Paper Daffodils

Chapter 1

Is it possible for loneliness to become a personality trait? Rosie Bishop pondered this as she stared out the grimy kitchen window, idly fiddling with the spoon in her half-empty teacup. After so many years, it certainly felt like it could. It seemed to be the only emotion that kept her company anymore – that, and a seeping bitterness that coloured every waking moment.

With a sigh for her thoughts, she abandoned her cold tea and moved closer to the window, wrapping her arms around herself in a vain attempt at comfort. Beyond the glass, the claustrophobic winter sky spoke volumes, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the world had a gaping hole in it. A shiver passed over her, and she dropped her gaze, only to have it arrested by a flash of yellow. She frowned, and stared; there along the dull verge, daffodils danced in defiance of the moody day. Bright and incorrigible, they kept up a cheerful waving in the stiff breeze outside, and Rosie tilted her head, reminded of something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Vaguely, she associated them with... something. Their liveliness transfixed her for a long moment, taking her back to memories she almost recalled, but at last, she shook her head, for the sentiment refused to bloom into true recollection. Her face puckered into a scowl. She didn't care, anyway; she didn't care about anything, anymore. The colours of life had long since faded into monotonous shades of grey, and the bright flowers were merely a callous reminder of that fact.

With a huff, she turned her back on the view and her aimless feet bore her down the hall, her footsteps echoed by the slow ticking of an antique clock as it kept incessant track of nothingmuch. Callous, the timepiece reminded her that she had nothing to do today – or any day – and she shuffled away to the other side of the house in a bid to escape its judgement.

She meandered through room after lifeless room, until she found herself standing in front of the bay windows in the parlour. There, unbidden, her gaze found another bunch of cheerful daffodils, and she paused again. Despite her melancholy, she marvelled at their audacity. Spring was a mere suggestion, winter still holding fast in the snap of brittle air, and yet, the undaunted daffodils unfurled their crowns. In tiny echo of their gallantry, the corners of her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, and a strange warmth tugged at her. Indeed, they did remind her of someone, but she couldn't quite pin down—

"Mum?" A call echoed through the house, dousing her musings.

The front door slammed, admitting a clatter of footsteps – more than one person, by the sounds of things – and Rosie's tentative smile vanished.

"In here!" she snapped.

Beneath furrowing brows, her eyes lingered on the daffodils, but then she turned and stalked into the hall. Her daughter Mary appeared a heartbeat later, laden with shopping bags, and two boisterous children bounded in behind her.

"Mum, it's freezing in here! Why haven't you got the heating on? You know, at your age—"

"I don't recall inviting you," Rosie interrupted. She was only sixty-two, for God's Sake.

Mary rolled her eyes. "It's Tuesday, Mum – you told me to pop past on Tuesday."

Rosie faltered for a brief moment. Was it really Tuesday already? Felt like a second since last Tuesday – and a lifetime. Composing herself, she growled, "I know. I just didn't... realise the time."

"Odd, seeing as you sit and stare at the clock all day," Mary said, before wisely changing the subject. "Here – let me put these down – I brought you a few groceries. Boys, say hello to Grandma."

"Hi, Grandma!" came the shrill chorus.

Rosie almost smiled, but then reminded herself she wasn't in the mood. "Wipe your feet!" she barked as they skipped past her, and they exchanged impish grins as they whizzed around again to obey.