seen before. It was a regular sun-trap, surrounded by high hedges of yew that rose into an odd triangular mass with a central, overgrown doorway flanked by stone sentries that might once have been lions. “I’ve heard of topiary, but what the hell’s that?” he said, whisking his towel at a couple of ladybirds straying where he wanted to sit. Patrick took one look and said, “Looks Egyptian to me. You know, like a pyramid. Saw a programme on telly about King Tut once. This looks just like that.”

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Nat put his head on one side and studied the court, trying to marry green grass and lush yew with the hot Egyptian sand, but after a while he realised the lad had a point. With eyes half closed it was easy to see the triangular thing as a pyramid, and the eroded lions as sphinxes, and the overgrown door as the entry to the burial chamber of some forgotten king. And if the garden had China and Scotland, then why not the greatest kingdom of the ancient world? True, he couldn’t if Richie had ever mentioned Egypt, but then perhaps even he didn’t know it was here, so effectively was it buried in the maze. Assuming, of course, that Richie had ever existed himself.... Brushing that thought aside with the errant beetles, he laid his towel down and flopped onto it with all the elegance of an elephant at a mud-wallow. “Oof! That’s better. Ahh. Feel the heat of that sun!” “Yeah. Nice. Could almost be Egypt!” “Hardly. We went there once on a desert training exercise. The heat’s like a solid wall, it sucks all the life out of you before you even know it. I don’t mind the sun, but that was too much.” “Yeah? Went on holiday to Thailand with me mates, just before I joined up. Bloody scorching, that was, but I loved it.” It was too hot to argue. Nat shrugged, grinned, and flipped onto his back before folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. Mmm. This was nice. With his eyes closed like this he could almost imagine he was on a beach somewhere, with palm trees and pounding surf, and a waiter trotting over the sand with a laden drinks tray. A handsome waiter, young, with dusky skin and gleaming white teeth, and those dark, come-to-bed eyes that promised so much.... He drifted, following the fantasy towards its natural conclusion, and then jolted awake. Oh, bugger. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts wander like that -- now those tight shorts were even tighter, because he had an erection the size of a May-pole and nowhere to hide it. Perhaps if he crawled onto his stomach he could let it die down without Patrick noticing? But it was too late. Opening his eyes a crack and squinting, he found Patrick was regarding the bulge with a knowing smile. “Looks like you’ve got a problem there,” he said when he saw that Nat had seen. “Um, yeah, sorry about that.” “Don’t worry, happens to us all. Specially in the heat -- gets me going every time.” The thought of Patrick, all warm and aroused, made things worse. Much worse, and it was suddenly imperative that he get away somewhere private and do something about this. “I’ll, er, just....” he began, and was defeated by fate, in the shape of Sister Andrews. Face red from exertion in the heat, she appeared in the entrance to the courtyard and stood with her hands on her hips. Nat recognised his nemesis and groaned. “Okay, Sister, which appointment have I forgotten this time?” he said.

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She shook her head and he was surprised to see her smile. “No, no, it’s nothing like that, Sergeant. I’ve been looking for you all morning, that’s all. You do find some odd places to hide yourself away.” He blushed, and hoped his excitement wasn’t as noticeable to her as it had been to Patrick; otherwise, God only knew what she’d think the two of them had been up to, tucked away together out of sight like this. Then he kicked himself for blushing, and hoped she would assume it was too much sun. “Well, you’ve found me now, so what can I do for you?” he said, the words sounding sharper than he’d really intended. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him today? He was behaving like some kind of teenager. “It’s more a case of what I can do for you,” she replied. “I found this in my drawer this morning. I’m so sorry, Sergeant -- I do hope you haven’t been worried about it. It was in your trouser pocket after your fall back in January, and I put it in my drawer for safe-keeping and then I forgot clean about it. It was only when I was looking for a spare pen this morning that I found it again -- it had rolled right to the back. It looks very old -- is it a family heirloom or something?” She held out a small object on the palm of her hand, and he got to his feet for a closer look. It seemed to be a ring of some sort, silver perhaps, although it was tarnished nearly black with age, and he didn’t recognise it. “No, that’s not mine,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you sure you’ve got the right bloke?” “Yes, of course. You’re the only one it could be -- nobody else has had to have their trousers cut off for surgery. I remember because I gave the trousers to Nurse Meadows to throw away -- well, they were absolutely ruined, you know -- and she came back about ten minutes later, ever so worried, with this. She said it was in the pocket and did I want to keep it for you, because she didn’t want anyone to think she’d tried to steal it. I had quite a job calming her down.... Anyway, it’s been in my drawer ever since.” Something was stirring at the back of Nat’s mind. January, she’d said. That must have been when he slipped on those bloody steps and came a cropper. He’d been in so much pain, weaving in and out of consciousness, that he’d forgotten most of the events leading up to the fall, but now he recalled he’d met Richie that day. Or at least, imagined he’d met Richie... and the imaginary Richie had given him a blow job and a present. And the present had been... a silver ring. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “I’d forgotten. Somebody had only just given it to me when I went flying -- I probably wouldn’t have remembered if you hadn’t brought it back. Thanks.” She handed it over. “I’m just glad you haven’t been worried about it. I’d hate to think I’d had it all this time -- it could be valuable. It looks like silver to me.” It did look like silver, silver that had darkened with age, and would need a good polish to bring back the soft metallic gleam he remembered. And there in the top, still set in its crystal case though half-hidden by dirt, lay the four-leafed clover. He clasped his fingers over it for a moment. “Thanks, Sister. I appreciate it.” “That’s quite all right. I can’t stop, I only wanted to give you that back before I forgot again. Don’t forget Dr. Martin at two o’clock!” And with this Parthian shot she span on her stilettos and disappeared round the hedge. Roses in December - 85

Nat bent to pick up his towel. “You off, then?” said Patrick. “Yup. I want to put this somewhere safe before it gets lost again -- and these shorts are a bit lacking in pockets! I’ll be back later.” “Okay.” The young man rolled onto his stomach, pillowed his head on his arms and appeared to go to sleep. Nat wandered back to his room, fingering the ring all the way. He hadn’t said much to the Sister, or to Patrick for that matter, because he hadn’t wanted to give himself away. But deep inside his chest a wild bubble of jubilation was swelling and rising, threatening to either choke him or explode out of his mouth in a triumphant shout. Because the ring was real, and Richie had given him the ring. Which meant Richie had to be real, too, and not a dream or a figment of his diseased imagination. Which meant Richie was still out here somewhere, waiting for him in the garden, and he would be able to see Richie again and kiss him again, and perhaps have sex with him again. And Nat wasn’t losing his mind. He kept the smile under wraps until he was safely back in his room, with the door shut and a shoe balanced against it to warn him if anyone came in. Then he whooped and punched the air in delight, and took the ring out and gazed at it, tracing its contours with his thumb. It was a beautiful thing, really, or would be once he’d cleaned it up. Christ only knew what Sister Andrews kept in that desk drawer of hers for the thing to get this dirty this quickly, but luckily he had the polish he’d borrowed from Elsie to tart up that bell the other week. Fishing in his locker he retrieved it, and a soft piece of cloth, and began to work on the metal, rubbing polish on, and waiting a minute or two before rubbing it -- and the accumulated grot -- off again. Straight away it began to gleam again, with the soft light he remembered from when Richie had first handed it to him, and the metal grew warm in his hand, and almost without thought he brought it to his mouth. It wasn’t quite a kiss, more just resting his lips on the cool crystal top, but for one moment he imagined it was on Richie’s finger, and he could move his lips off the ring and onto the warm flesh of his hand. It was enough to bring his erection back up again. This time, he wasn’t going to be denied. Pulling the curtains across and propping a chair under the door handle, he set about peeling his shorts and undies down just far enough to release his aching prick. It jerked as it met the cooler air, sending delicious shivers up and down his spine. Without bothering to move, he took it in one hand and began the slow, easy rhythm of strokes, up and down, over the tip, back across his balls, that would bring him to the peak. And this time he thought willingly about Richie. How Richie’s hand was the one doing this to him, how Richie was kneeling at his feet, face level with his groin, long fingers clutching, full lips pursed in concentration. And those lips opening, and the tongue-tip poking out, and the fingers pulling him nearer and nearer to that source of ultimate ecstasy, and the feel of another man’s breath on his balls, and the incredible heat surrounding him as he was drawn inside..... His own hand flying, drops of lubrication splattering on the floor, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the perfection that was Richie’s mouth, and gasped and stiffened, and came.

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His legs buckled, and he only just sat down on the bed in time, trembling from the force of the climax. Christ -- that had been a good one. Nearly blown his head off. He’d just lie here and relax for a minute before cleaning himself up.... The inevitable happened, and he only woke again, to the sound of frantic hammering on the door, an hour and a half later. “Nat? Nat, you okay in there?” It was Patrick. He leapt off the bed and promptly fell over, legs hopelessly tangled in his half-mast undies and shorts. “Shit!” he hissed, and only stopped himself going full length by making a grab for the locker. Needless to say his hand caught the tin of polish and sent it flying; it hit the wall with a clatter and knocked the cloth off one way and his precious ring the other. The hammering became even more panic-stricken, if that was possible, but he barely noticed, because the ring was teetering on the windowsill. “Fucking hell,” he swore, making a despairing dive, but even as he watched it wobbled too far, and fell off and rolled beneath the bed. And his knees were tied together and there was no way of breaking his fall.... He hit the edge of the bed with a whump that knocked all the wind out of his lungs, and grabbed the blanket, wheezing and clinging on for dear life. “It’s all right, mate,” he tried to call, but the only sound he could make was a small squeak and Patrick was banging too hard to hear that. Two minutes later the door was kicked in and he was caught red-handed, subsiding to the floor on the end of a blanket rope, with his pants round his ankles and his face the colour of a damson. “Oh, sweet Jesus Christ!” he croaked, and put his head down on the carpet before it fell off. Give him his due, Patrick did actually check he was okay before collapsing with a fit of the giggles, and once he’d got his breath back, Nat promptly lost it again by joining in. He supposed it had looked pretty hilarious. After all, it wasn’t every day you came back from a nice spot of sunbathing to find your door locked and your roommate engaged in a scene out of a Norman Wisdom film. And at least it had only been Patrick and not one of the nurses, or Elsie, or a complete stranger rushing in. Patrick eventually stopped laughing long enough to start putting the room to rights. He picked up the chair, which had fallen over when he’d forced the door, and restored it to its rightful place, and then he retrieved the polish and the cloth. That set him off again. “B bloody hell, m-mate,” he warbled. “I’ve heard of p-polishing the pope, but that’s fuckin’ ridiculous. Get off on the s-smell, do you?” Nat stuck one finger up in the air. “Sod off!” he gasped, wiping his eyes. He was going to strangle the little bugger.... “M-must have been a good one, anyway,” said Patrick, going off into fresh peals of merriment. “Never known anyone come right off the bed before.” Between cackles, Nat decided life wasn’t fair. Like a failed suicide, Patrick was jumping to all the wrong conclusions, and it was his reputation that was suffering. Perhaps he should at least try to explain. “Look, it’s not as bad as you think. Okay, I jerked off, but that was ages ago and I was asleep when you barged in. And the polish was for the ring, thanks very much.

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Which reminds me....” He reached under his bed and began to pat the carpet, hopefully. “It rolled under here somewhere.” “Let me,” said Patrick. “You’re in no fit state to be crawling round under beds. You get yourself dressed before the nurses come to see what all the row’s about.” Nat grinned and hopped over to the locker for fresh underwear, leaving his friend squirming on the floor. It seemed to take some time, and produced a thermometer and five safety pins before the object of the exercise was located, but eventually, “Aha!” he said, and came up clutching a small round item much wreathed in fluff. “This it? Christ, how often does Elsie clean under these beds? I’ll be sneezing all night now.” He blew off the worst of the dust. “Hey, I didn’t see this properly, before. It’s nice, isn’t it? Four leafed clover and all. Lucky, that is.” Nat took it and shut it in a drawer before it could escape again. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, and it wasn’t until much later that the irony struck him. Since Richie had given him this ring he’d broken his leg, fallen out with Elsie, discovered his best mate had killed himself, and quite possibly imagined an entire garden. If that represented good luck, he’d hate to see what the bad luck was like....

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III. The heat wave broke with an impressive thunderstorm which unleashed itself on the Towers late one afternoon. The skies went as dark as a winter evening, and a gusty wind sprang up, sending dust devils spinning over the terrace. Ominous grumbles in the distance heralded the arrival of the storm, and soon torrential rain was beating against the west-facing windows while lightning stabbed round the chimney-pots. If the rain had been less cataclysmic Nat might have gone outside to watch. He liked a good storm, and Partington was just the right setting for one, with its gables and its tower. All it needed was a few bats fluttering in and out, and it would be perfect. But the rain continued to lash down, mixed at times with hail, and he stayed where he was, standing at one of the long windows in the library, and watched it wreak havoc in the garden. Trees flailed under the onslaught, leaves flapped and flew past the windows, and the grass where they’d all been sitting earlier in the day was rapidly turning to mush. They needed the rain, mind you. Only the other day Fred the gardener had been bemoaning the fortnight’s drought. “Terrible for my veg, Mr. Brook,” he’d said, scratching his head. “They’re all wilting to a shrivel, no matter how much I water ‘em. And the soft fruit won’t plump up properly in the dry. Might as well let the birds have the raspberries!” Nat assumed the sudden storm had prevented this dire threat. In gardening terms he couldn’t imagine anything worse, after all Fred’s hard work, than raising the nets and letting the birds in. A few weeks ago he’d plucked up courage and offered his rather rusty skills in the kitchen garden, free of charge. “I haven’t exactly had a lot of experience with veg and stuff,” he warned. “I’m more of a lawn-and-flower-bed man. But if you need a hand it’ll give me something to do.” “Thanks, that’d be terrific,” said Fred, beaming, and set him to work with a hoe. After that he’d hoed and clipped and swept and raked for a couple of hours a day, at least three days a week. It was light work that Fred gave him, in deference to his leg -- although to be honest, that had nearly healed and hardly made its presence felt. It was still stiff in the evenings, especially if he overdid things two days on the trot, but the scarring had gone down, and his mobility was almost fully restored. He just wished his mind would mend to the same extent. During the heat wave, there had been less gardening to be done. The ground was too hard for hoeing, and for once, the weeds were hardly sprouting at all. He carted watering cans to the corners the hose reel couldn’t reach, helped Fred pick all the strawberries before the sun dried them to a frazzle, and spent long periods of time leaning against the greenhouse door, chatting about this and that. Two days after the storm, though, it was a different story. Far from clearing the air, it ushered in a period of damp, sticky weather with huge shower clouds hanging over their heads, and a feel to the air like a Turkish bath. The warmth and moisture made for perfect growing conditions, and the weeds began to spread like fire. And where there were plants, there were insects to munch them straight back down to the soil again. Fred rushed about with a spade, desperately trying to fend an army of caterpillars off the cabbages, while Nat took a hatchet to an explosion of bindweed in the broad beans.

