Winter Rose - 1. Story

“What do you desire, young man?” Jeremy asked again, turning his head slightly. Their eyes met. A smile played on George’s lips. Jeremy found he looked adorable.

“It’s my twenty-first birthday,” George said. “Why are you asking? You promised me a surprise party.”

Jeremy chuckled. “I have never mentioned a party. I promised to surprise you. I have a present.”

Jeremy sat up and rose from the couch. George watched him take a book from the shelf. Jeremy gave it to George.

“Happy Birthday, George. You like poems. I found a rare collection of John Wilmot’s poems. The majority of his poetry was not published under his name until after his death. Most of his poems circulated only in manuscript. I spotted this booklet in an antiquarian bookshop. Someone bound the hand-written manuscripts. I did not pay a lot. But maybe it’s worth a fortune,” Jeremy said with a smile.

“This shall never change. Just you and me together. The world is ours. Let’s make plans for the future. There are so many great things to come.”

“Do you really think I believe your words are true?” George said aloud while looking out of the window of his lawyer’s office in Oxford Street.

He watched a young couple crossing the street without paying attention to a carriage. They had to jump. The driver scolded aloud.

“Idiots,” George said with a sneer.

He turned to his desk and sat down. Again he read the letter his wife had sent him. She informed him on her departure. She had taken her son Lawrence with her. Cynthia wanted to divorce him.

For a while George sat pondering. Then he took his pen and wrote a reply.

“My dear Cynthia,” he said aloud. “Don’t think that you can claim monetary compensation. I have evidence that Lawrence is not my son. We married to keep up appearances. I was a father to you illegitimate son whose true father is a miserable creature and a heavy drinker. You played the loving spouse of a man who never had an interest in you nor in any other woman.”

With a satisfied smile, George looked at his letter.

“Well, life is not an everlasting party. Who dares wins! The fittest survives. And I am certainly the winner.”

There was a knock on the door. George’s secretary entered.

“Mister Randolph, Jeremy Johnson sent another letter.”

“Miss Baker, I told you to return his letters. He came back from Africa without means and money. He cannot expect I rescue him.”

George’s life moved on. He gained success, reputation and honour. On his forty-first birthday a heart attack struck him down. George only gradually recovered.

He stood by the window of his hospital room and watched the birds in the blossomed trees when Father John, the pastor working in the hospital, entered.

George’s cheeks had blushed. He smiled awkwardly.

“Young lads. I’m not that young anymore,” he said looking to the window once more.
Father John laughed.

“Oh, you are. See, I’m sixty-nine. I consider you a young lad. Anyway, spring has come. Our hearts rejoice. I am happy to see you are doing fine.”

George smiled.

“In fact, I will leave the hospital on Monday.”

“Will you go back to work, George? You should take your time.”

“No,” George replied. “I will spend some time at home to finally regain strength. Then I will travel to Switzerland and spend a few weeks in a cottage by the Lake Geneva.”

“A wonderful idea,” Father John said. He turned more serious. “Life is a gift. You must not forget. Don’t play with it.”

George nodded thoughtfully. Father John reached out his hand.

“My best wishes, George. And just a few words from the Bible. I spread God’s word, after all,” Father John said with a smirk.

On a Sunday afternoon, George stood by the window of his living room. He watched a crow in a tree. He watched the falling leaves.

“Autumn. This time of the year is depressing me,” he said, turning around.

Robert, sitting by the chimney fire, smiled at him.

“It’s a time for contemplation, isn’t it? Life slows down. The plants wither and die. It’s getting colder. We’re getting colder. Our life is fading. We know that we must die.”

George sat down. He looked into the room, pensively.

“What are you reading?” he finally asked.

“Oh,” Robert said. “A booklet. I took it from the shelf. A collection of John Wilmot’s poems. I’ve just finished one.”

“Someone gave it to me so many years ago,” George said, his voice trembling slightly.

Robert watched him silently.

“I have never seen him again. I refused to. It was a mistake I made. I made so many mistakes.”

“May I read the poem to you?” Robert asked after a while.

“I feel I wasted my life. I gave away the beautiful moments. I have not even noticed them.”

Robert stood and crossed the room. He sat down by George’s side and placed an arm around him.

“I like John Wilmot’s poem. But I resonate with Edmund Spencer’s:”

Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime,
For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower:
Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.

“The Rose is fading, anyway,” George said sadly.

“No,” Robert said. “Her pride deflowers. It does not mean the same. Pride fades and arrogance dies. How do we say? Pride goes before a fall. Autumn reminds us of it. This time of the year reminds us that, at some point in our life, we have to give away our pride.
Robert looked into the room for a while.

“I wish you have a great time, Mister Randolph. You retire early. But you can allow yourself. You can afford it. I’m planning to renovate the rooms. I’ll recruit a new secretary now that Miss Baker left also. A young and handsome girl, perhaps. Or would she distract the clients? I’m not sure. I’m going to make this a flourishing office. It won’t be long until my dreams come true. Sorry, Mister Randolph, I keep you waiting. You turned to gardening, I heard? Enjoy. Please, come soon for a visit.”

George shook the young man’s hand again. He smiled politely. After one last look inside, he turned round and walked down the stairs. He shook his head slightly.

A carriage took George home. Instantly, he went into the garden. Robert was outside, watering the flowers.

“How was it?” Robert asked.

“A very ambitious young man,” George said, studying a bed of flowers. “He has plans for a bright future. He ought to turn to the tasks at hand.”

George took off his elegant jacket and threw it on a bench. He examined the roses. Then he took a spade and bowed down.

“Too many of them. I don’t want so many beneath the roses,” he said, holding out the spade to Robert.

“Now I know what I should have said to the young man. We are food for worms, lad. Believe it or not, each and every one of us in this room is one day going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die. So, stop making a great fuss about your new office.”

George threw the worm into a bucket.

“What do you think?” Robert asked. “After having prepared the garden for winter, we could travel and spend the winter months in Italy.”

“Greece,” George said.

“Greece?” Robert asked in surprise. “You told me it’s too far for you to travel.”

“I’m interested,” George said. He took his jacket from the bench and pulled out a card from a pocket. “The lad gave me a bottle of wine and a greeting card, a farewell card or whatever. I doubt he read the text. Here it is.”