Flowers for Queenie

“Try it again.”

Queenie made a face. A cherub’s pout surrounded by a coronet of curls. She lowered the recorder into her lap and licked her lips. “I don’t like it,” she said slowly, as though the decision was being made with each word.

I reached out for the instrument. “The recorder? Or the sound?”

“I don’t like it.”

May’s humid air blew cool into the bedroom. The dark clouds outside were melting away with the afternoon.

“That’s okay, we can try something else. Maybe the triangle? It’s nicer on the ears, easier to play.” Her eyes followed my hands as they moved from her lap to the blue plastic bin by the bedside. I bent to pull out the triangle and passed it over to her. “Try this.” She reached out with small hands to accept the triangle and its silver rod and stared. I lifted the hand holding the rod in mine and used it to tap gently on the triangle. “See?”

A single, pure tone hummed into the air and reverberated between the walls. We let it hold space in our silence, each pleasantly transfixed within the sound until it faded to a still. Queenie’s cornflower eyes widened.

“Do you want to try?” I offered gently. She nodded. I let go of her hand and held the triangle up in front of her, resting back in my chair with a creak. She leaned forward, screwing up her nose into wrinkles, and hesitantly tapped the rod against the steel again. A higher pitched quaver sounded and Queenie squealed with delight.

Her giggle was sweeter than any triangle could sound, a pleasant bubbling blossom. I grinned from ear to ear. “Nice, hey?”

She nodded and tapped it again. Again. Three times in succession. I let her hold the triangle with her other hand and watched as she tested the weight of each beat, observed as she assessed the results behind a soft tap and a heavy handed one. In the span of a millisecond her eyes met mine, and she smiled. There was no rhythm nor melody to be found as she tapped but it was music nonetheless. A spray of curls shifted out of the grip of a purple ribbon and bobbed out over her temples.

Her excitement waned several minutes later. As though suddenly disgusted by the triangle Queenie opened her fingers and dropped it, without regard for whether or not I would catch it. I did.

Her eyes were glazing over; I could see myself losing her to thoughts she’d never share. Such a secretive little thing. I let her sit rather than disturb the images pooling in her eyes, and leaned forward to push the curls behind her ear. “There you go,” I murmured, “there you go.”

“Yoohoo!” A firm rap against the doorframe startled us both. One flushed face with a finely manicured moustache peeked out from around the corner, smiling widely. “There are my two favourite girls!” He swept into the room with flowers clutched in a sweaty hand. He trailed in dirt under heavy, unlaced boots.

The film on Queenie’s eyes cleared with a blink. “Sven!” She held her arms out and made to stand, but he cleared the room in two strides and plucked her up with one arm as though she were no heavier than a pillow. He kissed her wetly on the cheek to a set of fresh giggles and set her down again, pressing the daisies he’d brought into her hands. “Pretty things for pretty people, eh?” He winked my way.

I hid a shy smile of my own. “And where are mine?”

“Ah,” he rubbed at his neck, “still outside. I only had a mo’ to find these ones. Got them from the gardens.” He grinned sheepishly and turned away to face Queenie. “Do you like ‘em, love?”

“Yes! Can I keep them?” Her face shone while she examined pearly petals and round yellow centers.

“Of course!” Sven slung an arm around her and squeezed. “I’ll pop ‘em in a glass for you if lady Layla will help me find one?” His eyes sought out mine over her shoulder.

I nodded. “Of course.”

We left Queenie sitting on her bed playing with the daisies.

Out in the hallway, Sven pulled me into his arms. I inhaled the smells of dirt, coffee, rain, and fresh air from his sweater. “What do you think?” He asked as we pulled apart.

“She’s lovely. I’d like to come back to visit her again.” I reached out and twisted one side of his moustache between my thumb and forefinger. He kissed my cheek.

“Good.”

“Do you think she likes me?” The thought struck a surprisingly hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Would she remember me next time?

Sven nodded. “She didn’t call for me the second you stepped through the door. You’ve passed the test, betrothed.”

Grinning, he cupped my cheek in one hand and studied my face for a long moment. I stood quiet and let him think until finally, he pulled away and headed back into the room with a clap of his hands. “Right! The lady Layla is still looking for a vase, but I’ll sit with you until she comes back, okay Mum?”