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It was an irritating task requiring patience and dexterity, neither of which he possessed in large quantities. When he’d finished, he stood back to admire his handiwork and found that as well as destroying the bindweed, he’d hacked up an entire row of the beans. “Christ! Sorry, Fred,” he said with gloom to the gardener, who’d appeared as if by magic at his side. “Can’t think how that happened. I was being so bloody careful.” “Not to worry, Mr. Brook. Easily done. We’ll put another row of seed down tonight when the sun’s gone off it. They’ll soon grow back in this weather.” Nat was pleased his mistake hadn’t proved more expensive, but still felt guilty enough to forego dinner and beg a sandwich from the kitchen staff, so he could spend the evening in the garden putting right the damage. “No, no, no, there’s no need for you to do that, Mr. Brook,” said Fred, a look of positive distress on his cheerful, oblong face. “That’s all right. It’s my mistake -- I should be the one to deal with it. Besides, it’s only corned beef hash and Coronation Street tonight, so I’m not exactly missing much.” “Well, if you’re sure.... I’ve got to go, myself. My Carrie’s not doing so well. It’s her fourth, you know, but this one’s more trouble than all the others put together. I promised I’d be back early tonight and give her a rest, like.” “Yeah, you go on,” said Nat. “I’ll do as many of these as I can and finish the rest in the morning. Give my regards to your wife.” Fred ambled off in the direction of the potting shed and was soon lost to view behind the runner bean canes. He and his wife lived in the tiny cottage next door to Elsie on the outskirts of the village, and Nat suspected that he practised the same gardening skills at home as on his potatoes, because his family seemed to have expanded every time he mentioned them. Making short work of his sandwich -- cheese and tomato and surprisingly good, with the tomatoes fresh from Fred’s greenhouse -- he settled down to his task. He found the easiest way was to sit with his legs splayed in front of him; that way he wasn’t continually stooping or putting pressure on his knee. The row was a long one, but he soon developed a steady rhythm -- dibble a hole, drop in a bean seed, cover it up, shuffle forward six inches on his bottom and dibble another hole. He’d come back with the watering can when he’d finished the lot. It was quiet in the garden, the breathless hush of an early summer evening, broken only by the distant clatter of crockery from the hospital kitchens. So quiet that the sound of his own whistling cut through the air like a bugle on hunting day. It sounded out of place, somehow, and after a while he stopped and worked in silence. Until the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path told him he wasn’t alone. He peered up, expecting Fred to check his progress with the beans. What he didn’t expect, propped against an apple tree and smoking, was Richie. His heart skipped a beat. The young man looked as delectable as ever, in light slacks, a shirt with the sleeves rolled past the elbows, and no tie. The open collar revealed a delicate fuzz of curls, and Nat swallowed, so intense was his desire to run his fingers through them. “I Roses in December - 90

wondered when you’d show your face again,” he said instead. “It’s been so long I was beginning to think I’d imagined you.” It was closer to the truth than he was comfortable with, but he pushed the thought away, intent on his lover’s eyes. Richie removed his cigarette. “Yeah. Sorry,” he drawled. “It hasn’t exactly been... easy, lately. I’ve had problems getting away. I’m here now, though, aren’t I? Come over here and say hello.” Nat levered himself to his feet, dusted the worst of the soil off his bum, and went. Close up Richie was even more attractive than he remembered, the piquant face a mass of conflicting angles and curves that should have spelt ugly, but had an innate beauty all of their own. Nat thought it was probably the eyes that made the difference -- large, green, and luminous, with both intelligence and mischief lurking in their depths. Those and that mouth, with lips full enough to be feminine, although lacking the softness he associated with women. Heart racing, he moved in and bent his head to capture those lips with his own; they parted readily to allow his tongue inside and he felt the faint scrape of stubble against his chin. Until that moment he’d still not been sure Richie was real. But the arms around his waist were solid enough, and the lips were warm and tasted of tobacco, and there was nothing insubstantial about the hand pulling him deeper into the orchard. He surrendered to the hand and let himself be drawn down into the long grass with his back pressed hard against the knobbles of an ancient apple tree and his front snuggled delightfully against the warmth of Richie’s chest. He could have stayed like that for hours, mouths and hands exploring, but his lover had other ideas. The long fingers tightened their grip on the back of his head, the legs wound round his arse, and suddenly he was on his tummy on the ground, and Richie was yanking off his clothes. Some of the urgency communicated itself to him, and he gasped as his trousers came off, closely followed by his shirt and pants. “Christ, yes,” he grunted as Richie’s weight pushed down on him, followed by a prickle of alarm. “Hang on. Won’t it hurt?” Richie’s penis was already jabbing him in the buttocks, he was about to be penetrated like a stuck pig, and it had been a long time.... “Don’t worry. I’ve got some stuff,” Richie breathed into his ear, and brought an ancient jar of vaseline up for him to see. He unscrewed the lid and dipped his fingers in the gel, and Nat gasped again as a greased digit inserted itself up his arse. It didn’t take long to prepare him. A few quick thrusts of the hand and he was ready and pleading for it. “Come on, do me. Richie, please.” “I’ll do you all right,” came the panting reply, and the finger slid out and a larger, more insistent appendage shoved against him in its place. There was a moment’s sharp pain, followed by waves of glorious pleasure as his lover began to thrust, the pace hard enough to slap their bodies together in an ever-changing sweaty embrace. Richie was stabbing his prostate now, he could feel his arse stretched wide with the force of it, and his balls ached with the need for his impending release. “Nearly there,” he gasped, and straight away Richie’s hand burrowed beneath them and took him in its grasp. The hand jerked a couple of times and he was off -- twisting and shouting with the sheer mind-blowing joy of it as his seed bathed the grass below. And just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, Richie broke inside him, and he felt the surge halfway through his gut.

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“Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned when he could think again, and lifted Richie’s wet fingers to his mouth for a kiss. They still tasted of vaseline, they’d been up his bum, but he found he didn’t care; the need for intimate contact with this man was too strong to ignore. It seemed Richie felt the same way. He stayed where he was for a long time, covering Nat’s body with his own, his softening cock nestled in the cleft between Nat’s buttocks. Nat could feel it moistening him with a cool, slick trail every time he breathed; it felt very right to have it there. Only when the shadow of their apple tree had stretched all the way to the greenhouse did they move, and separate, and start to dig out their clothes. All the time he was dressing, he sensed unfriendly eyes were watching him, but when he glanced up Richie was focussed on his own clothing, trying to rub the worst creases and grass stains off his slacks. Nat shook his head, and put the sensation down to his overactive imagination. There wasn’t anybody else about at this time of night -- Fred had gone home, and the other patients were tucked up indoors watching telly. A few might be out on the terrace, smoking and enjoying the night air, but there was a high brick wall between them and the kitchen garden, and they could hardly see through that. He watched with amusement as Richie continued to swat at his smeary legs. “Looks like you’re fighting a losing battle with that. Why not come back to my room for a bit? There’s a basin -- we could try rubbing you down with some hot water.” Was he imagining the look of panic in Richie’s eyes, as well? “Thanks, but no thanks, it’ll be all right,” his lover said, almost before he’d finished asking the question. “I’d best be getting back. Been out too long as it is.” “Yeah? Why’s that, then?” If truth be known he was getting just a little tired of all the mystery his lover shrouded himself in. It wasn’t healthy... and it was bloody irritating to know so little about him. “Come on, you can tell me, can’t you?” he added when there was no immediate reply. “You must know me well enough by now. I don’t know you, though. Don’t know the first thing about you, except your name.” “And that’s the way it’s going to stay,” said Richie with surprising force. “It’s better that way -- better for both of us if you don’t get too involved. You wouldn’t like it if I did tell you.” “Well, it can’t be that bad. What are you, an escaped murderer or something? Going to choke me to death when I least expect it?” He was teasing, but Richie’s face remained stony and implacable. “Oh, all right, have it your way, then. But I won’t wait forever, you know. You’re going to have to tell me sooner or later. For Christ’s sake, Richie, I’m not a fucking one-night stand, you know. You can’t just pick me up and put me down again when it suits you.” All the bliss of a few moments ago had seeped away. He felt hurt and exasperated, and knew it was beginning to show. Richie was pouting, head down and eyes turned away, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to push Richie away. “I’m sorry,” he said, relenting. “It’s just... it just makes me feel like you don’t trust me. But I suppose you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” “Yeah. Maybe.” But although Richie came into his arms for an apologetic cuddle and a kiss, he was still stiff and resentful, and Nat’s last sight of him a few minutes later was of an unforgiving back disappearing into the gloom amongst the trees. He sighed. Whoever said the Roses in December - 92

path of true love never ran smooth didn’t know the half of it; he’d just have to hope Richie bounced back by morning. And talking of morning, he’d have to come back and finish off those blasted beans then, because it was now so dark he couldn’t see a thing. Feeling his way back by the light of a few faint stars, he tidied his tools away as best he could, and went off for a troubled night’s sleep.

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IV. Dr. Latimer dropped a bombshell on him a few days later. He’d gone along for his monthly progress report and wasn’t expecting it to be very different from the last two or three. So he was very surprised when the doctor took off his spectacles, looked him straight in the eye and said, “I’m not entirely happy with your progress, Sergeant. Your leg isn’t a problem any more, but this trauma is taking much longer to shift than I would like, so much so that I had a word with Dr. Martin recently. She feels the same way I do -- we both think you’re not doing enough to help your own progress.” Nat sat and gaped at him. “What d’you mean?” he said eventually. “Well, let me put it this way. You’re not taking a very active role in your own recovery, are you? You don’t try anything new, you don’t appear to want to make progress. You seem more than happy pottering about here all day. But we don’t want our patients to be happy, Sergeant, we want them to be anxious to leave. So anxious that they’ll do almost anything to get away. For all the right reasons, of course!” He smiled, but Nat could see that beneath it he was utterly serious. Nat sat and thought. “It hadn’t really occurred to me like that,” he admitted after a few minutes. “What are you asking me to do?” “Well, that’s really up to you, Sergeant. I’m not going to insist on you doing something distasteful to you. Let’s just say that I want you to become more involved. Whether that means joining in with your fellow patients more, or taking more of an interest in your own case, or even just getting out and about more, I leave it to you to decide. Decision-making is all part of the process, you see.” “Get out and about?” Nat tried to ignore the panic welling in his chest. “You mean, leave Partington?” “Not on a permanent basis just yet, of course. But this isn’t a prison, Sergeant. There’s nothing to stop you walking down to the village, or phoning for a taxi and having a trip out somewhere. Why not take the opportunity to visit your family or friends? There’s absolutely no medical reason why you shouldn’t, now. There’s no rush -- have a think about it for a few days. But next time we meet I want you to have done one different, positive thing that you can tell me about. Okay?” Nat nodded because there didn’t seem to be much else to do, and took himself off for a good hard sulk. Bloody doctors, messing about with his life and trying to tell him what he could and couldn’t do.... Just listen to the old fool, ordering him to go and see his family without ever once checking in his file to see if his family wanted to see him or not. And as for going shopping in town, it was ridiculous. He hated towns and hated shopping -- and anyway, there was nothing he needed to buy. Gradually, though, he began to calm down, and to realise that there was a large grain of truth in what Latimer had just said, especially as it was pretty much what Emily Martin had told him the other month. He supposed he had been getting complacent, letting himself settle too comfortably into the routine here at the Towers, when really he should be concentrating on Roses in December - 94

returning to his unit. And only he could do something about that. Consequently, the next time Fred mentioned taking the truck into town to stock up on supplies, Nat surprised them both by asking to go along. The nearest big town centre at Stoke was a good thirty miles away, so Fred only went once a month when he’d run out of enough to make the trip worthwhile. This time he needed a new spade, since the old one had cracked when he hit some buried brickwork while digging holes for a new pergola for his fruit trees. “Can’t get them round here, not proper ones with a decent blade on them,” he explained. “But there’s a hardware store in town does them, and I’ll take one of his galvanised watering cans as well, and the timber for the pergola while I’m at it. Might as well get in all in one go, it’s cheaper that way. The army’s none too keen on paying, as I’m sure you’re the first to know.” Caught between honesty and loyalty, Nat kept his mouth shut. Wednesday dawned fair, the sun glaring and the temperature already climbing by breakfast time, so Nat was surprised when Fred turned up with an umbrella. “What’s that for?” “Going to have rain this afternoon,” said Fred, tossing the brolly onto the back seat of the truck where it joined an impressive assortment of junk. “Yeah? How d’you work that out, then?” Nat eyed the cloudless sky. “Ah. Well. Sky was green at sunset last night, see. Sure fire way of telling, that is.” Nat shook his head. It sounded like an old wives’ tale to him, but then he hadn’t lived in the country most of his life. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said with a grin, and clambered into the truck. He had some misgivings about the trip. He’d be beyond the sanctuary of the Towers for a whole day, which was very different to popping along to someone’s funeral for a couple of hours. And even then he’d been jittery on the way back.... And Fred wasn’t like Todd, used to coping with the fallout from military disasters. What would happen if he had an attack in the truck, miles from anywhere, with no way of calling for help? In the end he coped pretty well with the journey. Fred had the radio on, with somebody’s piano concerto tinkling away in the background, and they wound all the windows down as far as they’d go because of the heat. After a few miles Nat relaxed and watched the countryside bowling past the windscreen, an endless variation of fields and hedges and cows and church spires and village greens. In deference to the truck’s engine, which refused to do more than forty, Fred stuck to the back roads, passing village after village with names like ‘Snoresby’ and ‘Little Wittering’. It was all very pretty and rural, and reminded Nat of the landscape round the barracks. He’d got to know the local villages down there quite well in the typical soldier’s search for beer and companionship. Even if the companionship had, for him, occasionally been of the dangerous kind. At one point they were held up at a level crossing for fifteen minutes, waiting for a non existent train. Nat knew he’d have been climbing the walls, even in the old days before the bomb, but Fred sat quite serene, whistling along to the music as though he hadn’t a care in the Roses in December - 95

world. Presumably this counted as a day off for him, a whole day away from digging and chores and the garden, and he was determined to enjoy it no matter what. “I don’t know how you do it,” said Nat, as a toot from Fred’s horn brought an indecent gesture from the signal-man. “Do what?” “Stay so bloody calm all the time. I’d have got out by now and killed him!” Fred grinned. “Was a bit rude, wasn’t he? Never mind, takes all sorts as my Mum used to say. There’s no point getting all wound up over things you can’t change.” “Nice idea,” said Nat. “Can’t see it going down too well in the army, mind you.” The barriers remained obstinately in the down position and in the end even Fred gave up, turning the truck in the narrow lane and puttering back the way they’d come. “Be here till Christmas at this rate,” he said, “and I’ve got them courgettes to pick when we get back. I’ll go a different way round. You getting hungry?” “Starving, actually,” said Nat, and regretted it when Fred pulled into a transport caff car park a few miles further on. “Do good grub here,” he said, and led the way inside. It was hot and crowded, and smelt of fried bacon and eggs and Nat only kept his breakfast down by sheer force of will. He made himself wait at Fred’s side, and ordered tea and a bun, but as soon as the food was ready he tapped his companion on the arm. “Think I’ll take mine outside. Bit hot in here.” “No problem. We can eat in the truck,” said Fred without turning a hair. As they left the café they found a bank of high cloud had moved in, and the sun was gleaming through it like a barley-sugar, pallid and translucent. “Told you it was going to rain, Mr. Brook,” said Fred, looking smug. “Yes, all right, I said I’d take your word for it. And for God’s sake stop calling me Mr. Brook. My name’s Nat.” “Okay. Nat it is, then.” Grinning, Fred held out his hand to shake on the deal. When they got into town Fred dropped him off near the shopping centre before heading off for his garden equipment. “I’ll pick you up here, Mr. Br... sorry, Nat, if that’s okay with you. It’ll take at least a couple of hours to load all that timber so I’ll see you again about three.” “Yeah, that’s fine,” said Nat, and hopped out of the cab. The first thing he noticed was the noise. Closely followed by the crowds, and the lack of space to walk on the dirty pavements, and the smell of crushed cabbage leaves and rancid chip fat that hung over everything in a greasy, stomach-churning pall. Oh Christ.... He’d thought he could do this, but now he wasn’t Roses in December - 96

so sure. Nobody had thought to tell him that Wednesday was market day, and that every last inch of space would be taken up with stalls and trailers, and piles of cardboard boxes and spoiled food, and above all with people. Everywhere he looked there were men and women with children and dogs and pushchairs, walking up and down the rows of stalls, pausing to rummage amongst the goods, haggling over the prices, chasing straying toddlers, and gossiping about the latest scandals, all at top volume. After two minutes Nat’s ears were ringing; after five he was going deaf. And he had to spend another two hours and fifty five minutes here before Fred came back and rescued him. So what the hell did he do till then? Especially as it was starting to rain -- bugger Fred and his bloody psychic weather forecasting. Well, in for a penny in for a pound, as the saying went he might as well get it over and done with before his nerve gave out altogether. With the air of a man going to his own execution he stepped off the kerb and entered the fray. After twenty minutes his temper was starting to wear thin. He’d been barged and jostled and pushed, and nearly had his eye taken out by some woman’s umbrella, and it was all he could do not to start using his fists. He disliked markets at the best of times with their piles of shoddy goods and stall-holders who hawked ‘best bananas’ and then palmed you off with a bag of rotten ones from under the counter when they thought you weren’t looking. And so far he’d seen nothing to make him change his mind. He sloshed along in the increasingly heavy rain, hunching his shoulders in the thin jacket that was all he’d thought to bring, and feeling sorry for himself. He still had another couple of hours to kill, and he’d already seen most of what the town had to offer -- twice over. It was the usual mix of high street stores of the ‘seen one, seen ‘em all’ variety, banks, building societies, insurance offices, an insignificant branch library, and various cafés and bars. The latter reminded him he was hungry. That bun at the transport caff had been light on calories and inspiration, and now his emptying stomach was making its presence felt. He didn’t fancy the pubs. The thought of going into one, dark and smoky and packed, and actually sitting down with a drink sent shivers up his spine. But there was one place, a vegetarian restaurant at the top of the High Street, that looked like a possibility. He didn’t like veggie stuff usually, but they had hot soup on the menu, and better still it had picture windows onto the street, so it was airy and spacious and light. Paddling in out of the rain, he bumped straight into the waitress, a plump young thing with a pleasantly cheeky grin. “Christ, sorry, didn’t see you there,” he said, trying desperately not to drip on her shoes. He shouldered himself out of his wringing jacket and held it from one finger with a frown. “Er, have you got anywhere I can put this?” “Ooh, yes, give it to me and I’ll hang it up out of the way,” she said. “Terrible weather can’t believe it’s still August.” “Thanks,” he said, handing over the jacket with a smile. Watching the effect it had on her, he wished he hadn’t been quite as friendly. A pink splotch appeared on each of her round cheeks, and her head dropped so that she was looking up at him under her eyelashes -- and he was sure he could hear her knees knocking together. Blast! He’d forgotten what his looks did to young and impressionable women. Various female friends had told him he could have been a film-star, and although he knew they were exaggerating, it wasn’t by much. Dark hair, navy blue eyes, and regular features were bad enough, but when they were topped off by

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eyelashes about two inches long, the overall effect was little short of devastating. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He reduced the wattage of his smile and followed the flustered girl to a well-polished wooden table near the window. For his battered mind it was perfect, offering a wide field of vision and an easy route of escape. For his battered ego, however, it was less than ideal, because it gave him a grandstand view of the kitchen, where his waitress was giggling with two of her friends. And an even better view of the chef, who was young, dark, gorgeous and very, very male. Who glanced up from slicing a cucumber, saw the expression on Nat’s face, and winked. Oh, Christ. Nat wrapped himself round his soup and did his best not to make eye contact with any of them, but it wasn’t easy with the girls making excuses to pass his table three times a minute and the chef sending signals loud enough to rattle seismographs in Los Angeles. And all he wanted to do was eat his lunch in peace. Things came to a head just as he was finishing. The waitress he’d bumped into, who had the name ‘Shula’ embroidered on her apron, came and hovered by his table as he drank the last few mouthfuls of soup. “Haven’t seen you round here before,” she offered, using her eyelashes again. Pity she hadn’t realised he was immune. “Er, no, it’s my first visit.” Too late he realised he shouldn’t be making conversation -- he’d only get drawn in. “Yeah? Staying long? Doing anything tonight?” He couldn’t believe it. The forward little minx was coming on to him, in a way that left almost nothing to the imagination. Even if he’d liked women he wouldn’t have been impressed by such a brazen display. “No. No, I’m not staying overnight,” he said, and tried to sound final. She made a little pout of disappointment with excessively pink lips. “Ooh, that’s a shame. Well, I get off at five if you want to go somewhere then? The pictures? They’re showing ‘Love Story’ all this week.” At that moment he couldn’t have cared less if they’d been showing Bambi Fries in Hell. He met her gaze at last. “Sorry, love, you’re not my type.” Even then it didn’t put her off. “Oh, yeah? So what is?” she said with a toss of the head, and he found he couldn’t resist. Nodding towards the kitchen, he returned the chef’s hungry gaze with interest. “He is.” It wasn’t kind, it probably wasn’t even necessary, and he got his comeuppance straight away because she whisked his bowl away so fast the spoon fell out and landed in his lap, splattering him with scarlet drops of tomato soup. He wiped the worst off with a serviette and shrugged. Little bitch had it coming, harassing a customer like that. And if she couldn’t stand the heat, she could try staying out of the kitchen, in both senses of the phrase. A cloth appeared under his nose and he jumped.

