The flower is not one of the showy plants which bloom rarely, cossetted by the gardening team, attracting keen botanists from far and wide, but it is amazing, nonetheless. The Canary Island bellflower. Oozing with nectar. The island is exalted for these winter blooms, priding itself on dashes of colour all year round. English exotica.
But even in this small unpretentious blossom, John sees God’s hand at work.
How can people believe in Darwin? Infinite mistakes could not create this single wondrous flower, let alone the embarrassment of delights to be found here in the gardens. Who could not see a grand design behind it all, the hand of the Father?
He sings softly to himself, ‘Shy little flowers in hedge and dyke that hide themselves away, God paints them though they are so small, God makes them bright and gay.’ An old English 164hymn. John has always been the Anglophile. So thrilled to come over to work here.
He says a silent prayer of thanks and straightens his back, tight from so much bending and carrying and digging, pausing to appreciate the surrounding beauty.
On the Middle Terrace he takes in a long, satisfied breath. Still ablaze with colours, this place. From all over the world, these blooms – from New Zealand the bright red Clianthus puniceus, the lobster claw; from South Africa the vibrant orange phallic spikes of the candelabra aloe, the strumpet relative of aloe vera.
Perhaps he loves his flowers too much. It is almost sinful.
He could stay here on the island forever. The small fly in the ointment is Mary-Jane. He’s worried about her. A sadness has descended upon her, although whenever he asks, she claims it’s nothing.
This fear is indulgent. He must trust in the Lord.
Of course, her delicate pale face is even more beautiful when she seems sorrowful. He’s seen the way people look at her, the way men smile at her; he’s seen the way Thor from the shop gazes at her—
Suddenly his own face is aflame. A hot wave of fury and jealousy. How dare that youth think of his Mary-Jane like that! Thou shalt not covet!
No!
No.
He takes another long breath. Looking down he sees the bloom he was holding is crushed and shredded in his palms.