A Valentine for Neroli

by Ruth Buchanan

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Valentine's Day in Australia - the end of summer. A Valentine for Neroli is a Valentine's Day serial story set in Australia and being put on the WWW for Valentine's Day 1998. It is copyright Ruth Buchanan, 1998 and all rights are reserved.

The cosmos daisies in her garden danced heart-pink, light and dark. The hydrangeas were pink. She must make a note to use copper sulphate next year, so they'd be blue. Late roses dropped dark red petals on the dry summer ground. And for some reason she had a Valentine card in her hand, a card she'd bought earlier that day.

Neroli considered herself a practical person. Responsible. Careful with money - she managed an overseas holiday every third year, while still keeping up the payments on her small house. But this morning when she went to get the Sydney Morning Herald the newsagent's racks of Christmas cards had been replaced with Valentine cards and she had walked out with this one.

It was stupid, really. There was no-one to give it to. Not a Valentine card. Hugh had never yet sent her a Valentine card. Come to that, no-one had since Mark Brodie in third class at school, and that was only because the teacher had made them do it. Every child had had to make a valentine card. They'd all gone into a heart-shaped box and each child had drawn one out. She had liked Mark Brodie, he had curly hair that she admired and he played soccer; but he got teased so much because Neroli got his card that he had never even acknowledged her again.

It still stung, somewhere inside behind the practical Neroli who had ticked Greece, France and New England off her list of places in the world and was already planning the next trip, the practical Neroli who would get engaged to Hugh Jackson one day when he asked her to marry him, the practical Neroli who taught third grade and taught them well. She was respected, but not loved; she knew this, because parents wanted their children in her class but the children didn't jostle hopefully as they did for Melanie Hampshire's class, or Pietro Pozoglou's class. Miss Salter was better than Mrs O'Hara, who was old and tough, or Mrs Meakin, who was old and weak, but that was about it, and Neroli knew it. Enough children had blurted enough for her to know, even if she hadn't the eyes to see it herself.

The summer had been long and hot, and in February the heat would be humid, tiresome and tiring. Some of the playground was tarred, and on the hottest days would melt enough to stick to the children's shoes, coming into the classroom and then sticking to her classroom 's floor, dirty marks on the carpet cleaned over the summer break.

For now it was January, with two weeks to go before the new school year began. With diligent watering she had kept her garden flowering. It was soothing, to get up when the day had not lost the cool of night and hand water the daisies and cosmos, the hydrangeas and sunflowers and marigolds, and deep water the roses. She crammed a great deal into her garden, a pocket handkerchief in front and a courtyard bordered with raised garden beds behind. It was weeded, but the cacophony of colour and variety of plants and shapes and leaf-greens prevented it from municipal tidiness.

Fido was evidence of municipal tidiness, but only if you knew Neroli had bought him from the council pound. She had never had any success in guessing his ancestry; he was a mutt and that was that. Despite the grooming he endured, he always looked scruffy, a small ball of energy who believed himself to be a Great Dane or Irish wolfhound.

She looked at the Valentine card in her hand. She could always give it to Fido. Or Hugh. It wouldn't be wasted. The front cover had a heart painted in blended watercolours, pink blending with red, with the words Love is all we have below, and Euripides credited with them. She wondered where in his writing the card makers had found it, and made a mental note to check her dictionary of quotations. Inside it said, I love you, leaving plenty of space for a personal message; or space for someone to wonder what you might have written if you hadn't sent it anonymously. She put it on the letter rack on the dresser, next to the electricity bill.

Two weeks to go. The summer holidays had vanished so quickly, the end of term and the school year in December, then Christmas, then New Year and only now, with breathing space, did you see how much time had gone, how little remained. The little soaps which so many of the children gave as Christmas presents were piled in a basket in the bathroom; the perfumes she donated to charity straight away, along with the talcum powders - they all smelled cheap, thin, perfumy rather than real, but she had a use for the soap. Her own choice of perfume smelled like real roses and was hard to find, though not expensive. Kellyann Parkin had given her a Christmas decoration, a golden ball, which she'd enjoyed more than the other gifts. It was packed away now until next Christmas - she took down her decorations on Twelfth Night, as her parents had taught her.

Two weeks to go. The weather forecast was for a hot day. Her house had no airconditioning, and there were a couple of films she wanted to see, so she decided to go to the cinema. She made sure Fido had enough water; he flopped down outside his kennel when he realised she was leaving him, head on paws, looking mournful and put upon.

The cinema was within walking distance - just. She had a floppy canvas hat to wear for the walk, it would go into her bag at the cinema. Neroli was always sensible about things like sunhats and getting enough sleep and eating at least two colours of vegetables with her dinner, and endured her sister Mandy teasing about such things. Mandy said Neroli couldn't help herself, being the older sister and having to be responsible; Neroli wasn't sure that was the only reason, but didn't bother arguing the point.

Mrs Norden hadn't cut back her jasmine, she saw; it was rampaging across her roof. Mr Downing had pruned his bougainvillea, which had been spectacular falls of colour, deep pink and yellow, only a few weeks before. The Italian people who grew tomatoes in their front garden were still harvesting, though the leaves were beginning to look tired. The new people had begun painting their house, replacing the dark browns with yellow and blue. Within a couple of years she'd need to repaint her house; she liked the look of this colour scheme, it was bright and light. She didn't talk to anyone on her walk, but always she looked, took note, watched the changes.