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“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Thought you might need a hand. Shula spilt the soup, didn’t she?” It was the chef. Nat sucked in a breath of air. “Thanks, mate, but I’ve got the worst off now. No harm done.” The thought of those long chef’s fingers rubbing that cloth up and down his trousers was more than he could cope with just now. “Honestly.” “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll have to have a word with Shula, though. She shouldn’t have done that, it’s bad for custom.” “Yeah. So’s chatting up....” said Nat, and thought better of it. It wasn’t his argument -- he was never likely to come back here, after all. “I don’t suppose you are free later?” the chef said with a twinkle. “I get off at five, too, you know.” Sweet Jesus Christ, that was twice in ten minutes. Nat shook his head, not without a twinge of regret. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m only here for the day. And before you ask, no, I haven’t got time for a quickie round the back. I’m meeting someone in a few minutes.” The grin became a rueful smile. “I might have known. The best ones are always taken. Oh, well, plenty more fish in the sea, even in a dead-end town like this. You sure you’re okay about that soup?” “Fine,” said Nat. He dumped a handful of pound coins on the table, grabbed his jacket and fled. In spite of Shula’s attentions, the jacket was still damp and it took him a moment to force his arms back into the sleeves. At least the delay gave him the chance to calm down a bit, and as his pulse returned to normal, the enormity of what he’d just done smacked him in the face. That was the first time he’d ever openly admitted he was gay, and although he felt a fierce rush of joy at the release from society’s shackles, he also knew it was a dangerous precedent to set. The army might not hear about the goings-on in this provincial backwater, but the next time he blurted something out to prove a point like that, he might be in more compromising surroundings. Like his CO’s office, for example. He’d better not make a habit of it, however satisfying it had been. Outside it was still raining, the market was still in full swing, and he still had nearly an hour to fritter away in a town that was rapidly running out of alternatives. What now? There didn’t even seem to be a decent museum to potter round. Ducking his head against the soaking onslaught, he slipped down a side street that he didn’t think he’d seen before, and almost immediately found salvation in the unlikely shape of a second-hand book emporium. Inside it was warm and musty, and dry and blessedly quiet, with only a few people browsing the shelves, and a young bespectacled woman behind a desk, knitting a knobbly-looking scarf in a hideous shade of mustard wool. Ah -- peace at last. This was better. The place resembled Aladdin’s cave, with books stacked from floor to ceiling in a warren of tiny rooms that led one from the other in a bibliographic maze, and everywhere he looked there was something of interest. Books on gardening, books on famous people, books on the army and military history and the two world wars, novels, books of poetry.... He was in heaven. And right at the back of the shop, past the children’s books and the artists’ materials, was a sitting area with Roses in December - 99

two old sofas, a couple of worn out chairs and a coffee machine, where you could take your selected goodies and read them to your heart’s content. He helped himself to a coffee and settled down with a biography of Field Marshall Montgomery, which was so fascinating that he read four whole chapters without even noticing. Setting that aside, he refilled his cup and started on the poetry, and it wasn’t until he’d read two slim volumes of Shelley and one of Keats that he thought to look at his watch. To his amazement, he found it was ten to three. Hastily replacing the books on the shelves he prepared to leave the shop, but felt guilty about going without buying something. After all, he’d spent the best part of an hour enjoying their heat, their light, and their stock of books, and it was a shop, not a library. Maybe the local history section would have some small sop to his conscience? He found it almost immediately. It was quite hard to miss, since there was a whole display promoting it right next to the cash desk, with pictures and photocopied extracts and a spiel about the author. The photo on the cover caught his eye first, its gables and turrets instantly familiar, and then he saw the title -- ‘Partington Towers: A History’, by some bigwig in the local historical society. It was perfect, and he grabbed a copy and took it to the desk. “I’ll have one of these, please.” “Oh, yes. It’s very interesting,” said the woman with the spectacles, putting aside her knitting and taking his money. “Do you know the Towers at all?” “Yeah, I live there,” he said with a grin, and pocketed his change and ran. There wasn’t time to read the book on the way back. Fred was already waiting, and the truck was parked on double yellow lines, so he leapt inside and chucked the package in the door compartment, where it jostled for space with a screwdriver, a pair of sunglasses and about seventy empty chocolate bar wrappers. “Get on all right, did you?” said Fred. “Not bad, actually,” said Nat, and was surprised to find it was true. Yes, he’d hated the market, but he’d forced himself to walk all round it, and sat inside a café and a shop for several hours without screaming or fainting or foaming at the mouth. That had to be an improvement. “How about you?” “Got all the timber, and the watering can. Chap didn’t have any spades, though -- we’ll have to manage on what we’ve got till next month. Bit annoying, but it’s my own fault for not phoning first, to see if he had them in stock. You really all right? You look soaked right through.” “It was pissing down earlier, I probably did get wet. Hadn’t really noticed, to be honest. It’ll dry off in its own good time.” And at least it had washed away the last of the tomato soup. “I’ll put the heating on,” said Fred, twiddling knobs. “Knew I should’ve given you that brolly.”

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Nat nodded off after that, the warmth in the cab combining with reaction to the day’s events. It wasn’t until Fred prodded his arm that he found they were back at the Towers on the drive outside the front door. “Seemed a shame to wake you, you looked so peaceful. You can get out here if you like. I’ll take this stuff round the back.” “Yeah. Cheers.” He yawned, stretched, popped his joints and grinned. “Thanks for the lift, Fred. It’s been better than I expected.” “Any time, Nat. See you in the garden tomorrow?” “Yeah. Probably.” He opened the door and swung himself down, and stuck his head back through the window as something occurred to him. “Hey, Fred?” “What’s that?” “You said something about the army, earlier -- that they didn’t like paying. But surely Mr. Douglas sorts all that out for you?” “Mr. who?” Fred scratched his head in a mystified way. “The estate manager. Met his son the other month, he was telling me about it.” “Sorry, Nat, I think somebody’s been pulling your leg. There’s no manager here, hasn’t been for years and years. We’re all employed direct by the army -- got a contract myself, with the property division, you know. They pay my salary and give me a budget for materials and the like. I don’t recall there ever being a manager, not in all the time I’ve been working here.” “That’s okay,” said Nat. “It wasn’t important -- I probably just misunderstood.” He stood in the drizzle watching as Fred rumbled round to the back entrance to unload, but was hardly aware of the rain, or his sodden clothes. Because he hadn’t misunderstood at all, he was certain of that. Richie hadn’t been joking or yanking his chain, he’d simply volunteered the information that his father was estate manager at Partington. And why on earth would he lie about something as straightforward as that? It was all very puzzling, like so much that went on here at the Towers. *** Fred brought the book back the very next day, appearing at the window like a startled gnome while Nat was shaving after breakfast. Hearing a tap on the glass he looked up, saw the ruddy face and the paper bag waving back and forth, and knew immediately what it was. That book! And yet another thing he’d left behind. Whether it was the shell-shock or the pills, he didn’t know, but something was making him bloody forgetful these days. This must be the third time he’d left something lying round in the last few weeks. Wiping the last suds off on a towel he flung open the window and nearly knocked Fred’s nose off in the process. “Think I can guess what that is.”

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“Yup. Found it in the truck last night, thought I’d bring it straight round. Didn’t know if it was something you needed urgent, like.” “Not really, it’s just a history book I found yesterday. Nice of you to bring it back, though. I seem to be making a habit of losing things lately. Including my marbles.” Fred grinned. “Not much sign of that if you ask me. What’s the book about, then?” “This place, would you believe.” Nat ripped off the bag and held it up, revealing the photo on the front cover. “I’ve been here long enough -- it’s about time I found something out about it.” “Oh, yeah. I’ve not read the book, but it’s an interesting old place, right enough. Some of the stories you hear... fit to burn your ears! Well, mustn’t hang about all day, I’ve got that spade to try and mend. See you later.” He waved and trotted off, leaving Nat afire with curiosity. What stories? What could be bad enough to burn anyone’s ears? He was due at the pool for a swim in twenty minutes, but... oh, what the hell -- missing one day wouldn’t kill him. This sounded too good to miss. It might even, he thought with a smirk, shed light on the worldfamous disappearing gardens.... Nicking an apple from the dining room on the way through, he took the book to Egypt and made himself comfortable in the sun with his back against a sphinx. Then he stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles and -- trying not to get sticky apple juice on the pages began to read. At first it was dry and dusty stuff. The book began with a description of the house, but the author had an old-fashioned, lecturing style and peppered his pages with technical terms. By the time he’d read about transoms and architraves, chamfers, purlins and spans, Nat’s head was spinning and he was beginning to think buying the book was a mistake. Still, he’d missed his swimming session now and he had nothing better to do. Chucking the apple core behind a hedge (and hoping it didn’t sprout), he gave up on the architectural stuff and turned to the family history pages instead. Straight away the prose became less tedious, the various characters bringing the book to life. The house and garden he knew had been created by Edward Humphreys, an eccentric Victorian gentleman with a taste for the exotic who needed a showcase for his collection of plants from the far corners of the world. There was a picture of him inside the front cover, impressive in top hat and whiskers. He didn’t look particularly unconventional, but anyone who dreamed up the idea of dividing their garden into different countries must be unusual, to say the least. And Nat realised he didn’t know the half of it. He and Patrick had been right about Egypt, and China and Scotland he already knew. But apparently there’d been an avenue of monkey-puzzles representing Chile, and an Italianate pool, and a French boules lawn, and even an English country cottage with roses round the door. Edward had died in 1873, but his son John had carried on his work, adding yards of glasshouses and an impressive collection of trees; and each generation after that had followed suit -- for both gardening and eccentricity, by the sounds of it. So, when had things gone wrong? What had turned the glories of yesteryear into the sad, decaying wilderness he knew so well? His own guess would be the war, when so many

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stately homes had been commandeered -- for billets and command posts, and heaven knows what besides. And presumably the army had clung onto it ever since. But why? Reading on, he began to understand. The Humphreys had died out, every man, woman and child of them; the whole family had simply ceased to exist. Branch after branch on the family tree had been lopped off in its prime, the majority, unsurprisingly, in those four catastrophic years between 1914 and 1918. All except one. Charles Humphreys, the old man’s ultimate heir, had died a penniless suicide three years before the outbreak of World War Two. And he’d died in jail. Nat blinked. That had to be pretty unusual for a member of the upper classes, didn’t it? No wonder Fred had been babbling about scandals -- you could make a film out of this. He read on, more closely, and found it got better over the page. Charles Humphreys had killed himself in prison two weeks before his execution for murder was due. Murder? Bugger the film -- this was more exciting than anything a Hollywood hack could dream up. Nat wondered who on earth the guy had killed. His wife? His father, so he could inherit the estate? Flicking over the final page of the book, the truth hit him like a sandbag to the head. Charles Humphreys had been sentenced to death for the murder of his homosexual lover, the son of his estate manager, whose battered body had been found in the burned-out ruins of the summerhouse. Who was only twenty-four when he died. And whose name, quite coincidentally, just happened to be Richard Douglas.

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V. He wasted a whole day dithering. Should he find Richie and confront him? Should he go to the police? Should he ask the doctors for some stronger pills, or just sit tight and keep his mouth shut? The trouble was, he didn’t really understand what he was dealing with -- his own breakdown or something more sinister -- and until he did, he wouldn’t know who to turn to for help. But after hours mooching up and down corridors, he decided brooding about the problem was ridiculous. It wasn’t achieving anything, it was only making him feel crabby and he’d had more than enough of that these past few months, thanks very much. In any case, the army trained you to solve problems in a logical, practical way, not sit round on your arse obsessing about them. Late that evening when Patrick was stowed in the TV lounge watching Liverpool’s first match of the season, and the day staff had disappeared, he helped himself to a torch from the porter’s store and set off to find some answers. At first he found nothing. The garden was stubbornly set in the present day, with its presentday weeds and its present-day unpruned shrubs, and there was no sign of anything untoward. It wasn’t until he’d trudged through the rockery and was heading for China that it changed, and even then it was so subtle he almost missed the transformation. Gradually the temperature dropped, the clouds rolled back and the stars came out, and streamers of mist began to sidle along the path. Where he’d been walking through thickets that caught his jacket and brushed at his hair, the shrubs drew back, the trees shrank a little, and when he shone his torch the lake had reappeared, placid and lapping in the still night air. He stopped and looked back up the path. It was the strangest feeling: there at the top was his world, the last of the August evening light lingering under the trees, the garden wild and unkempt; while here before him was the beauty he remembered from his dreams. And in the middle of China, just as he’d expected, was the pagoda -- with the door set wide and light pouring from the windows. He accepted the invitation. Even though he knew the truth now, that Richie was nothing more than a ghost, he found he couldn’t resist. The temptation to see that piquant face, to hold that slender body in his arms just one more time was far too strong. Pausing on the way past to ring the love-bell, restored to full musical glory along the rail, he stepped over the threshold already sure of what he would find. Sure enough, Richie was waiting for him, lying stark naked on the cushioned floor. Lamplight shone off his limbs and made strange beauty of his shadowed face, and once more Nat was entranced. “God, you’re beautiful without your clothes on,” he said. Richie smirked like a cat. “Yeah, that’s what he always says. Rather have you, though; you’re better looking. Come here, I want you to hold me. Like having your arms round me, you’re so strong. Makes me feel safe.” But Nat shook his head, raising his hands to ward off the beguiling stare. “Not this time. I know what you are, now. I found all the details in a book -- all about your death. I know you’re just a ghost.”

