A Curious Ending

Prologue

Lady Porter was drifting. For a moment she thought she might be in a boat at sea, rocked by the waves.

She opened her eyes and the chintz peach of her bedroom swam into view.

Weren’t we all at sea? There beside her was the photo of Reg, anchoring her.

She wanted to reach out and touch that beloved face but her hand was too heavy to lift.

Family. That did mean something. Her gaze flicked to the picture of her son and his wife as she tried to focus.

What a disappointment Richard had been. But, still, family did count.

Her mind wandered. Was someone missing? Family and friends.

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

Childish rhymes of another time. But for her, friendship was the doctor, the shopkeepers and the florist. Although that didn’t rhyme.

None of it really made sense. And not all shopkeepers were her friends.

Certainly not. She thought of an antique shop owner and an estate agent.

Tossers.

An image of a doctor wearing a top hat and riding a tiger flitted across her mind.

She wanted to laugh but all she could do was sigh.

Her body felt hot, but the air flowing across her brow was cold.

It brought with it the scent of roses. Not cut by her gardener.

Too late. Just too late. Autumn was already in the air.

Who was it he reminded her of? But that too was lost on the waves.

Roses then brought by the florist. Friendship blossoming in unlikely places. The florist with the sad eyes. Who she tried to make laugh. Sweet like a rose. With a thorn or two. Just the way an English rose should be. But so sad.

Strange to be so tired. Normally she played a game of chasing sleep, trying to creep up on it. Hide and seek. She seeking, sleep hiding. This was the wrong way round. Sleep was chasing her. Seeking her out.

The wrong ending to the game.

With this final thought, Lady Porter died.