At the cinema, she was surprised to find that the next session of Her Majesty Mrs Brown was full, something about a busload of senior citizen cineastes, so she settled for Titanic - most of the rest sounded like popcorn fare for the school holiday kiddy crowd. So did Titanic, for that matter, but she hoped it would not be as silly as some.

This cinema, too, was crowded. Because she was only looking for a single seat, it wasn't too hard to find. Once the ads were done, the lights went down, and the film began, she settled in her seat; she much preferred watching films in the blackness of a cinema on the big screen to watching a video on her small TV set. She knew that Hugh would have enjoyed the technical detail, but would have been irritated by the romantic plot, and was glad she'd come alone.

Walking home, she thought about the couple, Rose and Jack, standing on the bow of the ship almost flying with its movement through the water. There was so much keeping them apart as the film began, and yet they came together. It was good for a time to be swept away, she supposed, but it was, after all, only a film. It wasn't the real world, for all it used the Titanic as its backdrop. The sun was bright against her sunglasses, bouncing from the pavement, and the airconditioning of the cinema was only a memory.

She did some housework in the afternoon before settling to a book - a travel book about Italy, her next destination. She didn't care if Tuscany and Venice were cliches, she wanted to see them for herself. In the early evening, when the day was cooler, she went to get Fido's lead. He bounced at her feet as she locked the back door, recognising the lead and the walk it promised.

They walked down to the park, Fido being mostly well-behaved, only taunting from time to time any dogs he saw trapped behind gates, while he walked free. At the park she took a ball from her pocket and unclipped his lead. He galloped away to investigate a park invisible to her, a land of scents and promises and challenges found by sniffing here and poking his nose in there. After a few minutes he returned, looking at her and the ball in her hand. Neroli smiled, and threw it. Fido took off almost before the ball had left her hand and galloped back to drop it in her waiting hand. She threw it again, in a different direction, and Fido brought it back as quickly. Throw, return, throw, return until her arm began to tire.

"Last time, Fido," she said, and threw it towards the trees as hard as she could. One bounce, and it disappeared, followed by the dog. This time he didn't come back quickly; when he came back, it was with a stick he obviously considered a valuable find.

"Ball, Fido," she said. "Where's the ball, Fido?" She mimed a throw, but Fido saw nothing leave her hand and waited for the game to resume. "Ball, Fido!" The dog picked up the stick she was ignoring and offered it to her. "If I throw this into the trees, will you find the ball?" she asked him. His dog-grin didn't waver. "Tiresome beast," she said, and threw the stick where the ball had gone. Fido returned in short order, carrying the stick. With a sigh, she took it from him and went to the treed area to search for the ball. The light would soon fade, and she wanted to be on her way home.

She couldn't find the ball. She had given up and called Fido, who had strayed from her heels. He was barking. She settled his lead in her hand so she could clip it onto him quickly and emerged from the trees to see a man, a very large dog with a ball in its mouth and Fido preparing to launch himself.

"Fido! No!" She prayed the training to which she'd taken him for months would work. Fido paused, and looked at her. The other dog was growling, but the man had it on a lead. "Fido! Heel!" She waited a moment. "Fido!" Reluctantly, he came, and she reattached his lead.

"Your dog wouldn't have won," the man called.

"Only because he would have taken two days of solid eating to get through your dog!" she replied. "He thinks he's an Irish wolfhound."

"Finn McCool here is an Irish wolfhound," said the man with a grin. "What was your dog's name again?"

"Fido," she said, mustering her dignity.

"Fido," he repeated. "That's original."

"Ah," said Neroli, "but how many dogs do you know which are really called Fido?"

"You have a point. Fido, though?"

"It's my sister's fault. He got used to the name before we could change it. And that's not a dog, it's a rug. Or maybe a horse. Finn McCool?"

"Irish hero," he said. "Like my dog. What were you hoping to find among the trees?"

"One yellow ball," she said, "so that we can go home."

"Finn's found it. Drop it, Finn." His dog didn't move. "Drop it, Finn!" The dog gave him an exasperated look and dropped the ball. He picked it up and lobbed it over to Neroli. It was still wet with dogslobber. She grimaced, wiped it on the grass and pocketed it.

"Thanks." She turned to go.

"Maybe see you another time," he said. He looked respectable enough - dressed for walking his dog in polo shirt and shorts and sandshoes without socks, his hair curly and close-cropped, nice eyes. She gave him a smile and a nod, which were returned. He walked away on one path, she on another; but somehow they met at the same gate to the park.

"Well," he said. "If the dogs behave, one final detail."

She wrapped the lead around her hand so Fido had to stay close, and walked around the gate so the iron fence was between them. Finn stood close by his master, but this time neither dog growled. The man reached a hand through the fence.

"Marcus," he said.

"Neroli." They shook hands. "Goodbye," she said, and walked off with Fido into the gathering darkness. She did not see the puzzled look on his face.

END OF PART 1. TO BE CONTINUED

Read on - click here for Part 2 - Making the Moon

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