Amanda’s hand shook as she opened the front door. Would she find another bunch of daffodils wilting on the doorstep?

‘Got an admirer?’ the post-woman asked, handing her a parcel that was too big for the letterbox. She was looking at the flowers.

An admirer? The thought leapt at her; an admirer, she need not be frightened of an admirer.

‘You’d better get them in water pretty quickly,’ the post-woman said. ‘They look as though they’re on their way out.’

Her brittle comfort at the thought of an admirer was shattered. On their way out; every bunch had been on its way out; an admirer wouldn’t give flowers that were wilting. This wasn’t an expression of admiration; this was… she didn’t know what this was. Why were dying daffodils being left on her doorstep? She picked up the bunch, took the parcel, thanked the post-woman, and shut the front door as quickly as she could in case the person who’d left the flowers was watching to see her reaction, to see her anxiety.

She went into the kitchen, put the parcel on the table, and stood staring at the flowers. They weren’t going to last; she ought to throw them away. Her foot hovered by the pedal bin. She couldn’t do it. She had to try to resuscitate them. If she could keep them alive, then Mikey…

Daffodils were a reminder of new beginnings. They epitomised spring. That was why there was a profusion of the golden flowers in her garden. When they finished blooming, she tied up the leaves, allowing the dying plants to nourish the bulbs without making the garden look untidy. The daffodils in the garden were proof that she was a giver of life, an able carer. She would put these flowers in water; sugar, her Mother had always put a teaspoon of sugar into a vase of cut flowers, and slit the bottoms of the stems. Was it a level teaspoon, or a heaped? She didn’t know; couldn’t remember. Think, Amanda; don’t be a useless lump, think. ‘Oh fuck!’ She flung the flowers away, and stared at the pattern they created on the kitchen tiles. She had thrown the bulbs like that, planting them where they fell.

Fling the baby out with the bath water; bulbs will grow in the swirling red suds.

Fling the baby… fling the…

No one knew about her planting daffodils; no one knew about Mikey, did they? Did they?

‘Do you know who your admirer is? Asked the post woman as she handed her another parcel the following morning.

‘No,’ said Amanda. She didn’t want to talk about the dying daffodils.

‘ More baby stuff?’ The post woman smiled, and pointed to the label; it read, Baby World.

Stuff, is that what the micro-soft fleece blanket, with Mikey embroidered in the corner, was, stuff? She returned the smile, knowing it didn’t reach her eyes

‘You’re not superstitious then; you know, buying loads before the baby’s born. I mean, you’re not very far gone, are you?’

‘Er no’ She shook her head, and then found she couldn’t stop shaking it. The post woman would think she was mad. Clutching the parcel to her, she bent to pick up the flowers. ‘Got to go,’ she said, and ran to the kitchen. She flung the daffodils straight in the bin. They were not symbolic of new life. She would have to grub up the bulbs. She would have to stop buying things for a baby, for a Mikey who…

‘Where have all the flowers gone?

Gone to Mikeys every one.

When will I ever learn?

When will I ever learn?’ she rocked the fleecy blanket in her arms.

About the Author

Carolyn Belcher