The Summer House

It had been five years, three months and twenty-seven days since Sally-Anne James had died. Mr and Mrs James had never once returned to the Summer House at Mines Bay, until now.

The salty breeze had crossed the shutters, leaving scars of flecked and peeling pale blue paint. The patina of age suited the French Colonial style building. It stood alone, with it's rolling lawn descending to the boathouse and beyond to the pebbled shore, famous on St Mary's Island.

The garden was the extensive, cottage type; familiar to visitors of the Scilly Isles. The warm Gulf Stream breezes warmed the Island to the south of the British mainland and gave eager gardeners the opportunity to display all manner of horticulture. From palms to tomatoes, clematis to magnolia, subtle warming scents and colors flooded the culture with hints of foreign tastes and the exotic. The gardens of the Summer House were no exception and were renowned for their beautiful display of roses.

There were Floribundas that produced whole sprays of blooms per stem, often with flowers and buds covering a great part of the plant. Wonderful providers of color, the Summer House boasted a mass of Margaret Merril; a pastel peach rose with incredible, heady scent.

In fact, Helena James, Williams Grandmother, had been blind and had created the rose gardens with her nose more than her eyes. It didn't detract from the beautiful magic she had woven, the roses all ranged from peaches to pinks and pastels to vivid fuchsias. "Won't you come into the garden. I would like my roses to see you." Helena had often said to welcome her visitors.

William watched his wife's lips twitch into a rare smile as she cought sight of the Rose Arbor and followed the rich scents of the climbing 'Compassion' and 'Times Past'. He had forgotten which was which but could almost taste the candy-floss hues and sweet perfumes.

She was kneeling now. Next to the cherub that Sally-Anne had often used as a prop in her imaginary games. She had always told her parents that there were special, heavenly, secrets between the little girl and the mute statue. Funny, but it made him think of Helena again, and how she would correct him when he called it the 'Wishing Statue'. She would purse her papery lips and make him enunciate; 'Whishting', until satisfied that he would get it right until he visited again.

He watched his wife, still kneeling, gingerly trace her fingers over the small, gray, smiling form. 'Whisht!' was what the old Islanders said instead of 'Shush!'. It was a strange, vaguely celtic thing, that wasn't practiced anywhere on the mainland other than in Scotland hundreds of miles away from Scilly. But, there was no doubt about Helena's corrections. The statue held its finger to its lips in quiet secret keeping and William's stomach turned at the thought of all the pleasant little tales it had been privy to from his little girl. He would give anything to have her warm, tiny fingers cup his ear and feel the hair raising tickle of her breath against his cheek, as she told him secrets about heaven.

His wife made her way back to him and so he fought back the emotions that had threatened to engulf him and locked eyes with the other survivor of their terrible grief. In that moment they shared the unity and comfort that can only exist between parents whose children have been cruelly taken before their time.

"I'm so glad we came back, William," she sighed into his embrace.

"So am I. I can't think of a place where we were ever happier."

There was nothing else left to say. Each knew the other was calling out to heaven to tell their little girl that they were home again.

(642 words)