Chris Cottom ~ Three Stories

After They Ban Flowers

We hold a women-only wake in the com­mu­ni­ty hall, weep­ing for our snap­drag­ons and hol­ly­hocks, our alchemil­la mol­lis and love-in-a-mist. We repur­pose our pho­to albums to press sam­ples of every­thing: sprigs of gyp­sophi­la beside our new­born babies, for­get-me-nots next to loved Labradors, clus­ters of but­ter­cups beneath long-ago ponies called Merrylegs or Buttonhole.

The elders insist we accede to the edict, so we dig up our bor­ders and turn out our pots. We sift and aer­ate, mulch and manure, before tum­bling our tired bones into our beds, earth-dirty and seething. After driz­zling our win­dowsill seedlings with pure Rhondda rain­wa­ter, we plant out Anya pota­toes, zuc­chi­ni and parsnips, an occa­sion­al swathe of hard win­ter wheat.

Our men­folk, mean­while, argue about acreage yields and crop rota­tions, about fundrais­ing for a vil­lage-owned rota­va­tor. Leaving them to their cost-ben­e­fit analy­ses of beans ver­sus peas, we talk to our cher­ry toma­toes in their grow­bags and green­hous­es, start a Wednesday seed swap out­side the school gate. We share tools and exper­tise, labour togeth­er in one another’s gar­dens, reclaim the mini round­about for onions and asparagus.

With rumoured wild gar­lic some­where in Carmarthenshire, we wave our hunter-gath­er­ers good­bye as they dri­ve away with their flasks and trow­els, their spec­i­men bags and root­ing pow­ders. Within five min­utes we’re hard at work, scat­ter­ing the seeds we’ve hid­den in our jew­ellery cas­es and under­wear draw­ers: del­phini­ums and oxeye daisies, pan­sies and cow pars­ley, marigolds and honeysuckle.

Through the long hot sum­mer our hands con­tin­ue to weed and water, to trim and train, while the men nev­er notice how fer­vent­ly our hearts are long­ing for spring.

~

Dad Scoffs When I Get the Monastery for Work Experience 

He calls me Holy Joe, sneers about men in frocks, asks what’s wrong with the ship­yard. I daren’t tell him I had a choice. His gods are Cains Bitter and Tranmere Rovers, his cat­e­chism the Welding Inspector’s Handbook. While he’s shout­ing at the box­ing on Midweek Sports Special, I tell Mam it’s res­i­den­tial for a fort­night and I’ll go on the Saturday so I get two Sundays. She turns, grabs a dish­cloth, wipes down the stove she’s already wiped. She knows Saturday nights at home are the hard­est, that one day I’ll leave for good.

At St Aidan’s I’m chuffed to get my own room, called a cell. It’s white­wash spar­tan – a bed and chest of draw­ers and a watch­ful cru­ci­fix – and I sleep right through to the shiv­er of morning.

The refectory’s all mel­low oak, sal­vaged from the Spanish Armada. Brother Kevin tells me the monks hoiked up their habits and wad­ed into the briny to bring solace to the dying. I won­der what it’s like, giv­ing the last rites to a man who came here to kill you, whether it’s part of the train­ing. Afterwards, they lugged home the choic­est cuts of wrecked galleon to hew into these huge tables, chris­ten­ing them again and again with cen­turies of spilt custard.

At meal­times the Brothers take it in turns to read to us. Today’s text is the Song of Songs and there’s a sug­ges­tion of a smile on the lips of curly-haired Brother Brendan when he says: ‘Let him kiss me with the kiss­es of his mouth.’ The rest of us have to stay silent, so it’s ‘Could you pass the pep­per, please, Brother,’ by mim­ing some­one in need of sea­son­ing, all smiles and man­ners. At home, when Dad’s check­ing his pools coupon dur­ing the foot­ball results on Grandstand, even a knife-squeak can mean get­ting your din­ner flung across the room.

