A Single Red Rose

By Josie Gilbert

Alison stood on a rocky outcrop, gazing fixedly at the waterfall. The autumn rains had swollen the river and now the torrent tumbled over the edge and fell the fifty or so feet to the pool below, sending up a dense spray. From there, it twisted and lurched over and between the rocks, before disappearing around a corner. A few yellowing leaves spiralled down from the birch trees and glinted like flecks of gold dust as the current carried them away.

Alison had been deep in thought for some minutes, impervious to the drizzle that was seeping through her jacket. Suddenly she felt that something was pulling her irresistibly downwards into the abyss and the waiting water. She shook her head to dispel that idea and concentrated once more on the purpose that had drawn her to this spot.

Five years had now passed since Rob had died here. A couple of hikers had found his body several miles downstream and when the authorities tracked back along the river, they discovered Rob’s camera bag on the bank by the waterfall. The most plausible explanation was that he had attempted to take a photograph, slipped, missed his footing and fallen over the edge. It was so typical of him to be paying more attention to the shot he was composing, than where he was placing his feet.

Even now the mere thought of it made Alison shudder.

As she stood over his coffin at the funeral, she had promised to return to the waterfall every anniversary of his death. The pain of losing him had mellowed with time, but she realised it would never disappear completely. A part of her knew that was something she did not want, as it would also mean she was forgetting him.

Absent-mindedly she fiddled with the rose she was holding in her right hand. She snagged her finger on a thorn and as she looked down at it, a drop of blood appeared, the same crimson as the rose.

Alison had plucked it from their garden that morning and its sweet fragrance still lingered in the air.

“I’m here,” she said, “and I’ve brought this for you.” She tossed the flower into the water and watched as it floated downstream.

Bob had been sitting patiently next to her on the rock and chose this moment to nuzzle her hand with his nose. When there was no immediate reaction, he licked her fingers.

Alison looked down at him and started fondling his ear.

“You Border Collies understand more than people realise – especially you.”

He blinked and leaned his head to one side, as if it would help to understand what Alison was saying.

“I know. It’s time we left,” she told him. “Come on then.”

He stood and waited until she had turned towards the path and then he fell in at her heel.

She and Rob had been contemplating getting a dog just before his accident and had even visited the local rehousing centre. Then a friend had told them that her Collie was pregnant and offered them one of the pups. Alison was not superstitious, but when the litter arrived on the same day that Rob died, fate seemed to have intervened. When she went to see them a fortnight later, a small ball of white and grey fluff stumbled over to greet her. He peered up at her with one blue and one brown eye - the perfect combination for a Merle - and she fell in love immediately.

“Can I have this one?” she had asked her friend.

“Of course. What are you going to call him?”

“Bob. Rob wouldn’t be right, but Bob sounds fine.”

Ten weeks later, she took him home and since then they had become inseparable. He could sense her moods and often anticipated her actions. In his own way he had filled the void left by Rob.

As Alison began heading back to the path leading out of the wood, Bob turned his head towards the waterfall and barked once. That done, he loped after her and then ran around her in circles until they reached the open ground and the dim autumn sunlight. The clouds parted briefly and in those few moments a rainbow appeared, pointing the way home.