Crushed Violets – chapter 1.

The ancient headstones emerged like miniature custodians, bravely protecting their loved ones. They surrounded the tiny sixteenth century church that was the final resting place for Alan and Barbara Simmons; an idyllic setting, but not for Victoria. As the small group of mourners stood around the open grave, a soft mist fell, making the artificial green carpet glisten with a million tiny droplets of rain.
Victoria didn't move, even though she could feel water dripping off her little black hat, and making its way down her neck. Even at the tender age of six, she sensed that this solemn occasion demanded her stillness. She was glad it was raining. Raising her small face to the grey sky above, she let the raindrops mingle with her tears, as she searched the clouds.
Victoria feared she would never see her parents again. Auntie Madge said they were up there somewhere with Jesus. Why had he taken them from her when she needed them here to hug her? The sad faces looking down into the grave seemed so far away to her. Victoria watched as the rain formed a large droplet of water on the end of her Uncle Ben’s nose. She reached into her pocket, and pulling out a paper hanky, tucked it gently into his hand. He smiled down at her from his great height; his eyes brimming with unshed tears. She watched as he wiped the moisture from the end of his large rounded nose. It was a part of his face that had always fascinated her. The size of it, and the fact that there were little red lines running down the centre that met around his nostrils. Those same lines were echoed in his cheeks and large fleshy ears. Aunt Madge said he was always sticking his nose into everything - that was why it was so red.
Victoria’s fourteen-year-old sister, Sylvia, stood next to Aunt Madge, her slim arms folded defensively in front of her. Bony hands clutching the elbows of her coat sleeves, turning her knuckles white with tension. As sisters, they were surprisingly different. Victoria’s fiery spirit was depicted in bright coppery curls and brilliant green eyes. Sylvia didn’t have that essential spark. Her pinched sallow features, and straggly brown hair, should have conjured up feelings of sympathy. However, the hateful glare she projected with one glance, repulsed most people who came in contact with her. She was uncommonly mature for one so young, and everyone was surprised to learn these two young orphans were sisters.
After their parents had been killed in a car crash, Victoria had retreated into a dream world of happy memories, where there was no place for grief.
She liked to escape to her parents’ bedroom and remember all the good times; every Sunday morning while her parents were still snuggled down, she would creep into their bedroom and stand by the bed, silently gazing at their relaxed faces. Her mother’s head would be resting in the safety of her father’s arm, her mouth curved into a contented smile.
Victoria would drag the stool over from the dressing table to her father's side of the bed and clamber up next to him, knowing he would stir. He would open his eyes and look towards her as she tugged at the bedclothes, then smile that half-awake grin that she loved so much. Slowly raising his free arm, Victoria would slip into the warmth next to him and be gathered up by a strength that would make her feel safe and loved.
She would lie quietly, breathing in that sweet musky aroma she associated with her parents. To her childlike innocence, it was their special smell that meant they loved one another, and she wanted with all her heart to be a part of that warm peace.
As she grew older she didn't need the stool anymore to reach up into their bed, and there was never seemed to be enough room on her father's side, so she’d gently shake her mother’s arm and slip in beside her for a Sunday morning cuddle. It was just as loving as her father’s but different somehow, with the lingering smell of Sweet Violets, on her mother’s skin.

Victoria remembered the first time she had made her parents a cup of tea. They were so pleased when they realised what she had done, they sat up in bed smiling at each other, sipping their tea, telling her how clever she was.
Excitement rushing through her, she ran into Sylvia’s bedroom to share her triumph and tugged at the blankets that Sylvia always pulled over her head.
“Go away!” Sylvia snarled.
Victoria stopped tugging.
“I want to show you the tea I made.”
Sylvia’s head appeared from beneath the blankets, the shadows beneath her eyes giving her a ghost-like appearance. Victoria’s excitement was instantly dampened, and the look on her sister’s face frightened her.
“I don’t care about your stupid tea, just go away and leave me alone.”
Victoria’s lip trembled. She always thought her sister didn’t like her very much, but it still made her cry. She ran back to her parents’ room, brushing the tears from her eyes, hoping for a comforting hug.

Now, they were here, standing next to each other, in the rain with their Aunt Madge and Uncle Ben. Victoria knew, but couldn’t accept, her Mummy and Daddy were gone forever. Looking up into the grey sky, she knew they were up there somewhere, out of reach.
Who was going to remind her to wash behind her ears or tell her to brush her teeth everyday? Who was going to kiss the parts that hurt and magically make the pain go away......who? The ache in her young heart was dragging her down. Somehow, she knew this pain could never be kissed away. Time may make its intensity fade - but it would never disappear completely.
Sylvia tugged viciously at Victoria's sleeve, jolting her back to reality.
"The flowers" she whispered harshly, "throw the flowers like I told you to"
Victoria had forgotten what to do. All she could see was the impatience in her sister's eyes and it frightened her. Sylvia bent over and prised the little bunch of Sweet Violets from Victoria's tightly clenched fist, and threw them into the grave. They landed with a splat on the drenched lid of the coffin, slowly darkening as the crushed petals absorbed the rain.
Victoria’s eyes, brimming over with tears, looked down on her pathetic little posy, recalling the sweet scent of Violets on her mother’s skin. Standing by her side, Sylvia was dry-eyed and solemn. She vowed never to cry again.