The Flower Shop on Foxley Street. Rachel Dove

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       CHAPTER THREE

      Lizzie Baxter stood on the back step, looking out of her conservatory doors to the garden beyond. It was a rather long, thin garden with a sprawling lawn and a ribbon of trees around it. Flowers filled the borders, although most were sleeping at this time of year. The leaves from the trees were blowing all over the frosty grass, and the contrast between the dark, empty trees and the blanket of colour underneath was quite striking in the morning light.

      She sipped at her herbal fruit tea, pulling her cardigan around her a little tighter as the wind blew. There was no sound other than the rustle of trees outside, and the chime of the antique clock on the wall behind her. No sounds at all. Sometimes, when she had been home all day, she questioned her own hearing, turning the television or radio on, just to check she could actually hear it. She always could of course, but the house deceived her more and more as the weeks passed.

      Irvin was sitting in the den, reading his morning paper with his coffee. She knew this because this was their new routine. Retreating to various rooms with hot beverages, and some semblance of a plan for the day. She came in and closed the doors against the chill. The house looked bare, too clean, and Lizzie knew it was more than the post-Christmas decorations despair.

      Before they sold the shop to Lily, Lizzie had been fizzing with excitement. No more running the day to day, dealing with deliveries, listening to Lily telling them her plans for the business – it was hers now, to run as she saw fit. She had worked with them since leaving horticultural college, studying for her art degree long distance, alongside her employment. There would be time now: time to read, to garden more, travel to all those places that they hadn’t gotten to see with having a busy business, and a child to raise, a mortgage to pay.

      Retirement, however, was a huge anticlimax. The child was raised, the business was looked after, the mortgage a distant memory. They had hung up their floristry shears six months ago, but the only thing they had done since was fight over what they should be doing with their free time.

      Walking through their detached home, Lizzie marvelled to herself at how far they had come since they first moved to their very own Westfield home, fresh from their parents’ houses, full of hope for their future. They bought the business, had Lily, and never looked back. Now their only child was due to get married, and they should be embarking on a new chapter in their lives together. Lizzie somehow felt like their book was being snapped shut.

      She thought of the old cliché, being on the same page. The truth was, she and Irvin weren’t even reading the same story. It saddened her so much, her heart broke when she thought of it.

      It was January, the start of a new year. Lizzie couldn’t muster up the energy to even ring the new year in. New Year’s Eve had been a wash-out. Irvin had played golf all day, using a voucher Stuart had given him for Christmas. She had rattled around the house, ignoring the house phone ringing with invites to various parties and dinners with their friends. She just couldn’t face the well-meaning questions and chats about resolutions. By the time the bell struck twelve, she was snoring away in the spare room. Irvin hadn’t even come to find her.

      This is not how it should be, and they both knew it. Lizzie just didn’t know what to do, and now the time she had on her hands felt like a millstone, not a gift.

      She went into the hallway, hearing the tinkle of the letterbox as the post landed on the mat. Stooping down to pick it up, she winced as her knees screamed in protest. Leaning on the hall dresser for support, she pulled herself back up and sat on the seat next to the hall phone. Another ticking clock on the wall next to the dark wood staircase reminded her of the passing seconds, minutes, hours.

      It was a funny old thing, time. It waited for no one. You could scream at the clock and it would still move, tick, tick, tick. Birth, death, sorrow – they all seem to slow it down, but never stop it. Suspend people in the illusion that no time had passed. She thought back to when she was younger, and her parents took her to the coast in the summer. She would marvel at how long the days seemed to last. The holidays were an endless time of fun and frolics.

      Now, in retirement, she felt the breath of time huffing and puffing at her back. Six months had flown like a week, and they had no milestones to latch on to left. For funny it was that one day, every rite of passage, every event of childhood was a memory, not a goal. They say that youth is wasted on the young. Lately, Lizzie had to agree. The thought depressed her immensely. She wondered if Irvin felt it too, if this was the crack that started the fissure between them.

      She looked through the small pile of post. A card from her friend, probably smugly wishing them a happy new year. A couple of special offers from catalogues, all containing things she either already had or would never need. She was just about to throw the lot in the bin when she came across a brochure for the community centre. The cover in large print said New Year Blues?

      ‘Yes,’ she said loudly. The ticking clock carried on uninterrupted. She read on.

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