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Listeners' Fantasies |
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Titcombe's Declaration
by Vicky S
 This contribution to the Fantasy Archers topic of proves that love-struck Titcombe really prefers to say it with flowers.
Titcombe sealed the bulb catalogue envelope and tucked it behind the broken alarm clock on the potting shed shelf. He settled himself in the baggy old Lloyd Loom before pouring out the last drop of tea from his green plastic thermos. Through the open door he could hear a wavering soprano voice, only slightly muffled by the wooden clothes pegs held between her lips, singing along to Foley's Oldy Hour.
"The only man who could ever reach me , was the son of a preacher man..."
Titcombe smiled and reached into his snap tin for a digestive. He put his feet up on an old apple crate and tipped his panama hat down over his eyes.
In his imagination he travelled to Spring. New growth, renewal, spikes of green pushing up through the rich Borsetshire loam of the Lower Loxley long border. First the snowdrops, pure and innocent, their modest heads glistening in the early spring light. Then the bold narcissi, clustered in their naturalised groups, their golden throats reaching and stretching to the early bumbles. Then. His triumph. The tulips.
He'd chosen well this year he thought. Queen of the Night, a deep throbbing purple black that spoke to him of a secret repressed passion. Then Scarlett O'Hara with her luscious flaring lips, shiny and smooth as though just licked by a soft wet tongue.
Not the colours Madam had chosen of course, he'd carefully crossed her selection of golds, yellows and white from the order form. Oh and she might be a bit surprised at the design he was planning, "Drifts of colour Titcombe, drifts...." he mimicked softly to himself. Well, if she wanted to come out in the chill of a late October morning and plant 900 bulbs on her hands and knees then she could have her drifts. But they were Titcombe's knees, and he was planting formally. Hearts, solid hearts. Scarlet and purple hearts. All down the long border. It was going to look blooming marvellous. He chuckled to himself as he drained the last of the tea.
He lumbered to his feet and threw the biscuit crumbs to the waiting robin. He loaded up the barrow carefully. Clippers, hand and electric, groundsheets, broom. He wheeled the barrow slowly down the gravelled path. He'd never liked those peacocks anyway. Too much fiddle-faddle. He'd got it all worked out. Once the heads were gone it wouldn't take much effort to re-shape the tails. Then there they'd be at the end of the yew walk. Together forever. Maybe he'd even get a passion flower or two to grow through them for next year.
A passionate heart, well, it's what keeps you young.
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Archers fantasies
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