Simply Stories - Like Petals to the Wind

Like Petals to the Wind

by Jackie Anderson

There she is; the flower woman, walking along the edge of the cliff singing softly. I can just make out the tune from where I sit on a moss-stained stone bench. An old sea shanty, the words drift towards me on the salt-stained breeze.

“Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea…”

Freddy says he’s seen her every morning of his stay in the lighthouse last month. He fixed the plumbing that last time he stayed here and now it’s my turn. It’s going to take longer than a week though. I have to rewire, get new glazing installed, decorate the rooms, fit the kitchen…just for a start. I’ll be here for months, then back to the city for Christmas before Freddy and I make the final move to the coast. Our new home by the sea; a little unusual but far away from the bustle, a place where I can paint and he can write and we can be hidden from all those prying eyes. Yes, even in modern cities people stare at a white boy and a black boy walking hand in hand with matching rings on their wedding fingers.

I pull my jacket close, the wind biting despite the spring sunshine. I breathe in deeply with the swell of the waves, sensing the beat of the surf against the great, grey rocks at foot of the cliff. From the clifftop bench, I watch the sun climb into the morning sky. Behind the woman who walks the path towards me, my new lighthouse home stands solid, thrusting up towards the last wisps of grey that remain of night.

“Same time, every day,” Freddy said about the woman, “singing the same song and scattering flower petals about.”

“Silver buckles on his knee…” her words ride the air currents towards me.

They are white chrysanthemums today, white as her hair, petals that flutter when she launches them upwards, pirouetting like tiny ballerinas about her head before tumbling onto the rocks below.

I clear my throat as she nears, ready to call out a friendly “good morning”. I guess she might be a neighbour if she is here every morning.

“He’ll come back and marry me…”

Another handful of petals torn from a dozen or so stems are flung out towards the vastness of the ocean, tossed in the air, whirling in the currents which toy with the gulls that nest on the rock face. I clear my throat again, a little nervous.

“Bonnie Bobby Shafto…”

She’s close now, a buckled twig of a woman, tight curls shorn close to her scalp, skin creased and the colour of fading nutmeg.

“Bobby Shafto’s fat and fair…”

She trills as she walks along the footpath. She’s almost alongside me but takes no notice of my presence. A gull screeches overhead and my heart pounds. A scrunched up, fragile woman, and me, over six feet tall and trained for rugby matches. I’m not especially shy and I can’t understand the prickle of sweat at the base of my neck, the hairs on my arms standing on end. I tense, senses alert, as if aware of danger. I clear my throat again.

“Combing down his yellow hair…”

More petals are ripped off and hurled to the wind, her hand a gnarled claw. She’s close enough for me to see the detail; the dirt in the creases of her fingers, the black edges around her nails. The fingers grip the stems relentlessly, unwilling to let the wind snatch them. Chapped, rough, working wife fingers. She smells; a strong scent like damp earth, dead leaves and seashells. Her coat is matted, as if it was wet by the rain weeks ago and never dried, and around her throat she wears a green scarf, threadbare and frayed and fighting to come loose from its knot.

I glance up at her face, purse my lips to speak but stay silent. Her cheeks are smooth, flushed from the chill and salt spray, but look soft as a child’s. I open my mouth to speak but my voice catches in my throat. Her coat has fallen open to reveal a plain black dress stretched tight across her belly. She’s pregnant. I don’t know why I’m surprised Freddy never mentioned it and I thought she was old – the white hair…

“He’ll be mine for every more…”

“Good morning,” I finally say, my words rushing out. She pauses. There is only one bloom left in her hand. She turns her face, cold black eyes catching sight of mine and she stares, her face hollow, blank, uncomprehending.

“Good…” I start to repeat my greeting, not nervous now, but distinctly afraid. More gulls, more screeching. I’m being ridiculous.

The woman purses her lips. She looks as if she might suddenly start to weep, then she tears at the flowers, this time with both hands ripping. She grunts in rage, growls out the last words of the song, her words:

“You bastard, Bonnie Shafto!”

And then she’s gone. Over the cliff edge, her scream blending in with that of the gulls.

My stomach turns, my chest shrinks and my legs quake as I run to the cliff edge and look down. Nothing. No woman, no broken body dashed on the rocks or drifting out on the waves. My fingers tremble so I can barely press out the emergency number on my phone. I babble.

“A woman, you say sir?” comes the reassuringly steady voice on the phone. “Throws herself off the cliff, sir? Let me see, what time is it?”

“Never mind the time,” I manage to blurt, “ you’d better send someone out here; she might still be alive!”

“It’s 8.30 am, sir, I’ll send someone out, you’ve had a shock. You see, sir, that’s Florence Powell. She threw herself off that cliff over fifty years ago when her lover went to sea abandoning her, and she with child. She’s been throwing herself off that cliff every morning ever since.”