Roses

She has always loved roses.

In the endless summers of her childhood she remembers playing hide-and-seek in the rose beds of her parents' garden, laughing with her sister as the petals floated lazily down to the tilled earth. Lily wore her white dress, with a green ribbon in her hair to match her eyes. Petunia's dress was white, too, but her ribbon was pink. She still has it somewhere, tucked away in her box of memories.

At times she wonders if it was all a dream. Could anything have been so perfect? But she knows the memories are true. Summers really were endless, or they seemed to be, and the blue skies were empty of clouds. In the afternoons, the two sisters would sit together on the lawn and make up stories about the roses.

--

'Mme. Alfred Carrière,' Lily said in her clear, confident voice. She plucked a blossom and handed it to Petunia, sprawled beside her sister on the grass by the red brick wall. 'A society beauty with a tragic life. Mme. Carrière married young. It was an advantageous marriage, but she did not love her husband.'

Petunia stroked the white petals, pulling them gently back to stare into the pink heart of the flower. 'What happened next?'

Lily's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. 'She ran away with her lover.' Petunia gasped. Lily nodded. 'They fled on horseback, but were pursued by her husband. Her horse panicked and threw her, and she broke her neck.'

'Did her lover come back for her?' Petunia asked, hardly daring to breathe.

Lily shook her head. 'He was never seen again. Your turn.'

Petunia looked around her, settling finally on a nearby tea rose, its delicate yellow centre framed by deep pink petals. 'Rosette Delizy,' she began, conscious of her sister watching her through half-closed eyes. 'A gypsy dancer, who travelled to America and made her fortune on the stage...'

--

With Vernon at work and Dudley still at school, Petunia finds that she has time on her hands. It doesn't take long each morning to clean the house, and she is bored by daytime television. She thinks of ringing Yvonne, but Yvonne is still in Majorca.

She pulls the rain-cover off the white plastic chair, folds it neatly and places it upon the ground beside her. The table cover is next. For a moment she thinks about putting up the parasol, then she dismisses the idea. She fetches her magazines from the house and sits down to read about celebrities.

--

Lily pulled pieces from her straw hat, strewing them on the grass around her feet. 'Louise Odier.'

Petunia lay beside her sister, staring up into the green depths of the apple tree. 'Mmm?' she prompted drowsily, closing her eyes.

'Louise Odier,' Lily repeated. 'A Frenchwoman, tall, dark and elegant. Chic. She worked as a scientist during the war, but she was really a spy.'

Petunia opened her eyes again. 'Girls can't be scientists,' she objected.

'Girls can be anything they like,' said Lily firmly.

--

There are no roses in the garden of number four, Privet Drive. 'Fussy, flashy things,' Vernon had said. 'Always sticking their thorns into you,' and then, when he could see her wavering, 'Think of the baby, Pet. You don't want little Duddikins hurting himself.' So she'd thought of the baby, given up the roses and let Vernon plant his sunflowers instead.

She puts down the magazine, suddenly bored of celebrities and their antics. It's about half an hour since she came outside. She stands up and adjusts the position of the white plastic chair, so that its legs do not cut into the turf and spoil it, then she sits down again.

Her gaze drifts over the empty garden, with its impeccable lawn, its tidy borders, its painted fence. There are no fussy plants here: everything is low-maintenance, obedient, tidily arranged in rows and groups. Petunia knows her garden is the talk of Privet Drive. She has won prizes for her herbaceous borders.

She wonders why she feels like crying.

--

'Numa Faye,' said Petunia, reaching out to touch the swollen pink bud on its fragile stem. 'A fairy princess. She crossed accidentally to the realm of mortals and became trapped here. An evil baron fell in love with her and locked her in his tower.'

'Who rescued her?'

Petunia considered the question. 'No-one,' she said, and wondered at her recklessness. 'She rescued herself.'

--

It must be The Change, she thinks, although it seems too soon. She has never thought of herself as middle-aged; Dudley is barely seventeen. But what other reason can there be for this tightness of breath, the pounding of her heart, the way hot and cold shivers chase each other up and down her skin?

She scrubs at her eyes and is horrified to discover tears.

--

'Albertine.' Petunia's hand slipped as she reached for the blossom. Pink and white roses, the colour of marshmallows, the fleeting colour of clouds in the sunrise.

Lily jumped to her feet. 'You're bleeding!'

'It's nothing,' Petunia said. She took the pink ribbon from her hair and wound it around the cut. 'See? It's just a thorn.'

--

It won't do to be seen crying in the garden. Petunia gathers up her magazines, replaces the rain-covers and hurries inside to wash her eyes. The house is spotless. Every last trace of That Boy has been expunged from the smallest bedroom.

It was a mistake, she tells herself, to remember the roses. Some things are not practical. And roses, after all, have thorns. However perfect, however dreamlike - however magical - her memories, she is no longer a child. And you can never go back.

Coming out of her reverie, she is surprised to find herself at the entrance to Harry's room. She hesitates, one hand on the door handle, and then decides to inspect her handiwork. Now that she sees it again, she is not sure she has cleaned the room as thoroughly as she thought. She decides to clean it again after lunch.

She sits down on the bed, in the tiny, empty, claustrophobic room, and looks out at the garden below: at the manicured lawn, at the white plastic table and its chairs in their rain-covers, at the obedient borders - but never, never, at the gaudy row of sunflowers turning their monstrous yellow faces to the sun.

--