Open Writing

Just picturing the glorious dark yellow blooms of Johannesburg Sun in the netted field behind the house made Ingrid Steele pause to wonder. She hadn't set out to be a rose grower. She was a teacher by profession, only she'd fallen in love while doing her teaching practical in a small town and got married as soon as college was over.

Roses became her life because Steelesbury, the family estate on which they lived, was already the hub of a thriving cut flower business. Situated in the mist belt between the eastern coastal region of South Africa and the much drier highveld area, it was an old property which had been lovingly nurtured and developed over the years. Ingrid had gradually become a vital part of the business, frequently traveling the four hours to Johannesburg and back to buy stock.

Today had been one of those days. Arriving home to find the house empty, she felt relieved for several reasons. Firstly, her husband's absence for the past two months was beginning to wear on her nerves. Secondly, the disconcerting behavior of the son of the rose wholesaler made her angry about her home situation. And thirdly, on a more practical level, she had to find her daughters' passports so that they could go on a cross-border youth outreach in the Christmas school holidays only two days away.

The study, when she entered, was as she'd expected - full of dust with papers lying everywhere. She leant over the desk to turn on the lamp beside the computer terminal and spotted Warren’s old green polar fleece jacket hanging over the back of the chair where he'd left it. Impulsively, she went around to pick it up. Burying her nose in the faded collar, she reflected that it had been a long time since they'd stood in each other's arms, he nuzzling her hair and she leaning her cheek on his warm chest.

Dear Warren, with his tousled forelock, warm brown eyes and mobile jaw. He'd become as thin as a scarecrow. Alice, his mother, insisted that it was because he missed Ingrid's rich casseroles and spicy potjies but she wasn't fooled. She knew that his sister’s decision to keep her baby had done something terrible to him.

The trouble all started when Tracey was about to finish school. She began making enquiries about training at an art college in Johannesburg and Warren acted like a typical overprotective older brother, saying that it wouldn’t be safe to live in the city. This made Tracey fly into a rage which, from Ingrid's point of view, was understandable. Just because Warren was so much older didn’t give him the right to dictate her future.

There was also an ugly fight between Warren and his mother. Alice took no nonsense from anyone so it wasn't surprising when she got her way. Tracey duly went to art college and Warren spent more and more time secluded upstairs in his study. As a result of this, Ingrid didn’t notice the change that came over him until things blew up.

It happened when Tracey phoned one day in floods of tears. Having just found out that she was pregnant, she begged to come home. Warren was furious and this time Ingrid took his side. Alice and Vernon drove up to discuss solutions but Tracy refused point blank to give up the baby for adoption. They finally agreed to let her stay at art college for as long as possible and come home when the baby was due.

On hearing this, Warren went berserk. Ingrid could hear him throwing his chain saws into the shed like a madman. Instead of coming in for supper, he just took off in his truck. He drove around the district all night and finally fell asleep on the side of the road. The policeman who found him contacted his father and the family doctor was immediately called.

It was frightening for Ingrid to see her husband so empty eyed and helpless. Hoping that all he needed was a break from his mother, she made plans for the four of them to go away to a trout farm in September. Ingrid thought the company of other trout fishermen would restore his usual high spirits but she quickly realized her mistake. He was irrational in his anxiety over Tracey and found it impossible to relax. They returned home and, soon afterwards, he collapsed in the plantation.

Feeling suddenly that the room had become airless, Ingrid pushed open the window and breathed in. The night air was fragrant with the scent of jasmine and roses. She smiled as she thought again of the ordered rows of hybrid teas in the field behind the house. Then she caught sight of her reflection and cringed. Her shoulder length blonde hair had defied gravity to frizz in all directions and there was an oily sheen on her chin and forehead, reminding her of the greasy chips she'd substituted for supper on the way home.

"Oh well," she said to Apollo, the gentler of her two German Shepherds, "it's not as if there's anyone here to impress and it's probably why Carl was so nice to me at the summer sale. He probably saw how unravelled I looked and thought he should do something to make me feel better."

Little did she know, this casual conclusion would undergo significant alteration in the weeks to come.

**

Leanne will also be continuing her column Through Lattice Windows. Watch out for it in Friday's Open Writing.