Daisy Petals

What if I’ve cut it too short? What if it don’t reach? I measured it three times but—oh, God, why can’t I do ‘owt properly?

I chose this spot well ‘though. It’s beautiful here. The leaves of the trees whisper an’ you can hardly hear the buzz of motorway traffic. It’s kinda comforting to think o’ the people in their cars driving home, visiting mates, chatting, arguing— ‘normal’ stuff. Me girlfriend Daisy’s pleased wi’ the spot. She hasn’t said ‘owt but I can tell from the way she’s wandering through the long grass, picking buttercups, daisies, wild honeysuckle. But me, I’m trembling. I hope having the shakes don’t stop me getting everything done.

Aww! Look at that. She’s making bouquets for us, tying them with the hairy twine I use at work for parcels. She’s holding the wildflowers near her heart, stretching out her right arm and, I might’ve known, taking a selfie. The click of a mobile ‘phone camera will always remind me of Daisy.

‘She loves me, she loves me not…’ we used to say at school, plucking the white daisy petals one at a time, until we were left with the naked egg yolk centre.

I’ve me head in the boot of the car searching fer gaffer tape when she calls, “Add-am, come, come—Add-am.” My name’s Adam, yet Daisy pronounces it as two words. I’m ordinary, but Daisy, she makes me feel special.

Me beautiful Daisy. She looks at me an’ smiles. She ’as this way of peeking at you from under her fringe, as if she’s done summat naughty and yet— she knows I’ll forgive her.

So I walk over, crunching the heather beneath me boots. I stand behind her, place me ‘ands on her waist an’ gently push her hair from her right shoulder so I can rest me chin there. Her hair smells of bubble gum and I nuzzle into the little hollow between the bones of her shoulder. She hates it when I do this. She collapses into me, her arm shoots into the air an’ she takes a selfie of the bushes behind us. So then we have to do it over again an’ that suits me just fine.

I wanna stand here cuddling her forever but, as soon as she’s got a couple o’ selfies she likes, she’s balancing on a tree stump holding her mobile in the air to post them on Facebook. Ping! Well, at least I’ve got a good signal. Ah, look at that. She’s written a caption: “Together forever.” Sweet. She loves me— Ouch! The friggin’ Jubilee clip just snapped in me ‘and. That’ll teach me to concentrate on the job.

***

Daisy. She’s from Estonia. But we didn’t meet there. No! We met in Copeland’s. I don’t normally go to garden centres, but it was Mam’s birthday and she loves plants.

That’s where I first saw Daisy, huge white petals splashed across her yellow dress. When she moved, the daisies stayed still. I thought she was dissolving, like in Startrek when they beam Scottie up. But then I realized they was real daisies in a pot, and she was standing behind ‘em. So, of course, they didn’t move with her. Idiot! That’s why I call her Daisy. Her real name’s Jaana, but it don’t suit her.

“S’cuse me—” she said.

I couldn’t believe she was talking to me. Girls don’t take much notice of me. ‘Specially pretty ones. I looked round t’ see if she were talkin’ to someone else. But, no, she marched right up t’ me.

“S’cuse me. Erm. I need bag of—er—what it called? You lift for me?”

To be honest, her English ain’t that brilliant and I were so surprised I just stared at her. She did the talking. Even invited me t ‘ave a cuppa in the café. Wanted to pay, but I wouldn’t let her. I think I fell in love with her over that first cuppa. She’s so—so honest. No beating about the bush wi’ Daisy.

“Downright bloody rude,” Mam sez.

What you need to know about me is I’m not what you’d call a typical ‘millennial’. Mam sez I’m ‘old fashioned’. When she describes me to strangers she sez, “Our Adam, lovely kind boy, me duck—fragile though—y’ know.” And she whispers the word ‘fragile’ as if saying it louder would shatter me.

And maybe she’s right. Broken was how I always felt, until I met Daisy.

Ping! Another post on Instagram. Daisy and me in Covent Garden. The thing with all this social media is that it’s like having yer own film. You write the script and edit the pictures. “I is star on Instagram,” Daisy tells me.

Ping! Another selfie. She loves her friends to know where she is. But she won’t post unless she’s looking perfect. She’s partic’lar about her appearance. Too partic’lar, according to Mam. “I don’t see ‘er cleaning the bog, wi’ nails dotted wi’ ruddy diamonds,” Mam sez. Mam’s right. Daisy don’t do the cleaning, I do. I keep the flat nice. When she moved in wi’ me she sez, “Where you get this furniture? Out the bin?” Mam gave it me but the stuff Daisy chose from Ikea is much nicer. I wonder what’ll ‘appen to it?

One thing Daisy and me disagree on is this beauty thing. I tell her she’ll always be gorgeous to me, but she can’t bear the thought of getting old and wrinkled. She sez: “Post while we still young and beautiful. Time running out.”

But I sez, we have plenty of time, Daisy me duck. Time to love, to grow together, to learn and play. We can have children. We’ll never be rich or famous, but we can have a good life. Daisy disagrees.

She loves me not—

Is it too late to change me mind?

It’s Daisy’s mind what needs changing, not mine. And I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried hard to persuade her.

The wind is picking up now and the black bin liner I’m taping across the gap in the rear window puffs in and out as if the car’s gasping for breath. The gaffer tape sticks to me fingers and I could do wi’ some help but I can’t see Daisy. Probably she’s found a good signal and making the most of it.

I’ve tried to do what she wants. I haven’t seen Mam for weeks now as Daisy don’t like her. She sez Mam’s ‘manipulative’, which is funny, because Mam sez the same about her.

Daisy wants to be a star on social media, like that famous American family. What’re they called? K-k-kardash—summat. But I’ve never done ‘owt interesting or courageous in me life, until now. Daisy walks towards me, her expression serious and, as she hands me the bouquet of wildflowers, she trembles. But she doesn’t hesitate, just settles into the passenger seat, leans over, smiles and kisses me gently on the lips. Then she smooths the skirt of her dress around her thighs, like she always does, as if we’re off down the pub. She whispers, ‘I love you, Add-am. Ready?’

Thing is, we probably will be famous. All the images she’s posted will live on and on—

It’s coming to dusk now. That secret half-light when grey drifts down like an’ old duvet and you know you’ll be asleep in minutes. The bushes ahead toss and shake for a few seconds and a fox struts into the clearing. It stares at us as if to say, ‘What’re you doing ‘ere? Bog off!’ I squeeze Daisy’s hand to alert her. She doesn’t squeeze back but her head falls towards me. So now I can see the faint blue veins on her temple, just visible through skin as smooth and fine as Mam’s china. I stroke her palm wi’ me finger.

Above the thrum of the engine wood pigeons coo and squabble. This is a lonely spot. I inhale deeply. I’m bigger an’ heavier than Daisy. I fill me lungs again, once, twice and begin to feel sleepy. It’s warm in the car and me eyelids start to close. I force them open to look at Daisy. She said she wanted us to be together forever.

She loves me—

Me head slumps down onto me chest an’ I haven’t the strength to move it. Me hand falls open so I lose me grip on Daisy. I can’t feel any part of her now. I tell my brain to fight, resist. Me fingers reach out in search of her.

Then a blast of cool air slaps me left cheek.

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