Mystical Rose by Richard Scrimger

light. I’m lying down. Figures hovering over me, like vultures. Go away, I say. Love is a vanished dream, a memory of nothing. Poor Jack, the lover I never had. And poor David, the lover that never was.
    The vultures are weeping. Not the way they look on the nature shows. I’m thirsty.
    Here, Mother.
    I open my eyes. Harriet holds out a glass of water. Her hand is trembling. Poor Harriet — she isn’t as young as she once was. I take the water.
    How is the binding going? I ask her.
    She frowns. Mother?
    You know — oh I’ve forgotten the word again — the thing you do. How’s the Bluestone case going? I asked.
    What about the Bluestone case?
    How’s it going? I ask.
    Mother, the Bluestone case was a long time ago.
    I’m thirsty, I say.
    She gestures. Then drink your water.
    Thank you.
    She smiles at me. How can she smile at me? I’m a stupid and forgetful old woman. Clumsy too. Sorry, I say, wiping myself with my free hand.
    That’s okay, Mother.
    Yes it is, isn’t it? We smile at each other. We’ve fallen out of the habit, but it’s easy to pick up again.
    Investigating, I say. That’s the word I was trying to remember. Investigating.
    Her face clouds over. Is she thinking back to the Bluestone case? Reporting on it, one of the magazines called her a miracle worker.
    I used to be an investigator, Mother, she says calmly. I gave it up — remember?
    Yes of course, I say.
    Dog Face! I cried, loud enough for everyone in the hotel lobby to hear. He blushed. Flat Top! The Gord! What are these? I asked.
    They smiled and held out their hands, like three swells inviting the same chorus girl to dinner. But the presents weren’t for me.
    Happy birthday to you, they sang together, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Harriet — lingering over the word, eyes down at the pram — happy birthday to you.
    Robbie came back from the booking office with our train tickets.He shook hands with the Scanlon brothers. You shouldn’t have, fellows, he said.
    She already had her birthday. Weeks and weeks ago, I said.
    The Silly Symphony clock from Mama and Bill had arrived right on the day.
    So we’re a bit late, said Dog Face. She won’t care.
    I lifted Harriet out of the pram to say thank you to her sort-of uncles, and she got three kisses and started to cry.
    We opened the gifts at home. There was a wooden ship, and a pillow with a picture of King George embroidered on it. We kept them for a long time. Harriet used to take down the ship when Robbie was away at sea, fighting. I can’t remember the third present.

3
Presentation

I was so proud of Harriet, marching away from me in her hat and cape. So grown up she looked, so mature. Hard to believe she was just a little girl. Bye, Mother, she said. Over her shoulder, tugging herself away from my restraining hand, eager to be off and playing with her friends before the bell rang. Bye, Harriet. Play carefully. You know, she’s always been well-behaved, I told her teacher. So polite and gentle. I tried to teach her how to be a real lady.
    Her teacher was a girl, just out of school herself, with an overbite. No, it was a bald man in a gown. I wonder what the little kids made of him. Your daughter is a hard worker, Mrs. Rolyoke, he said. You must be so proud of her.
    Oh, I am. I am. She’s so grown up.
    Cake and coffee on a lawn, with cannons and bells, noisy things when they went off — not the cannons. The bells were going off though, from the clock tower. Oh God Our Help in Ages Past. I wondered what time that made it.
    I understand she wants to be a lawyer. Is that right?
    I nodded and bit into my cake. A lawyer. When she was a little girl, she and I played school at home, I told the bald man. I was never a very good student. She used to threaten me with the strap.
    Now that’s odd, isn’t it? She did used to threaten me, funny plain little girl she was, with her flashing eyes. And her hand poised in the air. I would pretend to cower and promise to do my work better