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Richie put his head back and laughed, a glorious warm, earthy sound that went on and on. “My death? A ghost? Christ, what have you been drinking? There’s nothing ghostly about me -- come here and I’ll prove it to you.” Against his better judgement, he went. He let himself be drawn down by Richie’s side, and pulled into a fierce hug by Richie’s arms, and he smelt the familiar smell of tobacco and clean hair and carbolic soap, and found Richie was right. There wasn’t anything fanciful about this -- he could see and hear and touch and taste and smell and it was all beautifully real. The relief was intense. He sighed and snuggled close, seeking the heat of Richie’s prick against his own, and when Richie’s fingers began to fiddle with buttons and fasteners and zips, he wriggled and squirmed to ease their task. Within moments he was as naked as Richie, kneeling with his cock poised and proud, and Richie’s elegant legs slung over his shoulders. Every sense was saturated with Richie. Sight, touch, the sound of Richie’s harsh breaths, his nostrils filled with the tang of Richie’s sweat. Only taste was unaccounted for. He turned his head, sought out the space behind Richie’s knee and licked, with long slow sweeps of his tongue. Richie bucked. “Christ, what are you doing to me? Nobody’s ever done that before.” “Knew a lad in Ireland who liked that,” said Nat, smirking in his turn. “Don’t suppose you’ve got that vaseline handy, have you?” “Yes. Under the cushion. No, the red one. That’s it. And hurry up. I can’t wait much longer.” But Nat took his time. He couldn’t bear to touch his penis -- he’d have exploded in orgasm at the simple thought of having Richie spread like this for him to use. Instead, he concentrated on his lover, buttering Richie’s arse inside and out and teasing while he was at it, running a finger round the rim before plunging deep inside, only to withdraw and tickle again. Richie was incoherent with need, eyes screwed shut, head and arms flung back, breath catching at every touch. It was a sight to drink in and hold dear, and remember for as long as he could. At last Nat shifted forward, and pressed his cock against Richie’s ring, and pushed. It slid in, and he was surrounded by the warm grasping fingers of Richie’s arse, pulling and squeezing as though reluctant to ever let him go. He gasped, and plunged again, his body seeking its own instinctive rhythm, a rhythm as old as human-kind itself; a rhythm that hurtled mindlessly towards its own natural conclusion of burying his seed deep in his lover’s loins. He was getting close. His breath came in ragged gasps, his sweat dripped onto Richie’s golden chest below, his thrusts became more savage. At the last minute he sought Richie’s mouth for a kiss, tongue fighting Richie’s for ascendancy. Drawing back, he prepared for one last thrust, just as the door latch rattled and a girlish voice piped “Richie? Richie, is that you?” It seemed young Elsie had found them again. Nat couldn’t bear to turn round, to see the accusation, the loss of innocence in a child’s eyes. His erection deflated in an instant, slithering out of Richie’s bum in a mess of grease and natural lubrication. Released, Richie pushed him off and sat up, hair and eyes bristling. “Elsie! Jesus Christ! What are you doing here? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

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“No, but you might,” said the child. “He’s coming, Richie. I ran all the way from the house to warn you. If he finds you here, with him....” Richie’s expression had changed, from anger to alarm. “He’s coming? When? Look, Else, don’t you stick around, no point both of us getting into trouble. Run along back to bed now. And hey... thanks.” Elsie’s reply was lost in the flurry as they scrambled to their feet and sought out clothes and shoes from the tangled heap on the floor. Richie hopped on one leg, trying to drag on his socks, while Nat buttoned his shirt in record time. “What’s going on?” he panted at one point, threading his belt through the loops. “Who is he? Why’s Elsie so scared?” Richie didn’t answer straight away, too busy with shoelaces to even look up. Then, both feet on the floor again, he said, “I’m not supposed to be here. He told me to go.... And it’s his land. If he catches me, there’ll be hell to pay.” “So why did you stay?” “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? I wanted to see you again.” Nat was touched. Richie must love him after all -- he’d risked another man’s anger to come and say goodbye. On a whim he closed the distance between them, put his hand under Richie’s chin and raised his face for a kiss. It was only a quick peck, they hadn’t even opened their mouths, but it spelled disaster. From the wooden decking outside came the heavy clump of footsteps, and then the door swung open and the doorway filled with the bulk of another man. Richie sprang back, poised on the balls of his feet like an animal ready for flight, but the only exit was blocked. And the man’s heavy face was crimson, and he was already shouting his ire. “I might have known you’d still be here. You little slut! Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself even for one night, could you? Touching him, lying with him -- and in my summerhouse, on my land, after I’d ordered you to go? You’re a bloody little shit.” Richie started to plead. “Please, Charlie, I can explain. I was only saying goodbye, that’s all. I’m all packed and ready to go, but I couldn’t just leave without a word to him.” “You can write, can’t you? You should have left him a note. Not crept out here like a thief, sneaking around behind my back.” The argument tossed back and forth, Charlie accusing and Richie trying to placate, and they both ignored Nat. He stood to one side, watching and waiting, hoping to slip away. It was all too embarrassing for words.... He ought to stay, he knew, and offer to help, but Richie showed every sign of looking after himself, the apologies replaced by insults as his own temper began to fray. “You think you’re the king himself, don’t you?” he yelled. “Sitting up there in your big house day after day, playing with your subjects’ lives. Bet that gives you a real thrill. Well, I’ve got

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news for you. It doesn’t work on me any more, ‘cause I just don’t care! I don’t love you any more, and I’m not sure I ever did. It’s him I love now.” “You said that to me once,” Charlie said, and his voice had gone quiet. “‘Love you forever’, that’s what you said to me. Don’t tell me it wasn’t true. Don’t tell me you lied about that as well.” “Oh, sod off,” said Richie. “I’m sick of you. All that rubbish about love and eternity. It’s enough to make you sick.” And he laughed, a harsh sound that grated in Nat’s ears. The effect on Charlie was worse. His face mottled and his eyes blazed, and he reached down for a carved wooden stool at his feet. “You ungrateful little bastard,” he snarled, and swung his arm, bringing the stool crashing down on Richie’s head. Too late, Nat realised what this must be. He sprang forward, but the tragic scene was already set. “Oh, God, no,” he whispered, then louder, “Stop it, you bloody thug,” in a voice made hoarse with horror, and he tried to wrest the stool from Charlie’s grasp. But his hands met one another, grabbing only thin air, and the image before him flickered like the ripples on a pool. No matter how often he tried he could touch nothing and influence nothing, forced to watch as the events unfolded like some horrific reel of film. Over and over Charlie raised the stool and smashed it down, flesh splitting and bone cracking apart, until there was nothing left of Richie’s beautiful face but a shapeless bloody mass, but still he went on hitting, vicious and violent and utterly implacable, and there was nothing Nat could do. Finally, when it was obvious that Richie was dead, that nothing would bring him back, Charlie put down the stool, and reached into a pocket for a box of matches. He struck one against the box, the brief flare illuminating his hideous handiwork below, and held the flame against a cushion. There was a sputter and a hiss, and then it caught, bright tongues of fire consuming the crimson silk. Charlie watched it for a moment, then kicked it further into the room, and strode out and slammed the door. Once again Nat was left in the dark, with only flames and smoke and horror for company. The last screams of the dying echoed in his mind, but here there was only silence; even the flames were quiet, with no crackle and roar to accompany their journey across the floor and up the walls. The sound had gone, and gradually the image faded, too, and he found himself crouched in the ruins of the pagoda, a star-studded sky above his head and a soft breeze sighing through the leaves beyond the door. He stumbled out through the gaping door and threw up behind a nearby bush. His stomach heaved and heaved, and only when it was empty could he wipe his mouth with a shaking hand, and trudge back to the path, and start to make his weary way back to his room.

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Part Five - Autumn 1995

“Hey, Charlie, come in here a minute, I’ve got something to show you. Here, inside the pyramid.” “What? No! No, it can’t be.... I know you’re dead, I killed you myself!” “Yeah, didn’t you just, Charlie? Bashed that stool on my head good and proper, made a right mess of everything.” “I couldn’t help it. I had to do it -- had to, you understand?” “Yeah, that’s all right, Charlie, I understand. But follow me. In here, now, where it’s nice and dark, and you can hide from all the people looking for you.” “The police, you mean? I saw them earlier, driving up to the front door. They’re looking for me? I don’t know what to do... don’t want them to find me. All right, I’ll come with you. I can hide in here till they’re gone.” “That’s right. Inside, now, watch your footing; the floor’s a bit uneven. Now... just round this corner, here -- feel the edge of the wall with your hand, that’s it....” “Why are you doing this for me, Richie? Richie? Are you there? Don’t leave me -- it’s so dark in here and I don’t like the dark. Richie? He’s gone... left me all alone in here without a lamp.... Don’t know where the way out is.... Follow the wall, he said. That’s it! Hold onto the wall and keep walking. There! There’s a light ahead, only faint, but I’ll be able to see where I am. That’s better, I can see now -- there’s another tunnel ahead, but is it the only one? Better check.... Aaahh!! What’s that? Eyes! Eyes, all red, looking straight at me, like the devil himself! Can’t stay here, I want to go home. Go home! That’s it, I’ll be safe there. Follow this passage, all the way -- I know where I am now, this is the summerhouse. Funny, never knew that was part of the pyramid before.... Now if I can just get the door open.... oh no! People.... No, don’t hurt me! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, I just had to, don’t you see? He had to die. What’s this? Handcuffs? Where are you taking me? What’s happening? Richie!” I. This time Nat’s relapse only lasted a few days, and he supposed he should be grateful for that particular small mercy. It wasn’t every day you saw your lover murdered in front of your eyes, and he reckoned if his head could survive that, it could survive almost anything. Which didn’t mean it was easy. Many times over the next few nights he woke with the sickening crunch of bone echoing in his ears, and his dreams were plagued with images of death -Richie’s, his lads at Shenanigans’, even his own. But slowly the dreams faded and the horrors Roses in December - 108

passed. He wasn’t sure why it was easier to bear this time round, but the thought that Richie hadn’t suffered was a comfort. That first blow had been irrefutable; nobody could have survived that. Which meant he hadn’t felt the rest -- the savage rain of unrelenting blows that spoke of a madman’s work. And of course, this time Nat had had some warning. He’d known Richie was dead, even when they were making love he’d known, deep down inside, that it wasn’t real. He had no idea what had really been going on these past few months, except that somehow, somewhere, he’d been witnessing events that were over fifty years old. Whether he’d been seeing ghosts, or whether he’d somehow slipped back in time, he didn’t know, and probably never would. But at least a few things were beginning to make sense -- the garden that came and went, the changing seasons between one day and the next, the unfamiliar brand of cigarette. One of the first things he did, as soon as he felt up to it, was to find Elsie. She was washing up again in the kitchen and bristled when she saw him, and he wondered how he’d ever missed seeing her amazing likeness to Richie. Fair enough, grey hair now masked Richie’s greyish-gold, and the ravages of time had changed her face, but the energy and the briskness and the temper roused in a second were just the same. And to think she’d managed all this time without that vital, dynamic elder brother she’d so clearly worshipped as a child. Back in the real world, he handed her a cup. She took it in wordless, insulted silence, hunching her thin shoulders and clamping her mouth into a thin hard line, and he sighed. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, then. “I didn’t kill him, you know,” he said eventually, as gently as he could. There was a pause. “No, but you might just as well have,” she said with her back to him so he couldn’t see her face. “I saw it, you know. Saw that bastard kill him.... Nine years old and I had to watch that -- my own brother being slaughtered like a tethered goat.” “I’m sorry. I saw it, too, I know how you must have felt.” “No, you don’t. Nobody could!” She span round, eyes flashing green fire, jabbing a teaspoon at him to emphasise the words. “You can’t imagine what it was like. He was the best brother ever. All right, so we argued all the time and he got sick of me always tagging along, but he was generous and kind and I loved him. And you took all that away.” “No, Elsie, I didn’t. Charlie did that. You must know that much if you saw it happen.” “Oh, yes, he was the one picked up that stool and bashed Richie on the head. But you were as guilty as he was. You were the one took Richie away from him. We were happy till you turned up -- Charlie was good to us because of Richie, paid for our education and nice clothes. Afterwards my dad took us away, the rest of us, and we had a little cottage in the village, and I went to the village school with the other kids. There weren’t no more French lessons after that!” “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Sorry you feel that way. But it wasn’t my fault. I think Richie was just like that, it was a... flaw, if you like. If it hadn’t been me he’d have found somebody else.” Roses in December - 109

“That’s where you’re wrong. Loved Charlie, he did, really loved him. I wasn’t supposed to know, too young to understand, they always said. But I watched them, when they weren’t looking. There’s plenty of places for a kid to hide in a garden like that. And then you came along, and he fell for you instead. Well, who wouldn’t -- you’re a looker, I’ll grant you that. And hurting, too, so Richie’d come over all protective. He was like that, you know -- always looked after injured things.” A tear formed at the corner of one eye and spilled down across the wrinkled cheek, and Nat’s heart turned over. He crossed the expanse of tiled floor in two long strides, dodgy leg or not, and enfolded her in a comforting hug. She felt like a wren in his arms, a tiny fragile bird that he could break in two just by squeezing too hard. But she wasn’t fighting him any more, and when the brief storm was over she looked up at him with a lopsided smile. “No wonder Richie was mad about you,” she said. “If I was forty years younger I might be tempted myself.” “If you were forty years younger I still wouldn’t have you,” he said, but as nicely as he could. “Women aren’t really my thing, you know.” “Well, yes, I can tell that. I may be getting on a bit, but I’m not blind yet,” she said, and suddenly the old acerbic manner was back, and he knew everything was going to be all right. “I loved him, too,” he said. “I miss him. Probably always will. Even if I haven’t the faintest idea how I ever met him in the first place!” “I told you that garden was creepy. Always been something strange about it, I knew that even as a kid. Things would go missing and suddenly turn up again, all battered like they’d been lying outside in the rain for months. And I used to meet people, nurses in uniform and men with sticks. Long before you turned up, that was. Suppose that’s why I wasn’t surprised when the army turned it into this place. Was still a shock when I saw you, mind.” “You didn’t notice at first, did you? It wasn’t till I’d been here for a month or two, and been in and out of the garden. After you’d caught me with Richie that first time.” She nodded. “I didn’t recognise you at first, it was all a long time ago, and my memory’s not what it was. The more I saw you, the more sure I got, though. Couldn’t forget a face like yours for long!” “Oi.” “Should hate you really, for what you did, but I suppose it wasn’t your fault any more than it was Richie’s. Pair of young fools if you ask me.” “Yeah, if you’re going to blame anyone it should be that Charlie. He must’ve had a screw loose, the way he went on.” “He always was a bit obsessed with Richie. And it can’t have been easy for him, having to hide it all the time. Still illegal back then, see. You fellows don’t know the half of it.”

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“Don’t you believe it,” said Nat. “It’s just the same for me -- one word and my career’s straight down the pan. Must admit I’m getting a bit sick of it, now. Anyway, I’m not that young any more. I’ve just realised it was my 30th birthday the other week. I’d forgotten clean about it.” Elsie flapped the tea towel at him. “Get along with you! When you get to my age everyone’s young. Should have told me, though -- I’d have done you a cake and all.” Thinking back to Patrick’s pink monstrosity, he was quite glad he’d forgotten. It was nice of her to say so, though, particularly in light of everything that had happened. “Thanks,” he said with a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll celebrate properly once I’m free of this place. Can’t be all that long, now. Hey -- don’t suppose you know where I can get hold of a cigarette, can you? I just fancy a smoke.” “Here you go,” said Elsie, reaching into a pocket. “My Harold smoked all the time, and I still have one a day after supper. Shouldn’t really -- I’m sure them doctors would give me a rocket if they knew. Still, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Take the lot, now, you’ll enjoy them more than I will.” “I’ll say it’s my birthday present,” said Nat, accepting with a grin. *** Out on the terrace he took up a strategic position behind a bush that hid him from most of the hospital windows and lit up, enjoying the illicit thrill almost as much as the hot smoke in his lungs. Elsie was right, the doctors probably would have kittens if they found him -- he sometimes thought smoking was the modern-day equivalent of leprosy, the way other people reacted to it. He didn’t really care, though. It felt good and satisfied a need, and he was blowed if he was going to give it up just yet. It was very much the way he felt about his sexuality, too. What he’d just said to Elsie was absolutely right -- he was getting tired of hiding it all the time, of creeping round and inventing girlfriends, and picking men up in alleys when he thought nobody was looking. It would be nice, just for a change, to be able to settle down with the person of his choice, especially now he was thirty. But that meant leaving the army... and he wasn’t sure he was ready to take that decision yet. Fair enough, he wasn’t one of these career soldiers who stayed on and got themselves promoted until they were brigadiers, but he still hadn’t contemplated being demobbed for at least another five years. As much as anything, he simply had no idea what he’d do instead. The usual route of marriage to a nice girl was closed for obvious reasons, and in terms of work he wasn’t sure what supreme fitness and the ability to disassemble and fire almost any gun in the world prepared you for. Except security work, and that could be as boring as watching the grass grow, if not more so. Night shifts, sitting about on your arse watching a barrage of CCTV screens, keeping some factory forecourt free of pigeon shit.... He shuddered. He might crave peace and quiet after the bombing, but that sort of stultified existence didn’t bear thinking about. Well, by all accounts he had a few more weeks yet. Dr. Latimer had told him that the latest round of medicals were due next month, and at last he was well enough to be signed up for one of them. There was still no guarantee that his leg would pass muster, especially after his

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recent fall, so that might make the final decision for him. And until then, there was precious little more he could do.

