The Glasshouse Volunteer – Part 2: Cuttings

Hugh's house was a narrow brick terrace with a tiny walled garden full of seedlings in pots, a jungle of tomato plants on every windowsill and a kitchen that smelled of earth and toast. He had set the table with a white cloth, a candle and a posy of snowdrops.

"It is not very grand," he said.

"It's perfect."

"I have not cooked for anyone in four years."

"Then I'm honoured."

He had made leek and potato soup, with fresh bread and a hunk of Cheddar, and they ate at the little table with the lamp lit and rain on the window. They talked about their husbands and wives, the unglamorous work of grieving, the surprise of finding that old people can still feel nervous.

"I'm terribly nervous," Margaret admitted.

"So am I."

"Good. Then we're equal."

He laughed, and reached across the table. His hand was warm and a little green at the fingertips. "Margaret. May I kiss you?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she said.

It was a soft kiss, tentative, a little shy, with the hint of toast and tea. When it ended they were both smiling. The kettle whistled in the kitchen. Neither of them moved. It boiled dry. Hugh went to turn it off, came back, and kissed her again.

"There is a bedroom," he said, at last, a little hoarse. "It is up a very narrow stair."

"I would like to see it."

The room was small and plain, with a double bed under a faded quilt and a window looking over the garden. They undressed with care and humour, laughing at buttons and knees and the comedy of long-sleeved vests, and under the quilt their love-making was kind, patient and sweetly unhurried, two grown people discovering that some conversations can happen without words. Rain pattered on the glass.

At dawn, a thin spring sun lit the seedlings on the windowsill. Margaret woke to the smell of tea and found Hugh at the foot of the bed with a tray and a small pot.

"A cutting," he said. "From the maidenhair. She has finally flowered, in a manner of speaking."

"For me?"

"For us." He smiled. "She does best in company."

Margaret took the little green pot in both hands. "Then I suppose," she said, "I'll have to stay and look after her."

More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom