In the heart of summer, July unfolds with stories that mirror the intensity and fleeting beauty of the season. Our heartfelt thanks are extended to Lucy Aur and Elizabeth Kemball, whose selections for this month illuminate the intricacies of human connections. Dahlias by Victoria Sellar and Birthday Cake by Ansuya are our featured works, each a testament to the enduring power of storytelling.
Dahlias – Victoria Sellar
The first time I heard the story was on a trip to a local garden with my mother – which dates it, because my mother hasn’t been on a trip anywhere except her doctor or the hospital for years. There were hundreds of dahlias – a curved wall ten feet high, vivid pom-pom heads bouncing in the breeze.
She tells me about London after Victory in Europe Day, early May 1945; she, my grandmother and Uncle Fred had been evacuated to the country for a few months, and are now coming home.
“And when we got there”, she says, “your grandfather had filled the garden with dahlias. I don’t know where he got them – the pub, probably. You’ve never seen anything like it. We were so surprised. It’s not like he was any kind of gardener.”
That small grey garden I remembered from my childhood: a few dusty beds in the concrete, and a laburnum tree, now transformed into this rainbow border, full of dancing flowers to welcome the family home.
She tells the story again when we first try to grow dahlias in her garden, and then again that autumn, when we are at home, watching Gardeners’ World on TV; the details haven’t changed and I nod my way through it with one eye on the screen.
“After VE Day?” I say, “that can’t be right. VE Day is in May.”
“Yes,” my mother says. “After VE Day. We’d been up in Yorkshire, staying with Auntie Pat…because of the V2 bombs…”
I point to the TV, where the presenter is walking the viewers through his dahlia garden.
“But they wouldn’t have been flowering then. Perhaps you got back later in the year?”
“We came back in early summer”, she says, “after the V2s stopped…after Germany surrendered.” She begins to fidget, and I dive across the room to save a cup of tea from upsetting on her. “I’ve always remembered them as dahlias…maybe they were something else…I suppose they could have been chrysanthemums…”
When I visit again the next weekend I go out into her garden to plant some daffodil bulbs, and to start tidying-up a bit for the autumn. I can see at least two flowers on her one surviving dahlia; I didn’t stake the plant in the spring and the flowers are so heavy on their stems that the heads are bent right over and touching the soil; I’m tempted to leave them where they are, but finally I cut both blooms, and put them in a vase.
My mother, when she sees them, says, “Dahlias always remind me of coming home, after the war ended…”
This is what it is now, I think, but it could be worse.
Birthday Cake – Ansuya
As Ellie ran up the steps to her flat, she caught sight of a huge Patisserie Valerie bag outside the door. She looked inside, inhaled the chocolate and those words “Happy Birthday.” Then she heard her mother turn the front door key, so rushed inside.
“What are you doing Ellie? I told you this morning, hang your clothes up and get this art stuff off the table.”
Ellie kept an eye on the door. Maybe it was a surprise. Had her mother splurged all that money for her special day?
Her mother switched on the kettle and scrolled through her phone, she heard a man’s voice. It was almost seven, when Ellie tiptoed into the kitchen. She made herself a cheese sandwich, grabbed a banana and took them to her room. She glanced at her mother lying on the couch, laughing on the phone with a glass of red wine in one hand.
The following morning Ellie woke up early. Her bare feet tiptoed around the kitchen and lounge looking for clues. She locked the bathroom door, showered and dressed. She watched her mother chatting to her elder sister on the phone over spoons of Kelloggs. She left without saying goodbye.
The box was gone.
After school there was a knock on the door. Ellie tried to ignore it, but it was persistent, and she opened it.
“Hi Sarah.”
“Ellie come in for a few minutes.” Ellie followed Sarah into her sparkly yellow kitchen. Her eyes on the ten candles in rainbow shades all lit up.
“Blow them out and make a wish.”
Ellie blew out all the candles in one go.
Sarah passed a huge slice of cake to Ellie, she took a mouthful and another. They both watched a movie.
It was late when she heard her mother’s knock.
“Happy birthday Ellie,” Sarah handed her a paper bag. Ellie peeped inside, a colouring pad and a huge pack of crayons.
Her mother knocked again, “Ellie you’re in there. How long am I going to stand here. See if Sarah will keep you?”
The door opened, her mother carrying a bag of takeaway food and a bottle of wine in another. Come on you. I’ve been at work all day, and you the ungrateful child don’t look at me like that. Say goodbye to Sarah.”
“Thank you Sarah.”
“You’re welcome anytime, Ellie. I’m here, remember.”
Ellie went to her room and closed the door, sadness sat heavy on her chest. She stared out at the moon, its full face watching over her. She took out the crayons, her fingers led the way page after page until she fell asleep.
Nature poetry. For too long, it’s been the domain of soft-focus sentimentality: predictable scenes of meadows, rivers, and, yes, even gliding gulls.
As 2024 draws to a close, it’s impossible not to marvel at how much has been accomplished in just one year. This
Call for Submissions: Glow: City at Night Poems The Broken Spine is excited to announce that submissions for our latest slimline anthology,
The Broken Spine is a poetry and arts collective proudly published on the coastal edge of North-West England. Founded in 2019 by Alan Parry and Paul Robert Mullen – two school friends reunited after twenty years through a mutual love of poetry.