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II. He spent most of the intervening time out in the garden, helping Fred to pick the soft fruit (which had recovered from the earlier heatwave), or just lazing about with a book. The days were drawing in, steadily and inevitably, but the weather was glorious -- hour after hour of golden, mellow sunshine tempered with a soft cool breeze. Patrick joined him whenever he could, and once again Egypt became their favourite spot. He’d shown the lad the old photographs in his history book, and been subjected to a resounding bout of ‘I told you so’s’ into the bargain, and now they both had fun identifying and pointing out the hidden features. Nat found a miniature Cleopatra’s Needle buried in a hedge, while Patrick took his courage and a torch -- in both hands and ventured right inside the pyramid. He came out again soon enough, cobwebby and disappointed. “Doesn’t seem to go anywhere. I mean, there’s a stone passage but it’s so bloody dark down there I couldn’t really see, even with the torch. Bit creepy if you ask me.” “That’s what everyone says about the garden, sooner or later,” said Nat, thinking of Elsie. “Never mind, stay out here in the sun. Nothing creepy here. Except the spider that’s trying to crawl into your ear.” Patrick yelped and swatted and swore, and Nat folded double with laughter. “Sorry, mate, couldn’t resist,” he said, and sobered as he realised it applied to Patrick as well as the joke. God! -- but the lad was attractive, especially now he didn’t have Richie to divert his attention. What he wouldn’t give to have those legs wrapped round his waist, the sharply-etched wrists clasped behind his neck, those big grey eyes staring up at him, begging him for more. Surely it was too much for any gay man to resist.... “Hey, you okay?” said the object of his desires. “Thought you looked a bit weird for a minute, there, staring at me all desperate, like.” “I’m fine,” said Nat, and fought to make it true. Fine perhaps, but frustrated, because after all this time he still hadn’t worked out whether Patrick was gay or not. The kid never mentioned women, and the one time Nat had plucked up courage to ask about a girlfriend, had replied, “Oh, God, no, what would I be wanting with one of them?” And yet... and yet he still wasn’t giving out the kind of signals Nat would expect. He never seemed to watch his fellow patients, or eye up their legs, or hang round in the showers longer than he needed, and he’d never, ever said anything that would identify him as queer. Nat knew, none better, that gay soldiers learned to hide it well, but even they tended to let something slip, especially with someone they suspected of being the same. Nobody could keep up that sort of charade forever. Except Patrick, apparently, who’d kept him guessing for months. “You got the date for your medical yet?” he asked, to change the subject. “Yeah. Heard yesterday, it’s the fifteenth. I’m shit-scared, don’t think this leg’ll make it through.” Nat knew just how Patrick felt, having worries enough of his own on that score. “It’s down to fate, now, isn’t it?” he said. “The docs have done everything they can, and we’ve done everything we can. At least you’ll know you’ve done your best.” Roses in December - 113

Patrick fidgeted with the torch, flicking it on and off. “But it might not be good enough. I don’t want to leave the army, it means everything to me.” “Yeah. Me, too. Can’t always have what you want, though, can you? That’s life.” But lying awake later that night, he wondered if it was still true. Did he miss the army as much as all that? Would he really mind if they retired him on medical grounds? If he went back to his regiment it would mean a return to his old way of life, going out with the lads, swapping tall stories about the number of women he’d slept with, hiding his liking for men. That ‘all blokes together’ act was a pain to keep up, and the enforced abstinence in case someone found out was worse. No, he couldn’t say he’d miss all that very much. The only real problem was deciding what could take its place. *** The morning of the fifteenth dawned cold and foggy, and Patrick’s face took on a matching greyish hue. “Bloody hell,” he grumbled, opening the curtains a chink and peering through. “Just look at that. Talk about a bad sign.” Nat did his best to cheer the lad up, but it didn’t seem to help, and Patrick trailed off to attend his medical looking like a French aristo on his way to the scaffold. At least in the army they gave you the results straight away, instead of making you wait about for weeks like they did in civilian hospitals. That way you got the bad news over and done with in one depressing lump, rather than having it trickle through your letterbox in dribs and drabs, messing up lots of days instead of one. Assuming it was bad news, of course -- and he wouldn’t know that till Patrick came back. He found it oddly difficult to settle to anything. His book stayed open at the same page for twenty minutes while he stared off into space, and then he found he’d read one paragraph four times and still didn’t remember it. Slamming the book shut, he headed for the garden, but Fred was nowhere to be seen, and he never liked to start work without some sort of supervision, in case he duplicated his fiasco with the beans. He left the forks and hoes where they were and mooched into Egypt, but without the sun to brighten the courtyard it seemed chilly and dank and mournful. Frosted spider’s webs hung glittering from every twig, the yew needles were black with damp, and a rush of cold air seemed to be spilling out of the entrance to the pyramid, like the last breath from the grave. It called to him, somehow, and he found himself drawn to the dark tunnel under the yews, pushing through their clinging spines to the stone passage beyond. At least it was dry in here, but cold enough to make his breath steam, and very, very dark. He felt his way inside, stumbling a little where the floor was uneven, his own body blocking the light from the doorway and making it darker still. After a few steps he turned a corner and even the faint tendrils of light filtering between his legs disappeared, so that he was in total darkness, so dense it was tangible. With one precautionary hand on the wall he kept moving, his legs flexing of their own accord as though he was being operated by remote control. It seemed a long way, but must only have been six or seven steps until he turned another corner and saw a faint glimmer of light ahead. That was a relief -- he was beginning to think he’d stumbled into the Minotaur’s maze and would be lost forever down here, roaming corridors in the dark. Quickening his step, he headed for the light, expecting to find the way out. What Roses in December - 114

he actually found was yet another corner, leading to another passage just as dark as the first. There was no doorway, no window, and no way, at first, of telling where the light was coming from, until he looked up and spotted a faint glimmer spilling down from a gap in the roof. How odd, to have it here in the middle of the maze. The hole was too regular to be subsidence or a missing tile, and besides, the light was being funnelled, quite deliberately, to a point just behind his head. He glanced over his shoulder to see why that should be, and jumped backwards with a sudden yelp. Eyes! There were eyes staring at him -- twin red orbs gleaming back at him from the disembodied darkness, malevolent and stark. What the fuck was going on? After a moment his heart stopped imitating a Caribbean steel band, and he realised it was a statue, cleverly placed on a shelf so that the falling light would catch only the eyes and nothing else. Squinting in the twilight, he could just about make out the rest of the face, ugly as an ape, and sloping shoulders and the faint rendition of hands and feet; all other detail was lost in the shadows. Well, this garden was just full of surprises. The only question was, did this belong to the present day, or to the ghostly garden of the past? And the only way he was going to answer that was by finding the way out of this peculiar place. He followed the passage away from the statue, and felt rather than saw the space around him change, from narrow stone tunnels to a room lined with wood. Feeling around the walls, he found what felt like the handle of a door and tugged, and blessed -- if foggy -- daylight flooded into the room. He was standing on the threshold of a black-and-white cottage, a summerhouse he’d seen before, hidden in a thicket near the path to the Scottish glen. In the summer it had sported a wreath of roses round the door; now it just looked overgrown and sad, shutters fixed firm against the autumn rain. With an odd sense of guilt for trespassing on its solitude, he stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and left it to brood in peace. At least he’d answered his own question -- the statue must still exist in the present day. If he’d slipped into the past again, he’d have stepped out into the sunlit glory of a beautiful Victorian garden, and Richie would have been waiting for him by the trees. As it was, he was in the ramshackle ruins of the present, and alone, and agog. Who’d have thought it? Secret passages, and a pyramid that changed into a summerhouse, and a scary statue put there, no doubt, to frighten the dinner-guests. There’d been no mention of any of that in his history book, and he wondered whether anyone else still knew it was there. He couldn’t wait to tell Patrick about his latest find. *** When he got back to his room, all thoughts of the garden slipped from his mind, because there was a desolate figure sitting hunched on his bed: Patrick, who’d presumably had bad news. Sure enough, as soon as he’d closed the door the lad turned round, revealing a teartrack down one boyish cheek, and he was reminded forcefully of himself, soon after he’d first arrived. “No good,” Patrick gulped. “Didn’t make it, did I? This fuckin’ leg....” “I’m sorry, mate,” said Nat, feeling inadequate. “Dunno what to say. It’s bad luck after all the hard work you’ve put in.”

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“Too bloody right. Can’t believe it. Not really. What’s me Mum and Dad going to say?” He gave a doleful sniff, and Nat’s heart, already melting, pooled around his feet. “Hey, come on, it can’t be that bad,” he said. “There’s always next month, isn’t there? You can have some more treatment, take your time, retake the medical another time.” But Patrick shook his head. “Won’t work. Me leg’s healed shorter than it was. Look.” He stood up, and sure enough Nat could see that when he stood perfectly balanced, the sole of one foot was ever so slightly off the floor. It was only a matter of millimetres, but in today’s army that was a measurement too far. He moved instinctively to take the lad in a comforting hug. He seemed to have been doing this a lot lately, but this time was very different from Elsie. Very different indeed, he realised, too late, as his arms closed round the other man’s back. Holding Patrick felt perfect, the solid body warm against his chest, the strong arms hugging him back. So very, very right.... He tightened his grip, began to make circling motions with his hands, and the spark that leaped to his groin nearly blew a fuse. Without further thought his hands moved, one caressing the lad’s neck, the other cupping his bum, and he drew that perfect face close, nuzzling the jaw line, lips seeking lips for a kiss. The next thing he knew there was an almighty shove and he was sprawling across the bed, stars whirling from where his skull had cracked against the wall. What the hell had happened? Dazed, he looked up, to find Patrick’s face looming over him, the misery transformed into sheer, blinding rage. “Keep your hands to yourself, you fuckin’ pervert,” he was yelling. “Talk about taking advantage -- you’re bloody sick! I wondered about you a few times before, and thought I was imagining it, seeing as you’re in the army. But I was right all along, wasn’t I? Fuckin’ fairy, should be ashamed of yourself. Well you needn’t think I’ll be stopping another night in here with you!” And he span on his heel, marched out of the room, and slammed the door so hard the window shook. Nat’s ears rang with the force of it, adding to the pain in his skull. He felt his head, wincing as his fingers found the rising lump, and then hid his face in his hands. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have thought Patrick was gay, when he was obviously as straight as a ruler and not keen on homosexuals either, to put it mildly. Talk about wishful thinking... and now he’d fucked things up in no uncertain terms, because the lad would probably never speak to him again, and might even report him for harassment. Oh, Christ... Oh, fucking Christ. He stayed half crouched on his bed for a long time, too upset to even think about going down to dinner. A few minutes after half past six there was a tap at the door and Elsie stuck her head round, but she must have realised it was serious because she didn’t stay. Perhaps she’d heard some of Patrick’s shouting? He hadn’t exactly bothered to keep his voice down -- it was only a wonder the entire hospital hadn’t heard. And Elsie already knew he was gay, and could presumably add two and two with the best of them, and had gone away to give him some much-needed peace.

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He misjudged her, though, because half an hour later she came back with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea. “Thought you might need these. You can’t just stop eating, no matter what’s happened.” “Suppose you’re right,” he said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Thanks. Afraid I’m not very hungry.” “Well, eat what you can. Got to keep your strength up otherwise you’ll fade away and there’ll be no getting through your medical then. What am I going to do with you?” she added as he took a sandwich and peered at it before nibbling one edge. “Like having a bunch of kids all over again. I don’t know.” Nat put the sandwich down again, too aware of the rising tide of misery that was threatening to choke him. “It’s my own fault,” he said. “Bloody idiot -- I should never have touched him. He was right, I was taking advantage. But I really thought he liked me.” “Yes, so did I,” said Elsie, surprising him. “Worshipped the ground you walked on, or so I thought. Maybe he didn’t realise it himself, or maybe he just hasn’t got your courage and can’t admit it. Doesn’t make you a bad person. Anyway, I’ll ‘ave to go. Got the rest of these blinkin’ trays to dole out. You look after yourself, now. Richie would never forgive me if anything happened to you.” She pulled a face. “Just listen to me -- sounds like I’m going barmy. You know what I mean, though.” And in a funny sort of way, he did.

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III. At the end of the week Nat got his own summons to a medical, and watched the hour approaching with nerves strung so tight you could play tunes on them. He had mixed feelings about his chances. On the one hand, his leg had healed at last, in spite of the second break, and he had no more pain, no stiffness and no trace of a limp. On the other hand, his head was more of a problem. He’d managed to reduce his sessions with Emily Martin to one a fortnight, and he was off most of the pills, but deep down he knew his mind wasn’t as robust as it had once been. Where once he’d craved the adrenalin-rush of action, now he preferred solitude and a book of poetry; where he’d been happy globetrotting with a pack of mates, he now wished he could settle down. And on top of that, it had been a funny old week and he wasn’t in the best mood to convince the powers that be that he was ready for a return to the front line. Patrick had come back, eventually, but only to pack his things in stony-eyed silence, flinging shirts into a holdall and refusing to turn his back on his former friend. That hurt. Nat knew he’d gone too far, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice -- and he wasn’t a rapist, for Christ’s sake. “Where will you go?” he’d plucked up courage to ask, just before Patrick left. “As if you care. I’m getting a taxi and going home. Should be safe there.” With that, he was gone, and for a while it was as though he’d taken the daylight and sunshine and everything else nice with him. Nat had coped without a relapse this time, for which he supposed he should be grateful, but his emotions had still taken a beating -- guilt, anger, sadness and loneliness, all fighting to come to the fore. Like putting petrol in a diesel car, it was hardly the best mixture to take a test on. After stirring soup round his bowl for lunch, he trudged up the corridor to Dr. Latimer’s office, fully expecting the doctor and Emily Martin to be there to put him through his paces. What he didn’t expect, on knocking and being told to enter, was to find his own commanding officer, Colonel Briggs, sitting bolt upright behind Latimer’s desk, and no sign of a doctor of any kind. He came to attention. “Sir.” Briggs nodded. “At ease, Sergeant. And close the door.” “Yes sir.” Obeying orders was second nature in the army so he didn’t question what was going on -- but that didn’t stop him wondering. Surely an officer wouldn’t conduct a medical? So what was Briggs doing here? He didn’t have long to wait before he found out. The Colonel frowned at him, stood up and paced to the window and back, and frowned again, before saying, “Well, Sergeant, I expect you’re wondering what this is all about. The fact is, I’ve got some bad news for you.” “My family, sir?”

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“No, no, nothing like that, I’m pleased to say. But during your, er, absence, we’ve been conducting an inquiry into that bombing. A number of aspects struck the security forces as rather unusual, to say the least. I won’t go into all the details here, but the codes used during the telephone warning weren’t quite right, for one thing. And the IRA denied all knowledge of the device, too, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is fairly unusual.... Tell me, Sergeant, does the name Sean Rooney mean anything to you?” The sudden question caught Nat off guard. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t think why. “I’m not sure, sir. Should it?” “I would have hoped so, Sergeant, considering you slept with the man on at least,” he referred to a file, “seven occasions. Or perhaps you didn’t bother to swap names? I’m told homosexuals tend to prefer casual sex -- I take it you’re no different from the rest.” Oh, great gods above. This was terrible. It was worse than terrible. It was worse than the worst nightmares he’d suffered after the bomb.... “Sir -- I... I don’t....” Briggs frowned at him again, like a headmaster with a particularly recalcitrant small child. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak,” he said. “You will wait until I have finished. As I said, we held an inquiry into the bombing. It appears to have been carried out by a man called Colm Rooney, in revenge for what he believed to be a number of homosexual assaults on his younger brother. The target wasn’t Shenanigans Bar, Sergeant, or even the British Army. It was you. Thanks to your disobedience of standing orders, four good soldiers and seven civilians lost their lives that day. I hope that makes you feel suitably proud of yourself. Well?” For a moment he couldn’t even think, let alone speak; his mind so blank it was scary. “I-- I don’t know what to say, sir.” “No, I don’t suppose you would. Good Lord, man, what were you thinking of? You know damned well that homosexuality is banned in the armed forces. What made you think you were any different from anyone else?” “I suppose I was just desperate, sir.” The Colonel’s lip curled. “There are ways of dealing with that, Sergeant, that would be less messy and less dangerous for all concerned. Your own right hand, for one.” “That’s not what I meant....” “I’m not interested in hearing all the unpleasant details. The fact remains that you are directly responsible for the deaths of four of your fellow men and a number of civilians. That’s going to make it very difficult for you to rejoin the regiment, irrespective of whether you pass the medical or not.” “Yes, sir, I can imagine it would.” “Oh, good, I’m glad you have the sense to realise that, at least. Well, that leaves us with a couple of options. If you do try to return to the battalion you will be arrested and brought before a court-martial on charges of disobeying orders, endangering your fellow men, and Roses in December - 119

manslaughter. I can’t say what the outcome will be, but I would expect a custodial sentence of some sort in a military stockade.” Nat swallowed. “And the other option, sir?” “Is that you retire from the army immediately on medical grounds. Your leg was quite badly injured in the blast, I believe? And I’m told you suffered severe trauma as a consequence, as well. The chances are you wouldn’t have got through this medical anyway.” “I think I had a chance, sir.” “We’ll never know, will we, Sergeant? At least, I assume you’ll be doing the sensible thing, and not dragging the regiment’s name through the mud at a court martial. The Paras have an outstanding reputation as a fighting force the world over. I really can’t see the sense in risking that.” No, nor could he. “I’ll be happy to retire on medical grounds, sir,” he said, his voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper. “As long as nobody says anything to my parents.” “Pity you didn’t think of that before you helped yourself to young Sean Rooney,” said the Colonel, and his tone would have cut sheet steel. “However, once you have been discharged, we’ll have no further interest in you. Your family won’t hear of this matter from us.” “Thank you, sir,” said Nat. “Permission to go, now, sir?” “No, you can stay here for the moment. I have to return to barracks, but Dr. Latimer will be here in a few minutes to discuss the precise terms of your retirement. I expect to hear you’ve cooperated fully with him.” “Yes sir. Thank you, sir. I really am sorry, sir.” Briggs didn’t even deign to reply, simply swept him up and down with a withering glance, and stalked out, and he was left on his own, feeling utterly wretched. Subsiding onto the nearest chair, he put his head in his hands and groaned. Oh, Christ -- what had he done? Eleven people had died because of him, because of his bloody selfishness and greed. He’d thought he could break the rules whenever he fancied and get away with it, and instead, look what had happened. And he couldn’t even call it a momentary aberration, since he’d just done exactly the same thing with young Patrick, with results that were just as damaging, if rather less spectacular. No, the awful truth was emerging -- he was a liability, a danger to his friends and fellow men, and the sooner he removed himself from them the better. *** The doctors must have realised he’d need some time to recover from the shock, because it was a good twenty minutes before the door opened and Latimer and Emily Martin filed in. As he clambered to his feet he noticed their grave expressions and his heart sank even further, but at the last minute, while Latimer was fussing with his files, Dr. Martin gave him a small sympathetic smile and a wink. He smiled back, cheered, and straightened his shoulders to face the next onslaught fate could throw at him.