Before ves­pers, I’ve got the Big Talk with the Abbot. If he men­tions the sins of the flesh, I’ll ask about advance abso­lu­tion in case one day some­one tempts me¸ assum­ing any­one would want to. I’ll ask about suf­fer­ing and for­give­ness and why Dad beats the shite out of us after a Saturday ses­sion at the Three Feathers. I’ll ask whether I can stay anoth­er fort­night, with a view to for­ev­er, whether one day I’ll read aloud as beau­ti­ful­ly as Brother Brendan, as I lift my voice to a dif­fer­ent father. One who actu­al­ly loves me.

~

One Hat Wonder

At the Opera House, I hand my fedo­ra to the hat check girl, five min­utes before cur­tain up for Tristan and Isolde.

‘Nice cen­tre dent,’ she says, run­ning her fin­gers light­ly over the rus­set-brown felt.

When I nip back in the inter­val, she lets me try a cou­ple of tril­bies, says she’s actu­al­ly an appren­tice milliner. ‘I get day release for col­lege. It’s Feathered Florals this term; we can do hibis­cus or birds of paradise.’

*

I wear a hom­burg to Rigoletto. ‘I like a high crown on a man,’ she says, tear­ing off my tick­et. ‘And you need a bit of grav­i­tas to car­ry off a curled brim.’

Afterwards, she sneaks me back­stage, dons Amneris’s head­dress from Aida, toss­es me Pinkerton’s naval cap from Madame Butterfly, says we can have sex but it’ll have to be at hers so she can wear her black and white Manhattan saucer hat.

Hettie’s room is a riot of head­bands and half-fin­ished fas­ci­na­tors, abstract ruf­fles and wire­work halos. We attempt sec­onds in his ’n’ hers som­breros but can’t get close enough with­out at least one falling off. She laughs, fetch­es me a poly­styrene policeman’s hel­met left over from The Pirates of Penzance, swaps her som­brero for a Juliet cap in white tulle with ivory appliqué and moth­er-of-pearl detail­ing, explains she can only come if she feels headgear-appropriate.

Later, she chat­ters hap­pi­ly about St Martin’s School of Millinery, how she’d start­ed with Attachment Methods and Shaping Basics. Slipping out of bed, she comes back wear­ing noth­ing but an Easter bon­net shaped as a grassy hill, with a line of mod­el sheep ascend­ing to a barn where a choco­late mini egg waits for each of them.

I dream I’m being eat­en by but­ter­flies and wake to find Hettie tick­ling my nose with  a crim­son feath­er. We break­fast in a match­ing pair of jaun­ty boaters.

‘Now, she says. ‘Tell me about your hats.’

Her face falls when I admit to hir­ing the hom­burg, to being a one-hat kind of guy.

‘No iron­ic deer­stalk­er? No inher­it­ed bowler? No con­i­cal Pierrot hat with cheeky pom-poms?’

‘Fraid not.’

She gives me a bare­ly-there smile. ‘Faithful to your fedo­ra, eh?’

‘Sorry.’

She takes off her boater, sets it down care­ful­ly next to the toast rack.

‘I was look­ing for some­one with more hats.’

*

The orchestra’s tun­ing up for Tosca as, from my seat in the gods, I use my opera glass­es to scan the stalls for Hettie. Her socials are full of poshos dri­ving insane dis­tances to queue out­side her new shop, called Hettie’s, round the cor­ner in the Piazza.

As the lights go down, she stands up, resplen­dent in a glow­ing Vesuvius hat. A spot­light picks her out and the Opera House stands as one to applaud the tri­umph of its for­mer employee.

At the inter­val, I hand my tick­et to the new hat check girl, explain it’s for a fedora.

‘Nice cen­tre dent,’ she says, run­ning her fin­gers light­ly over its rus­set-brown felt.

~

Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, UK. His work fea­tures in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, Fictive Dream, FlashFlood, Flash Frontier, Gooseberry Pie, Leon Literary Review, MoonPark Review, NFFD NZ, Oyster River Pages, Roi Fainéant, The Lascaux Review, and else­where. Find him at chriscottom.wixsite.com/chriscottom