Poppies. She used to pick them for him as he sat dormant and quiet in his rocking chair with a blanket over his rickety knees, eyes wide open and stark like he’d seen something horrid. She had such tenderness in her eyes as she smoothed back his thinning hair and planted a soft kiss on his wrinkled skin.

Peter used to cycle by their house on his way to school. Mrs. Pickles’ house was the most elegant in all the village. She was a talented horticulturalist, and she’d grow everything under the sun, from hydrangeas to wisteria.

It was a splash of colour against the landscape.

The house spoke of love, in as much as a house could speak.

*

But then the wizened old man in the chair died, and it seemed that her love died too.

All the flowers that needed nourishment to grow withered away when she could no longer lift a finger. It was inevitable, the way the house fell into disrepair, and it was boarded up by the summer. Mrs. Pickles vanished with no sign she would ever return.

*

Peter cycled by their house again and again. From autumn to summer.

He watched eerily as it got gradually more grey. Until he graduated. Then he got a job in the local shop, and he repeated the journey year round. Time’s arrow marched on, and he met a girl he wanted to marry. They bought a house just out of the village.

That’s when his daily routine stopped. He began to forget. He had two sons that he named after old war heroes, and still he hardly thought about Mrs. Pickles or her house.

His sons grew up and they grew to have bigger and better ambitions than their father. One moved to London and became an accountant, the other travelled before settling down and becoming a teacher somewhere in Shropshire.

But, after all, Peter only had two grandchildren. One, after the girl died tragically young.

*

He was walking with his grandson, tracing his steps when he came across the old boarded up house again.

‘Oh…oh…Henry?’ He looked around for his grandson, he couldn’t see him. Suddenly, he popped back into view from behind a tree. ‘You’re going to want to see this.’ Peter pointed with his own now wizened finger towards the house.

‘It’s just an old house.’ His grandson kicked dirt.

‘It used to be the most beautiful house in the whole village.’ Peter said.

His grandson looked unimpressed.

‘An old war veteran used to live here with his wife. She was the most marvellous gardener I’d ever known.’

‘Better than mum?’ The boy asked.

‘No offence to her, but much better than your mother.’ Peter replied with a sigh. He stared longingly out at the house again, tracing back memories of vine leaves, apple blossoms and pink roses.

It was only when he turned around that he realised Henry was missing again. He started calling his name, until eventually he heard rustling coming from behind the boarded up house.

He walked haltingly forward, looking for his grandson. ‘Henry?’

He wondered on, using mainly instincts to guide him through the blur and his grandson slowly came back into focus, to Peter’s immense relief. He was fixated on a wooden bench.

‘What is it?’ Peter asked, putting an arm around the child.

‘It’s the same name as Dad.’ Henry said curiously. Then he pointed to the spot Peter’s eyes stubbornly refused to follow. But, sure enough, with some effort Peter saw it eventually.

Harold Pickles - 1875 to 1957

‘So it is.’ Peter responded. ‘How curious.’ He said with a mournful and nostalgic smile, tears welling up in his weary eyes.