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Dr. Latimer took his spectacles off and polished vaguely at the lenses with a handkerchief. Replacing them, he peered at Nat and said, “I take it your Colonel has explained the, er, situation to you, Sergeant?” “Oh yeah, he’s done that all right,” said Nat. “Sir, I’m not feeling very good about myself right now.” “Hm. Yes. Quite. Nasty business, Sergeant, nasty business. As a medical man I do have a certain sympathy for fellows in your position. However, the law is the law and we can’t just ignore it, now can we? Have you decided what you’ll be doing?” “Colonel Briggs suggested I should retire on medical grounds. If that’s all right with you.” “But is it what you want?” Emily Martin put in. “It’s all very well following orders, but this is your whole future we’re talking about.” “It’s not much of a choice really, though, is it? Leave the army with my reputation reasonably intact, or go through a court martial for murder? Which would you rather do?” She nodded. “I see what you mean. Put like that, I suppose it is a bit of a foregone conclusion.” “Well, if you’re sure you’ve decided, Sergeant?” Latimer added. “There’s a fair amount of paperwork to go through, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He waved to the heap on his desk. “Yes, sir, I’m sure,” said Nat. “And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. Both of you. You’ve worked very hard. Not sure I’d have made it without you.” “That’s quite all right, Sergeant, it’s what we’re here for. Now, where did I put my pen?” Later, after all the forms had been completed in duplicate and triplicate and signed and witnessed and rubber-stamped, he walked back down the corridor with Emily Martin. “I meant what I said, back there, you know. I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful.” “I’m surprised you’re not more bitter,” she replied with a level gaze. “I’m sure I would be in your position.” “Bitter?” He was surprised. “Not sure why. I mean, it’s my fault, isn’t it? I broke the rules and got a load of people killed, and now I’ve been clobbered for it.” “Damn silly rules if you ask me,” she said. “I can’t for the life of me see why someone would be unfit to serve their country simply because they prefer to sleep with the same sex. Silly and old-fashioned and illogical.” “You’re starting to sound like Mr. Spock,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a crooked smile. “Look, come out into the garden for a minute, will you? We can’t talk here.” He led the way out of a side door, and only when they were safely on the terrace, out of earshot, did he continue. “I’m surprised to hear you saying all that. You’re army, aren’t you, even though you’re a doctor?”

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“Yes, I suppose I am, although I’ve always felt I’m a doctor first and a soldier second. And even if I’m paid by the army it doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything they do. I just have to keep quiet about it. You see, I’m just like you.” “What? You mean you’re...?” “A lesbian? Yes. I’ve known since I was about fourteen. I can’t do much about it, of course, not until I leave the army, and my career’s more important to me at the moment, anyway. But I do have strong feelings about it. I’d never have told anyone, you know. When I guessed about you and Sergeant Gordon.” “Ah. Right. I’ve got a confession to make about that. Jazzy and I weren’t lovers, you know, just good mates. He wasn’t my type.” “Oh. I see. I’m sorry, I just assumed.... Oh dear, how embarrassing!” “That’s okay. Easy mistake to make.” She giggled. “It takes one to know one, I suppose. So what is your type, if it’s not an impertinent question?” He sighed. “Patrick Owen was. And Sean Rooney. And Richie.... I like nice-looking younger men. Not kids,” he added with a scowl, “I’m not into anything like that. Just, well, younger.” “It’s all right, I understand.” She glanced at her watch and gasped. “Oh, good grief, my next appointment started ten minutes ago. I’ll have to run. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again, Nat, so I’ll wish you all the best. Good luck, whatever you decide to do.” “Yeah. Thanks. Same to you.” He watched her scurry off, high heels hammering the flagstones, and was sad to see her go. She was one of the closest things he had to a friend right now, along with Elsie and Fred. And he had the feeling he was going to need all the friends he could get in the months to come.

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IV. Two days later he was called to a debriefing session with a doctor he’d never seen before and an army careers ‘expert’. Neither were a lot of help. The doctor, a thin pallid individual with a lisp, wittered on for the best part of an hour about all the jobs he wouldn’t be able to do with residual shell-shock and a dodgy leg. When he’d finally run out of steam, the careers bloke gave him a patronising smile and said, “Don’t worry, Sergeant, there are still plenty of openings for a man like you. You’re still fit and healthy, even if you are a....” “Watch it,” Nat growled with a menacing glare. He didn’t often lose his temper, but he’d been told the results were spectacular when he did. Sure enough, the man took a step back, ran one finger round a restrictive collar and swallowed. “Er, erm, recovering from your injuries. Yes. That’s what I was going to say.” Nat didn’t believe him for a moment. “And anyway, the name’s Mr. Brook. I stopped being a sergeant yesterday when all the paperwork was signed.” “Er, yes, of course, Ser- that is, Mr. Brook. Now, as I was about to say....” But he couldn’t add much to what the doctor had already said. There was the usual guff about security work, and managing a post office or a pub, but once he’d turned down those suggestions there didn’t seem to be anything else. The civil service would be barred to him, apparently, because the army weren’t prepared to give him a reference, and casual labour such as construction work was out because of his leg. “So what can I do?” he asked eventually, exasperated beyond endurance. “Er, well, there’s always a family business,” said the careers man, wiping his hands on his trouser legs. “A lot of our fellows go into that when they leave....” “My dad’s retired,” said Nat. “And guess what -- he was a civil servant. And he’s not speaking to me because he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle. Not very encouraging, really, is it?” “Er, no. Well, it was only a suggestion. Er, well, I think that’s all, then. Unless Dr. Lessing has anything more to add?” Lessing steepled long pale hands together and peered down his long pale nose at Nat. “Tell me, Mr. Brook,” he said, with an unpleasant emphasis on the ‘mister’. “What would you do, given a choice? If you could take any job in the world, go anywhere, live in any country. What would you choose?” For long moments Nat thought, his mind a complete blank. There wasn’t anything he really wanted in the outside world, the unknown world outside the army and the hospital and the garden and Richie. And realising that, finally he knew what his answer was. “I want to stay here,” he said, surprised by the sudden aching need the idea conjured up -- the need to remain in the one place he could truly call home. Dr. Lessing tutted. “Well, really, Mr. Brook, I don’t think that would be suitable. I realise you have been here for a very long time -- almost a year, now, isn’t it? But even so, we’re not a Roses in December - 123

long-term institution, you know. Patients come to us to recover and move on, not to stay for the rest of their lives.” “I’m not sure that’s what I meant.” “Oh? What did you mean, then?” But he didn’t really know himself. With a slow shake of his head, he said, “Sorry. Just thinking out loud. You did ask.” “It wouldn’t be possible now, anyway. Even if we could find some way of bending the rules.... The Towers won’t be here much longer -- the army’s selling it off, you know. Keeping a place this size going is much too expensive -- I believe the running costs are horrendous.” Nat sought the nearest chair and dropped onto it. “Selling it?” “Yes. It’s on the market now, as a matter of fact, although it’s being kept very quiet, for obvious reasons. It won’t be the only one in the country, either. The government are demanding cuts in the defence budget, and this is one way of achieving it.” “But... but where will I... I mean, where will everyone go?” The doctor waved an airy hand as though it wasn’t his problem. “We’ve already cut numbers significantly by not taking in any new patients. As the current batch recover they’re sent back to their units, or home if they’ve been discharged, and one or two more troublesome individuals will be sent to other hospitals to continue their treatment. However, that doesn’t really apply to you, does it?” Shaking his head, which felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, Nat could only think of one thing. “How long have I got?” “Hm? What, here, you mean? Oh, I shouldn’t worry -- I can’t see anything happening for a couple of months at least. What with all the negotiations and so on.... That should give you plenty of time to make other arrangements.” “Negotiations? You mean somebody’s already bought it?” “I’m not sure I should say -- I believe it’s at a very delicate stage.... However, since you’re used to being, er, discreet about things, I suppose it won’t hurt. We’ve been rather lucky, actually, because the National Trust is interested. Apparently this old place used to be quite grand at one time. I’m told the gardens in particular were something of a showpiece.” *** Nat reached the sanctuary of his room without the slightest idea how he’d got there. He traversed two staircases, a courtyard and the length of the building in corridors, but every inch of tile and plaster and paint and carpet might just as well have been invisible, because he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice them. Back on his bed he stared sightlessly out over the garden for a while, fretting about the future. Roses in December - 124

He felt rather like a rat trapped in a laboratory maze, running through the same corridors over and over again without ever reaching his goal. With his release from the army and his return to health, he knew he should have been happy -- not many people had the chance to start over again when they’d fucked up as badly as him. But the trouble was he didn’t want to start over, didn’t want the hassle of a new home and a new job and finding his feet out there in civvie street. He wanted to stay here, secure in the world he’d grown to love, with his books and his garden, and the few people he’d learned to call friends. Hell, he wanted to stay at home. Not much chance of that now, though, not with the sale of the Towers so imminent. A couple of months, Dr. Lessing had said, and made it sound like a lifetime. But Nat knew those two months would skim past like a dragonfly dancing over a pond -- gone before you’d even realised it was there. It would have been nice to think he could just stay on, and take some menial post working for the National Trust once they took over. Except he couldn’t see them wanting a bunch of ex-patients cluttering up their latest acquisition; especially not ones with shell-shock, who were likely to have flashbacks and fainting fits at the first loud noise. And it wasn’t as if he could do anything useful for them, anyway. What would a stately home need with an old war-horse like him, fit for nothing better than sabotage and murder? He didn’t know the first thing about restoring old buildings, and if they unleashed him on the general public in some administrative role, he was more likely to scare the visitors away. And yet, the more he gazed at the garden, the more a strange idea possessed him. After all, why not? True, he knew nothing much about the practical side of gardening, but he was keen and it had always been an interest. And he’d learned new skills in the army, so why not now? Surely it couldn’t be all that difficult -- he could start by taking lessons from Fred. Because the one thing he did know about, the one thing he could offer the National Trust help with, was this garden. He’d seen it in its heyday, knew the immense value of what lay buried, slumbering like some enchanted princess, ready to be awakened by a true lover’s kiss. And he was the only one who could do it. Other people might have the same knowledge -- old Elsie for one -- but none had seen it as recently as him, which gave him a unique advantage. Even in these days of over-qualification, when you needed six O-Levels to sweep the streets, that had to count for something. Without further conscious thought he found his feet were re-tracing their steps, out of the door, along the corridor and up the nearest staircase, this time to the library. Once there he closed the door and rummaged along the bookshelves until he found what he was looking for -- a gaudy printed guide to The Treasure Houses of Britain, which had the National Trust’s address in the back. Then he turned to the desk in the corner, raided the hospital’s store of headed paper, and sat down with his tongue sticking out to compose the most important letter of his life.

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Part Six - Winter 1996

“Hallo, Charlie, how are you today?” “You! Not you again. Can’t you leave me alone? I know you’re not really there, I know it.” “Don’t be daft, Charlie, of course I’m here. Said I’d never leave you and I meant it, didn’t I? I’m true to my word. I’ll always be here for you.” “No. No, I don’t want you here. Go away. I told you to go once before, and you wouldn’t, and look what came of it. Please, just go and leave me in peace.” “Nah, I’ll never leave you, Charlie. Couldn’t do that. There is a way though, a way to be rid of me forever.” “What’s that? I’ll do anything.” “Easy. You just take that sheet, and the blanket, too, and tear them into strips and tie the strips together. Then you fasten one end to the bars on the window, all the way up there. See it? And the other end round your neck. And then you let go, Charlie. Just let go, and you’ll never see me again. It’s as easy as that....” “Yes, yes, you’re right. It would be easy. I could do that. And you’d leave me alone if I did?” “Oh, I’d leave you alone, Charlie. You’d never see me again -- you and me, we’ll be in quite different places after that. I’ve got someone else to look out for, now.” “I’ll do it. Tonight, after lock-up. The guards won’t be about till morning, I’ll do it then. I’ve got to get rid of you somehow.” I. Nat shifted in his chair, ran a hand round his collar and surreptitiously loosened his tie. He was more nervous about this meeting than he’d been for his interview back in November, partly because of all the top brass, but mostly because this was it. This was crunch-time, this was the moment when all the evidence was submitted and they were told whether they could proceed with the project or not. Under the conference table his fingers were crossed; so much hard work had gone into reaching this point that it would be a terrible waste if their proposals were turned down. But the top brass held the purse strings, and he knew restoring a garden this size would cost a small fortune. It was all a question of risk, according to his new boss Frank Prior. Risk was everything in this business, and nothing was left to chance. Every last variable -- costs, manpower, accessibility, projected visitor numbers -- was calculated to Roses in December - 126

within an inch of its life, and by the time a project report was complete they already had a good idea of whether it was viable or not. Today they were sitting round a table in what had been, until a few months ago, the hospital administrator’s office. There were six of them altogether: three suited-and-tied Trust representatives (Frank, a large and jolly woman, and the regional Finance Director), one heritage expert, Nat, and Fred Bailey. Fred had been kept on, too, as a sort of unofficial gardening consultant to the project. He was the one who could tell them whether a particular scheme was physically possible or not, and how many man hours it was likely to take, and what time of year was best to complete it. His knowledge of plants and soil was invaluable, and Nat was delighted they’d still be working together. Assuming the project got past today’s scrutiny, of course. Glancing up, he saw Fred was staring into space, with the sort of despairingly patient expression he’d last seen on a spaniel. He caught his friend’s eye and winked, careful not to let the others see, and was rewarded when Fred’s lips twitched. They couldn’t start a riot in here, the meeting was too important for that, but at least Fred would know they were in this together. They shared the expectancy and the fear because they shared the love of that garden -- and the Trust people had been reading the report for an awfully long time... so long that the wait was making his scalp itch. Please don’t let them say no, he thought, not after all this work, not when I’ve got a chance to do something creative with my life for a change.... He was quite sure he hadn’t spoken aloud, but it was still disconcerting to look up and find the most senior Trust man’s eyes on him. He’d quite thought they were all still immersed in the paperwork. If he’d still been in the Army he’d be due a ticking off, for breaking ranks and stepping out of line and getting himself noticed. He could hear his Colonel’s voice now, barking disapproval at him. But this wasn’t the Army, thank Christ. Mr. Beasley merely raised an eyebrow, allowed his own lips to twitch, and returned his attention to the pages in front of him. Nat nearly fell off his chair. His scalp was still tingling, though, and his throat was dry -- and the coffee pot was tantalisingly out of reach, perched on the far end of the table with a little coil of steam curling out of its spout. There was nothing to stop him getting up and fetching himself a cup, of course, but army discipline, once learnt, was hard to rid yourself of again, and in the army you waited until you were asked. “More coffee, Nat?” said a saviour’s voice, and Frank was standing beside him holding out a hand for his cup. “Yeah, thanks.” Stupid, really, he was a grown man, and it was about time he started catering for his own needs rather than relying on his superiors to make every decision for him. If Frank hadn’t been there, hadn’t spotted his predicament, he’d still be sitting here with his tongue hanging out. He shook his head, annoyed, and made himself a promise. Next time he’d get the coffee. Frank had finished reading the report first, but he was familiar with most of it from the drafts Nat had sent. The other two were still immersed, turning pages with rapt concentration. Nat hoped that was a good sign. He’d put in enough hard work, collating the information that Roses in December - 127

formed the basis of their case. The first three months, over the winter, when the weather was too bad to do any more than regulation tidying in the garden, had been dedicated almost entirely to research. Nat, having mentioned a love of reading early on, found himself in the unlikely position of chief information-gatherer, sorting through the books in the hospital library before they were gathered up and taken away to be sold. Each afternoon, once he’d completed his daily exercise routine, he settled down in a chair with a pile of books, working his way through the room shelf by shelf; when that was done he borrowed Fred’s van and took himself into Stoke to haunt the reference library. His searches at the hospital didn’t reveal much -- he’d already been told that most of the family’s own records had been donated to the local museum at the time of Charlie’s death and the net result of three week’s work was one invoice for some fruit trees, stuffed inside a book on orchard management, and a half-filled family photograph album which contained two pictures of assorted relatives posing in front of the pagoda. It wasn’t much, but the period was about right, judging by the clothing. And at least it proved once and for all to Nat that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Elsie was more forthcoming when he took the album round to her house and showed the photos to her. “Ooh, yes, I recognise him,” she said, leaving her polishing long enough to point to an elderly gentleman in a top hat. “Old John Humphreys, Charlie’s grandfather, that’d be. He always was a bit Victorian -- liked to dress in the ‘proper manner’ as they called it in those days. He died when I was ever so little, but I remember that hat.” Nat pursued an elusive memory. “John Humphreys? Wasn’t he responsible for making the garden in the first place?” “No, that’d be Edward, John’s father. Mind you, I think John added a fair bit to his dad’s plans. I remember talk of some new glasshouses being put in just before I was born. Terrible waste if you ask me. All them thousands and thousands of pounds just to have melons on the table in May.” Nat grinned and left her to her dusting. His trips to the local library were more rewarding. A quick trawl of the family archives revealed more photo albums, an entire set of journals belonging to Edward Humphreys detailing the creation of the garden, and a volume of rental accounts which included an estate map hand drawn in improbable shades of red, orange and green. He had to suppress a shudder when he saw the name inscribed on the book’s fly-leaf: Edward Douglas, Estate Manager. The date was 1926, a good ten years before he’d ‘met’ Edward’s son in the garden; just for a moment he allowed himself to wonder what Richie had been like at fifteen. Stunning, no doubt: discovering his sexuality for the first time, flaunting his attractions and experimenting with half the men he met. It made Nat hot just to think of it. The map was more concerned with field boundaries and tenants’ holdings than the fine detail of the garden, but it did at least give them the overall shape and size, and a few of the most notable features. The lake in China was clearly marked, and the vanished stream in Scotland, and the walls of the kitchen garden. Even better, it was drawn to scale, which gave them a starting point for measuring out everything else.

