A ROSE FOR ISOBEL

"Love is the fairest flower that blooms in God's garden."

John Bennett was tired. He lay back in his deck-chair breathing in the scent of his life's work. Sixty years of cultivating and nurturing roses had brought John fame and fortune, with the rich, poor, famous and unknown all clamouring to own one of his roses.

John sighed as he reflected on his life. Born in a small mining community in Wales, his mother had taught him all about flowers as he helped her tend their small garden. There in the small garden, adjacent to the railway line, John Bennett had discovered his love of roses. His mother had allowed him a small corner of the garden all to himself. John had loved spending time tending the flowers he grew in the hardened soil. But his favourite had been a small rose bush his mother had given him for his fourteenth birthday. His elder brothers had teased him, but John hadn't cared, spending hours looking after his garden and his rose.

Experimenting with cuttings from his own and a neighbour's rose bush, he had managed to cultivate a second bush. He had named the rose after his mother, who had burst into tears when he told her. His first rose "Alice Bennett" still grew in his garden; a favourite amongst his customers, its delicate aroma and hardy disposition reminded him so much of his mother.

At sixteen, instead of going to work down the mine with his father and brothers, John had managed to get a job at the manor house working in the large gardens. He had loved the job, and it was there that he had met his beloved Isobel - the daughter of the Head Gardener. They had courted in the gardens, and John had proposed to Isobel under one of the elegant rose arches.

After their marriage, Isobel had persuaded him to follow his dream of developing his own roses. The first few years had been hard, but together they had managed to keep their heads above water. Isobel had taken two jobs insisting that John stay at home to cultivate his roses in the small greenhouse in their even smaller garden. John had developed many roses in the tatty greenhouse, roses destined for large ornamental gardens or small backyards like his mother's small garden. One of his roses even adorned the formal gardens of a royal palace.

John's thoughts turned to Isobel. All through their fifty years together, Isobel had been his strength never asking for anything for herself. Fiercely loyal, she encouraged him in his work, sitting by his side for hours as he worked on his roses. She had juggled two jobs with bringing up their two sons, Andrew and Paul, without a complaint.

Finally after years of struggling, they had enough money to purchase a property with greenhouses. Gradually, word had got around about the Bennett roses, and within two years, John had made his fortune. Moving to a large house in the country with a row of brand new hot houses, they filled the garden with his own creations - yellow, red, orange and white roses filled the borders, their delicate scents mixing and drifting up into the air.

Andrew and Paul had joined the family business, having inherited his flair and love of the roses. Their enthusiasm and hard work had made the Bennett roses world famous. Under their guidance, the business flourished, and they employed over a hundred workers to develop and tend new roses.

With the business in the capable hands of his sons, John had semi-retired, and he and Isobel had spent many happy years living in their dream home surrounded by his roses. John sighed as tears threatened - Isobel had died from a stroke ten years before. Ten lonely years without Isobel, the strength and love of his life. With his own health failing, John spent his all days in one of the hot houses working on what would probably be his last rose.

His arthritic hands complained and ached as he nurtured the rose, but John was determined to complete his last project, his last rose. When his business had begun to flourish, John had no longer been allowed to name his own roses; they were named, instead, to commemorate famous people, royal princesses or special occasions. But his last rose was special. This rose was for Isobel.

Groaning at the effort, John shifted slightly in his chair. Turning to one side, he smiled as he gazed upon his new rose, which had bloomed for the first time that morning. Delicate white petals formed the tight bud. A dark green sturdy stem with shiny leaves proved that the rose was healthy. Leaning over, John carefully cut a stem from the young plant. Lifting the rose up to his face, he sniffed at the scent. John smiled as the scent brought memories of Isobel into his mind, and he lay back closing his eyes as he let the reminiscences of their life together wash over him.

Opening his eyes, John focused on the bright light in front of him. Rising from his chair, he walked slowly towards the light. Someone called his name, and he looked back over his shoulder to see his son - Andrew - trying to rouse him.

Knowing that his roses were in good hands, John turned away from his old life continuing to walk down the tunnel of light, the small delicate white rose still clutched in his hand.

He could hear Isobel calling to him. Squinting into the misty light, John could just make out a familiar figure at the end of the tunnel. Her long red hair was tied into a plait, and she was dressed in the pale blue dress she had worn when he had proposed to her. Isobel was holding her hand out towards him.

Casting off the pain of his arthritis and his old age, John ran towards Isobel. He smiled as he offered her the rose. Accepting the rose with a smile Isobel took his hand, and they walked hand in hand into the light.

THE END