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All this and a lot more besides had gone into the report. Nat’s research, his account of his own explorations in the garden, details prised out of Elsie’s distant childhood memories. Wherever possible he’d backed up the conjecture with good hard evidence -- plans, measurements, the old photographs of the pagoda side by side with pictures of today’s ruins, even a preparatory report by the local archaeologist. Then he’d sent the lot to Frank, and Frank had it typed up and photocopied and bound into a big, thick, professional document with a separate appendix of costings at the back. Nat had seen a copy last week and knew it was impressive stuff -- the question was, would the bigwigs agree with him? Finally, when neither his nerves nor his scalp could take much more, Mr. Beasley flapped his report shut, stretched his arms in the air, and cracked his knuckles. Beside him the Regional Finance Director, a large and imposing lady with silver hair who was known to all and sundry as Penelope, finished totting up the figures in the costings report and jotted a couple of notes on a piece of scrap paper before she, too, relaxed in her chair. There was a strained silence, during which Nat studied the pattern on his coffee-cup and refused to meet anybody’s eye. “Well?” said Frank a few minutes later. “What do you guys think? Can we do it?” “Oh, I don’t think there’s any question of that,” Beasley replied, putting his arms behind his head and showing off the sweat-stains under his armpits. “The real question isn’t ‘can we’, it’s ‘should we’. It won’t be the cheapest project we’ve ever undertaken.” “Off the top of my head and based on these figures we’re talking at least fifteen million,” Penelope broke in. “Of course, that’s assuming nothing goes wrong. Which it always does.” “Well, yes, but you could say that about anything the Trust ever does,” said Frank. “You have to admit it would be interesting.” “There are several other garden restorations being undertaken in other parts of the country. Cornwall, for one,” said Beasley. “But none of them are Victorian. For God’s sake, it must be just about unique. There weren’t that many to begin with, and even fewer have survived being dug up for spuds in the war anything like intact.” Penelope boomed out a laugh. “I was under the impression this one wasn’t particularly intact either,” she said. “Still, that’s semantics. What we really have to decide is whether this will draw in enough visitors to make the restoration worthwhile. Any ideas, gentlemen?” “I’m biased, of course,” said Frank, “but I’ve got to admit I’m more excited by this than I’ve been in a long time. There’s something compelling about digging a whole garden out of the undergrowth -- and you have to agree it’s a bit special. How many other places can boast an Egyptian pyramid? And don’t forget there’s the house as well. The Army tell me they’ll have finished dismantling their stuff by the end of the month, and we can get moving on it after that.” “Hmm,” said Beasley. “I suppose we could open the house first, and use the money that generates to finish off work on the garden. Along with the usual appeals to the public and so on.... Penelope? What do you think?” Roses in December - 129

Nat tuned out the rest of the conversation, too busy stifling the enormous grin that was threatening to break out on his face. They were going to do it! They were bloody well going to do it! He wanted to shout, or laugh, or punch the air, or leap up and dance a jig round the conference table, or run out and find a bottle of champagne from somewhere and pop the cork so hard it hit the ceiling and bounced right off again. In the event, because he wasn’t sure quite how they’d react if he did, he restrained himself to getting up and fetching another cup of coffee, and even that felt like a minor celebration of its own. Stirring the warm liquid round and round the cup, he lost himself in visions of the garden returned to life, the sleeping beauty awakened, with paths and statues and borders, and the pagoda and the lake, and the scent of pine trees and roses wafting on a summer breeze.... “Nat? Nat! Are you still with us?” Frank sounded worried, as though he thought Nat had suffered another relapse. “Hmm? What? Oh, sorry, I was just making plans. For the garden, that is. What did you say?” “Penelope and Mr. Beasley were just thanking you for all your hard work. The research and so on.” “Oh, right. Thanks. Wasn’t much, really.” “Not at all,” said Penelope in tones that rattled the teaspoons. “Wouldn’t have been possible without all your input, would it, Beasley? Marvellous stuff, absolutely marvellous. Tell me, Mr. Brook, just how did you manage to find so much out in such a short space of time?” And just how, thought Nat later, did you get out of that one? He’d lied, of course, cited all the books he’d read and his own potterings round the garden during his convalescence and even invented a formal interview with Elsie. “She lived here at the time, you see. Well, in the twenties, anyway. She knew the garden then. And Fred here knows a bit, too.” Thank God they’d believed him, and shaken his hand as though he wasn’t a gibbering imbecile, and when they’d gone and the door was safely closed, and only Fred was there to see, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. “Well, that went better than I expected,” he said, blowing his cheeks out. “Much better,” said Fred. “Great news, I’m really pleased. It’ll mean a lot more work, and the Trust seem to pay pretty well. Keeps Mrs. Bailey happy, I must say.” “Yeah, I can imagine. And it’ll bring some employment to the area.” Not much, the Trust used volunteers to keep the costs down, but there were always a few paid posts. “Good thing all round. Can’t believe they went for it.” “There is still one thing that bothers me, though,” said Fred, rubbing his nose. “And that’s how you knew about it. Like the lady said. And don’t go telling me I told you about it -- you were the one told me about Scotland.” “Er. Yes. Sorry about that, I had to tell them something. It’s just, well -- you’ll think I’m daft. Hell, maybe I am daft.” Roses in December - 130

“If it’s about the ghosts, Nat, I’ve known all along.”

“You what?”

“Oh, yes, you can’t work out there in that garden, summer and winter, without noticing. It’s a

fine old place right enough, but there’s something... odd, like, about it.”

“But you never said anything.”

“Like you. Didn’t want folks thinking I’d lost it. Anyway, I stopped taking any notice a few

years back -- you get used to it in the end. And I never let it suck me in, always turned my back when they started. Dangerous, otherwise.” “Yeah.” Nat knew better than anyone just what the dangers were.

“I take it you weren’t as cautious? Talked to them, did you? I suppose that’s where all your

information about the garden came from.”

“That’s right,” said Nat. He grinned. “Amazing how talkative some of these spooks can be.” It was better this way, to turn it into a joke between the pair of them. Not even Fred must ever know that it wasn’t just people who were ghosts, but walls and flowers and fountains, too.

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II. In November Nat’s back pay had come through, and he blued the lot on a second-hand Renault van. At first he wasn’t sure he’d get much use out of it, but gradually, what with visits to the library and shopping trips for gardening clothes and equipment, he began to chug back and forth to town a couple of times a week. He still wasn’t entirely happy in crowded places, but as long as he avoided weekends and market days he could wander the streets in comfort and not even break into a sweat. One day, on a whim, he went back to the vegetarian restaurant in the town centre. There was no sign of the girl he’d snubbed, thank God, but the young chef recognised him immediately and hurried over, coffee-pot in hand and a welcoming grin plastered to his face. “Hey, I remember you,” he said. “Is that good or bad?” said Nat with a mock shudder. “Silly! Good, of course. We don’t get that many film stars round here, you know.” “Thanks for the compliment. I think. ‘Fraid I’m no film star, though -- just a common, or garden, gardener.” “Lucky garden. I’m Carl, by the way.” “Nat. But shouldn’t you be working?” Carl had pulled out one of the spare chairs at his table and was showing every sign of staying put for hours. “Probably. Quiet just now, though, most of them have had coffee and it isn’t time for lunch yet.” Sure enough, there was only one other customer in the place, an elderly gentleman who’d taken one look at the pair of them and turned an alarming shade of puce. Even as Carl sat down, the gentleman finished his coffee, threw some coins on the table in a pointed manner and stalked out, refusing to reply to the chef’s cheery, “Bye, then, have a nice day”. “Old fart,” Carl added as soon as the door had closed. “Comes in here every Thursday, and if I’m here on my own he won’t even speak to me. There’s other places doing coffee in town, can’t think why he keeps on coming back. Unless he’s hoping to save my soul!” “More likely he’s got the hots for you, but doesn’t want to admit it.” “Oh! One of those. You could be right, my dear. Anyway, I want to hear all about it. What have you been doing with yourself all this time? I quite thought you’d gone for good.” “No, you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m living over at Partington Towers. They’re doing it up, you know -- I got one of the gardening jobs.” “That’s the old hospital, isn’t it? Few miles out of town.”

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“That’s the place. Only it isn’t a hospital any more. The National Trust have bought it. Should be open this time next year -- well, the house at any rate. You’ll have to come and see it.” Carl’s face fell. “I was hoping to see you a lot sooner than that,” he said with a pout. “Don’t tell me you’re going to do another disappearing act on me.” “I expect I’ll be popping in from time to time,” said Nat. “We’re going to need all sorts of stuff once the real work starts, so I’ll have to come to town quite a bit. Won’t be long now we got the go-ahead from ‘up top’ last week, and the surveyors are due on Tuesday.” He drained the last of his coffee, avoiding the bitter dregs at the bottom. “Look, I’d better go. You’ll have a mob in for lunch soon, and I’m keeping you hanging about here.” “You do make it a bit difficult to concentrate on the carrot soup,” said Carl. He was making no secret of his attraction to Nat, who found he was rather flattered by the attention. “Hey, how about seeing a film one evening,” Nat suggested suddenly, surprising himself. “The new ‘Die Hard’ one’s just come out, and it’s supposed to be all right.” “Yes, please, that’d be lovely,” said Carl. “I hope Bruce Willis strips off to that grubby Tshirt again. I just love a guy with muscles.” He eyed Nat’s own chest and biceps with something akin to awe. Nat grinned and left the restaurant on about three inches of air, not quite able to believe how lucky he was. Fair enough, Carl wasn’t Richie, but then nobody was. Richie had been dead for almost sixty years, and it was about time he started living in the present again; all that pining for something long gone wasn’t healthy and could even have been holding back his recovery. Besides, now the Army was past history, there was nothing at all to stop him dating other men. He felt like he’d just been let out of jail. *** It was odd, the morning after his date with Carl, to wake with another body in his bed. Odd, but rather nice, he decided, liking the warmth and the roughness of morning stubble against his shoulder. He’d never allowed himself the luxury before. It would have been too risky letting anyone stay the night in the barracks, so sex had always been at the other bloke’s place, or down an alley, or in the back of a car, and he’d always gone home alone. This -- he wriggled his toes and stretched against the bulk beside him -- this had been well worth the wait. The date had been okay, too. The film was high-octane stuff with a bigger explosion every other minute; after the third or fourth seat-rattling bang Carl noticed that he wasn’t enjoying it much. “This all right for you? Not everyone’s cup of tea,” he whispered, ignoring the frantic shushings from around them. “Fine. Don’t fuss.”

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The cinema wasn’t nearly dark enough for any real hanky-panky, but in the gloom Carl managed to find his hand and hold on to it, and for some reason that made the rest of the onscreen action easier to bear. And Carl’s little indrawn hiss of triumph when Bruce Willis did, inevitably, strip off to his T-shirt was pure magic. He teased his new friend about it afterwards, in the safety of his van, which he’d taken care to park in a very out-of-the-way corner of the town. It was a long walk from the cinema, but old habits died hard. “Nothing like letting the whole bloody audience know you’re gay -- I’ll bet they could hear you panting in the front row.” “I don’t care,” said Carl, unrepentant. “Nobody was paying any attention. Anyway, I told you I like muscles -- which reminds me.” He draped an arm round Nat’s shoulders and squeezed the top of one arm. “Been wanting to do that all evening. And it feels just as good as I thought it would. Wow.” “Not so bad yourself,” said Nat, wrapping a hand round one slim thigh. They’d shared a deep, wet kiss for what seemed like hours, as rain drummed on the van roof, and then he broke away. “Mmf. What’s wrong, sweetie? I was enjoying that,” said Carl. “Me, too. Too much. I am not doing it all creased up on the back seat of another car -- had enough of that to last a lifetime. I’m taking you home. That is, if you want me to?” “You bet,” said Carl, and ran his tongue round the bottom of Nat’s ear. It sent shivers up his spine, and his hand shook as he turned the key, but somehow he got them back to the Towers in one piece, and out of the van and up the stairs to his converted flat in the old stable block. “Nice place.” Carl paused to look round. “Very nice, in fact. I love these old barn conversions. Mine’s a hideous 1960s apartment -- no character at all. You’re lucky.” “Yeah, I know. The Trust did this whole block up as accommodation for staff. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so they let me in here. I’ve just about got the run of the place at the moment, so it’s great. But,” he snagged a corner of Carl’s jacket and began to reel him in, “I didn’t bring you here to talk about interior decorating. Grab a drink if you want one and get yourself into the bedroom.” “Ooh, I just love masterful men,” said Carl with a smirk, and allowed himself to be led towards the bedroom door. The sex had been sweet rather than earth-shaking, Nat thought. Carl was both flexible and inventive, and set about pleasing them both in a way none of his previous lovers had tried, whilst not having to pretend any more gave him a special satisfaction all of its own. He’d drifted off to sleep some time after one, warm and sated and snug in another man’s arms, and slept better than he had for years. And now he was awake again, and so was his cock, in spite of last night’s action. “Hey, you awake?” he murmured over his shoulder, but there was no reply other than a soft snore. Carl was still fast asleep.

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Ah, well, it was nice just to lie here and enjoy the moment. He really ought to be out in the garden helping Fred, of course, but until the surveyors had done their stuff there wasn’t much they could do, other than weeding and other routine stuff. He didn’t think Fred would begrudge him one late start. His eyes drifted closed again, and he drew Carl’s arm round his waist, snuggling deeper into the embrace. Mmm. Bliss. Imagine, just waking like this morning after morning with no need to hide or throw his lover out. Lying here each and every day, in his own home with someone to call his own. Lying here with Richie’s arm around him, and Richie’s stubble grazing his back, and Richie’s curls caressing his ear.... Quietly, so as not to disturb Carl, he wanked himself to climax and sank back into sleep. *** Breakfast was rather less leisurely. Carl woke with a yell at nine forty-five. “Fucking hell, will you just look at the time? I’m supposed to be at work by ten!” “Mm? Oh, sorry,” said Nat, surfacing in a hurry from a very pleasant dream. “Must’ve gone back to sleep again. Use my phone -- tell them you’ve broken down or something.” “Yeah, right. I only live five minutes’ walk away from the caff. They’re really going to fall for that one.” But he reached for the receiver anyway, drumming his fingers on the bedside cabinet while it rang. “Hello? Oh, hi Marge, it’s me. ‘Fraid I’m going to be late today, darling. It’s my washing machine. Yeah, terminal. All over the floor -- never seen such a mess. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Just harassed! Okay, sweetie, see you later, then. Bye.” “Quick thinking,” said Nat with a grin. “Just hope she doesn’t call round my place to check,” said Carl and headed for the bathroom. While he was sluicing, Nat made tea and toast and got himself dressed, his good mood of earlier evaporating like steam on the bathroom mirror. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it the moment of waking, gathering each other in for a hug that led, somehow, to other things.... Instead, he’d got stress and a partner who made a grizzly bear look cheerful. Although he could hardly blame Carl for snapping and snarling -- be late for work once too often these days, and you could quite easily find yourself in the dole queue. Perhaps the next date would be a little more... enchanted. “Here,” he said, pushing cup and plate over as his lover emerged draped in towels from the bathroom. “Get yourself round this. Your clothes are on the bed. I’m just going to start the van -- the engine needs to warm up on cold mornings like this.” “Going somewhere?” said Carl through a mouthful of toast. “Yes. Town. Giving you a lift. How else did you think you were going to get back?” They completed most of the journey in silence, Carl hunched in the passenger seat staring at the rain while Nat concentrated on the morning traffic. Finally, when he’d negotiated the oneway system and was turning into the high street, he said, “Suppose this means we won’t be seeing each other again.” So much for no more one-night stands, he thought. First time he could actually have a relationship and he had to muck it up....

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But Carl was staring at him. “I never said that. Is that what you think? I’m so sorry, my dear, I’m afraid I’m always disgusting in the mornings, and with being late as well.... Just ignore me -- I’ll be better company next time, I promise.” “Next time?” “Yeah. Well, if you’d like to. How about a drink on Thursday?” Thursday was market day, if he remembered right. “Wednesday would be better. I’ll need to come into town by then to pick the survey results up from the post office. They won’t deliver to the Towers yet -- say it’s not a recognised mainland address or some such crap.” “Wednesday it is, then,” said Carl, hopping out as he pulled up at the kerb. “Looking forward to it!” “Me, too,” said Nat and drove off in such high spirits that he shot straight through a puddle and spray-coated a pedestrian in a sheet of grubby water. The chap shook a fist and mouthed something obscene, and for a moment he wondered whether to stop and apologise, but decided against it. It would only lead to an argument, and he didn’t want anything to mar the morning’s happiness. That thought in turn led to guilt -- a small imp with a pitchfork because he wasn’t sure he deserved such happiness after everything he’d done. Yet here he was, with a settled home and a steady job that he loved and several good friends, and now it looked as though he might have found himself a boyfriend, too. It was almost as though he was being given a second chance, and he wasn’t sure he deserved that, either. It wasn’t likely to last, of course -- the good things in his life never did. In the meantime, though, he might as well enjoy it while he could, especially as the sun was breaking through the thick grey cloud and making rainbows on every blade of grass. He wound down the window, drank in the blast of fresh cold air that followed, twiddled the radio knob until the van filled with the insistent beat of rock music, span round the one-way system a couple of times and took the road for home.

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III. “Christ, would you just look at the height of that bamboo,” said Nat, leaning on his spade in the middle of China and taking a moment’s breather. “Anyone’d think it had cross-bred with a Triffid. I keep expecting to find a pair of legs sticking out of a giant mouth somewhere in the middle....” Fred wiped his forehead, rested on his own fork and grinned. “Ah, well, it’s got a bit of a reputation, that stuff,” he replied. “Grows about a foot a year if you don’t keep an eye on it.” “I don’t know about that, it’s more like a foot a minute. Look -- I’m sure I just saw it put on another inch. Bloody stuff. It’ll take years to hack through all that.” “Don’t you worry, now, Nat. I’ll set some of the lads on it next week. Term starts again then, they’ll be round from the local college for their work-experience. Soon have that area cleared back. You never know; we might find some more of the lake underneath it all.” “Hope so. It’s boggy enough -- like wading round in ox-tail soup in the worst bits. Be nice if we could get it dug out in time for the grand opening.” “Not sure we’ll manage that much progress -- it’s a heck of a lot of work to get through by next Saturday. The Trust blokes seem happy enough, though. You should’ve heard them on about that herbaceous border we finished last week.” Nat grunted and hauled his spade out of the mud, ready to start work again, but inside he was glowing. That border had been something of a personal triumph. First he’d told them where to look for it, and been proved right by the Trust’s archaeologists when they hauled a ground radar machine through the sycamore forest and managed to take some half-way decent readings. Then, once the trees had been grubbed up, and following lines of virulent orange paint that marked out the border on the surface, he’d helped to dig through fifty years of rubbish and soil until they’d finally revealed the old path, some twenty feet below. Finally, with the aid of a crash course in horticulture two evenings a week at the local college, and some expert guidance from Fred, he’d designed the planting schedule, ordered the plants, and overseen the students who’d put them in the ground. In some ways, there wasn’t a lot to show for it -- just a cobbled path with wide expanses of soil either side, and the occasional twig poking through the churned and clammy surface. But he knew by June the plants would have sprung up, dahlias and asters vying with delphiniums and hollyhocks in a riot of colour and form. It had been the most satisfying thing in his whole life, pointing to a map in the Trust’s incident room in the old stables, and a few weeks later, being able to walk along something that nobody had seen for the best part of fifty years. And it hadn’t stopped there. The border led on to other things, not least the enticing flight of steps they uncovered during their excavations. Some judicious hacking with a machete had revealed the terrace in all its faded glory -- fountain cracked and dry, grass three feet high, roses a straggle of thorns -- and once they’d laid fresh turf, repaired the pool, and replanted the beds, it became again the charming, restful place where he’d met Richie for the very first time. He could just see himself sitting out here smoking on a summer evening, with the fountain tinkling and the scent of roses and tobacco fragrancing the air. If anything conjured up the shade of Richie again, that would. Roses in December - 137

Because he hadn’t seen a glimmer of his ghostly friend in all this time, no matter how long he spent in the garden, or how late he stayed out working into the dusk. Watching the grisly scenes of the murder seemed to have marked a change: now that he knew what had happened, Richie would appear no more. In the background he was aware of a different team working on the house, clearing and cleaning and restoring it to full Victorian splendour. Soot-blackened stonework was sand blasted clean; Nissen huts vanished overnight; the pea-green paint was smothered with cream and gold; beds and plastic chairs marched out, whilst fine antiques were ushered in. It was interesting to watch the metamorphosis from institution to stately home -- the opposite of what was happening to so many other big houses the length and breadth of the country. He lent a hand a couple of times when they needed some extra muscle to cart the heaviest furniture about, but most of his energy was still reserved for the garden. And the best was yet to come. At the top of the herbaceous border they found a hollowed-out bowl with rocky walls, which he identified as the rockery. Ivy had smothered the rare alpines and ferns, and many of the rocks had slipped or fallen off, and the surveyor took one look and branded it too dangerous to work in, until ropes and winches and hard hats could be found. But beyond that, past the high rock wall Nat remembered so well, the path wound down into China. China was special for Nat -- the heart of the garden; the source of its mysteries; the place where he and Richie had first made love; the place, years before, where Richie had died. The rest of the garden was beautiful, too, but this was the bit he most wanted to see restored. He wanted the graceful arc of the bridge to span the lake once more; he wanted the stone frog to leer down from the wall; he wanted the red and gold of the pagoda to reflect, rippling, in the still dark waters below. Most of all, he wanted the balcony rebuilt, so that he could take his little love-bell and hang it where it belonged, and ring it now and again when the garden was quiet, in secret memory of Richie. Whenever he was tired he thought of that, and felt renewed energy surge through his limbs, soothing the aches and blisters in its wake. And now they were advancing across the garden inch by painful inch, and his dream was coming true. Which reminded him.... “Hey, Fred, have those conservation-types finished in the pagoda yet? They were crawling all over it last time I looked.” Fred yanked his fork out of a tussock and grinned. “No, they’re still there. Will be till doomsday, the rate they’re going. I asked what they were doing, Monday, and got a flea in my ear. Something about paint samples.” “What the hell do they need those for? I already told them it was painted red and gold.” “Ah, but there’s red and there’s red,” said Fred sagely, turning over another dollop of earth. “Want to do things properly, I suppose, not use some awful modern shade on a lovely old building like that.” “Still don’t think they’re going to find anything. The whole place was burned to a cinder, and it’s been rotting in the wind and rain ever since. You wouldn’t think there was any paint left to find.” “If there is, then they’re the people to find it. They were using tweezers the other day!” Roses in December - 138

“Christ.” Nat shook his head. It was mystifying, the lengths the National Trust went to at times to guarantee authenticity, down to the last speck of gold leaf. Even here in the garden they were under strict instructions not to use any plants developed later than the 1920s, and to recreate Edward Humphries’ collections of rarities wherever possible. It meant a lot of extra fiddling about, but he supposed the end result would be worth the work. As Fred said, it would be a pity to muck the restoration up by using inappropriate materials, or doing work on the cheap, even if there were times when it was tempting. And the better the job they made of the pagoda, the more fitting it would be as a memorial to Richie. It wasn’t very likely the Trust would cough up for a monument for a servant, but the poor lad deserved something, beaten to death by a jealous old man when he was barely twenty-five. At least this way there’d be something to remember him by. Ah, well, time to stop daydreaming and get on with some work. He hauled his spade, squeaking, out of the mud and began to dig once more. So much to be done, and so little time to do it. The house was being opened early, as agreed, to generate more funds for the garden, and with Easter on the early side this year the first visitors would be here by next week. They needed to make all the progress they could before the dreaded day dawned. “That young chap of yours coming over tonight?” Fred asked, breaking into his thoughts. He’d guessed some time ago and hadn’t seemed put out, or even terribly surprised. “Nice young fellow he seems. I blocked his car in with the van last week, and he didn’t bat an eyelid, just waited while I moved it. You don’t get many like that these days -- most blokes his age would’ve been hanging on the horn and shouting and swearing fit to bust. Makes a pleasant change to find someone with manners.” “Er, yeah, probably,” said Nat. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable discussing his boyfriend, even with someone as unthreatening as Fred, but he supposed he’d have to get used to it. One of the drawbacks of coming out, that he probably should have foreseen. “Thursday’s his day off, so he can stay later. All night if he wants to. We, er, might go and see the new Tom Cruise film tonight. I’m a bit of a fan.” “My missus was on about me taking her to see that. Better let me know if it’s any good or not. I’m not wasting five quid if it’s a load of rubbish, even if they have put comfy new seats in the Odeon!” Nat laughed. “All right, I’ll let you know. But for God’s sake don’t tell her I told you. I’m scared to death of your Julie.” “She’s one in a million, all right,” said Fred. “Wouldn’t have her any other way, though. Been through thick and thin together, we have -- don’t know what I’d do without her. Ah, well, it’s getting late. I’d best pack my stuff up and head back. She’s doing stew tonight and I don’t want to miss that.” “Yeah, I don’t blame you. Okay, see you in the morning.” He watched as Fred trundled a wheelbarrow off, bright blue bobble-hat bobbing up and down along the path. His mate was right, it was getting late, and the light was fading fast, especially here under the trees. They might not have their shawl of leaves yet, but the thick fretwork of branches still wove across the sky, shutting in the night, and soon it would be too dark to see what he was doing. Soon, but not just yet. There was still a glimmer of light in the west, pale peach against navy blue, Roses in December - 139

and he was damned if he was going to stop work until every last trace of that had disappeared. He kept on digging, spade rising and falling in an easy rhythm that required the least amount of exertion, and as he dug he thought. He envied Fred, with a wife and children to go home to every night, and Nat envied him the immense love he clearly felt for his wife. Seeing Fred’s face light up when he was talking about Julie, or the way he pretended to grumble about her when he would go to the ends of the earth on her behalf, filled Nat with quiet despair. He was over thirty now, and he had nobody like that, no chance of settling down with the person of his dreams. Carl was nice -- fun to be with and great in bed -- but he didn’t make Nat glow with happiness whenever he walked into the room. There was only one person who’d ever made him feel like that. He’d gone and fallen in love with a ghost.

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V. Nine days later Nat stood on the front steps of Partington Towers and itched. Whoever was responsible for this little drama wanted shooting, he decided, rubbing a foot surreptitiously up and down the back of his calf and trying not to jig. Or better still, lined up against a wall and forced to wear calico next to the skin.... He’d never been so uncomfortable, even up to his neck in mud on some army manoeuvres or other -- and he’d never felt quite so silly, either. At least he and Fred, as gardeners, had got off lightly. Their period costume consisted of nothing more than heavy corduroy trousers, hobnail boots and a stiff white round-collared shirt, with a tweed jacket to keep out the cold; and although the fabric was new and scratchy to the touch, it wasn’t so very different from what they’d have worn in the normal course of their work. But Frank Prior was tied into a starched collar in the garb of a butler, and some of the girls, in lace and ribbons and bell-bottom skirts like so many porcelain dolls, looked as awkward as he felt. And as for Elsie, disguised as a housekeeper, the grim line of her lips spoke volumes in discontent. He sidled behind a footman and two housemaids and fetched up next to her. “Morning, Elsie, love. Nice dress,” he said, and grinned at the silent explosion between her shoulder blades. “I’ll nice dress you, next chance I get,” she huffed. “Load of rubbish if you ask me, dressing up in all these frills. If I have to have these blasted keys dangling round my knees much longer I’m going to trip up and come a cropper, and then where’ll we be?” “You love it, really,” said Nat, taking his life in his hands. “All women do. Dressing up’s second nature to the lot of you.” “Don’t you believe it. Amazing how heavy these petticoats are. And hot! You want to try it.” Visions of shepherdesses floated before his eyes. “Er, no thanks, think I’ll pass on that. How anyone ever did housework in those skirts is beyond me.” “It’s beyond me and all. Oops, here we go, just got a glare from the Top Man himself. Visitors must be on their way. Stand up straight now, Nat, we don’t want you disgracing us all.” She’d got the last word again because there was no time to reply. Lips twitching, Nat tried not to slouch as the first trickle of tourists made their way up the drive from the car park to the house, cameras primed and guidebooks to the fore. They were a motley bunch, fat parents lugging squalling ice-cream-laden kids, elderly couples doddering along or darting off to investigate the shrubs, but he couldn’t let his dismay show because they represented cold, hard cash. So much so he could almost hear the rattle of coins as they approached. Four quid for a tour of the house, plus whatever else they spent in the tea-room and the shop -- it all added up to a nice big wadge of money to put towards the work on the garden. Little Molly’s bag of sweets and Fran’s soap, and Mr. Thomson’s book on birds would help to pay for a haircut for the sphinxes, or for the Scottish stream to be re-dug, and that had to be good news. He was still in two minds about letting the common herd into his beloved garden, though. The public were restricted to the terrace and herbaceous walk, but even so, too many folk would clutter the place up, and they were bound to poke about where they shouldn’t, trip over Roses in December - 141

the gardening tools and drop litter in all the most scenic spots. He sighed. It was amazing the sacrifices you’d make for money, sometimes. *** The team spent the rest of the day milling about, mingling with the crowds, answering questions and pointing things out. Most of the visitors only wanted to know where the toilets were, or what time tea was served in the old barn, but a few more intelligent souls were intrigued by the story of the garden. Nat quite enjoyed chatting to them, telling them about Edward Humphreys and the work they were doing, trying to put it all back to how it had been. “Like a bloody great jigsaw puzzle, and we’ve only found half the pieces,” he described it, and thought afterwards how appropriate that was. By two o’clock the car park was full and they were having to send coaches into a field on the farm next door. The house was a ringing babble of voices -- children dashing about on a treasure hunt, older folk intent on the antiques, local people from the village remembering how it had looked in their childhood, when the family had still lived there. Plenty of them came out to explore the terrace, but Nat wasn’t taking much notice, too busy looking for one particular face. Carl had said he might be able to come. By half past three he’d almost given up hope. The place was closing in half an hour and it would be too late -- the stewards wouldn’t know who Carl was and let him in. But just when he was really starting to panic he spotted the familiar face on the terrace steps and hurried over. “Hey, you made it!” he said, punching the other man lightly on the arm. “Thought perhaps you couldn’t get the afternoon off.” Carl pecked him on the cheek, crowds or no crowds. “Hi there, sweetie. What, and miss an opportunity like this? Nice outfit, by the way.” “It itches.” He grinned, but there was something wrong. Carl’s voice lacked its usual exuberance and his smile looked forced. “What’s up? No, we can’t talk here. Come with me, it’ll be quieter in Egypt -- the public aren’t allowed in there yet.” He led the way along paths that gradually thinned of their burden of folk, and under the yew arch into the stone courtyard with the sphinxes. “Right, that’s better. Now, tell me what’s wrong. Is it bad news?” Carl shook his head. “Not really. Well, only for you and me.” “Eh?” “I nearly didn’t come this afternoon... kept putting it off. I don’t know, Nat, I don’t think this is working.” “What’s not working? What are you talking about?” “Us. Me and you. It’s not working because I keep feeling there’s somebody else. Somebody who’s more important to you than I am.” “That’s ridiculous…” Roses in December - 142

“No, let me finish, Nat. Please. I know you’re not seeing anyone else now, I trust you that far. But in the past? Was there someone else then? Someone who meant a lot to you? Strikes me you’re on the rebound.” He opened his mouth to deny it, and then found he couldn’t because it wouldn’t be true. He was on the rebound from another lover, one that he could never tell Carl, or anyone else, about. They’d lock him up if they knew.... “I’m right, aren’t I?” Carl was saying. “You haven’t denied it. Look, it’s been a lot of fun.” “But?” “But I don’t think we should see each other again. Better not, before one of us gets in too deep. You’re a gorgeous bloke, Nat. I just don’t think I’m the right guy for you. I’m not all that keen on sharing.” He shook his head. “Oh, come here. Can’t stand the sight of you drooping like that. It’ll be all right. You’ll find someone else, someone who’s better for you. You know you will.” And he pulled Nat into a rough embrace, and kissed him once on the lips. “I’ll have to go, I promised to do another shift at the restaurant this evening. Good luck, love.” “Yeah, same to you. Thanks for everything.” He watched as Carl ducked back under the yew, knowing he should say something, call him back, make everything all right. But his feet were encased in concrete and his tongue had turned to cement, and he had the feeling that whatever he tried wouldn’t work. Carl had made up his mind, probably days ago now, and there was nothing he could do about that. His watch beeped and he found it was half past four. Time flew when you were having fun.... The rest of the team would be looking for him, though, to help sweep up the last visitors and send them on their way. He’d better be getting back. Half way along the path he decided the others could do without him for once, and stopped on the terrace for a smoke. It was cool and clear and twilight and some of the stars were already shining. He could see the panhandle of the Plough, and Orion’s belt just dipping towards the horizon. In a week or two that would be invisible below the earth’s expansive waist, but for now it lent its dignity to the spring night. Funny sort of day it had been. There’d been tourists tramping all over his garden, and that bust-up with Carl, and yet he hardly cared. It was as though he was buffered from the pain, as though reality had somehow blurred. He was probably just too tired after all the excitement. It would hit him properly tomorrow, no doubt the instant he got out of bed. He heard light footsteps behind him, and swore, because he wanted to be alone. Surely it wasn’t another visitor -- the gates had been shut since four, they were all supposed to have gone home by now. Unless it was Carl, come to kiss and make up? He was hoping so much he hardly dared to turn round; when he did it was too dark, at first, to see anything in the gloom. But gradually his eyes adjusted to the shadows beneath the trees, and he saw a figure standing by the pool -- a slight, male figure in a fur-collared jacket, with a cigarette between its lips. Roses in December - 143

“Nice and quiet now,” said the figure, lips lifting in a rueful smile. “Not like earlier with all that mob milling about. Want to go to the pagoda?” The night was warmer suddenly, and there was a sweet smell on the air. The roses were out again, and Richie had come back.

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