The summer weeks passed in a blur of stolen afternoons. Their rose, against all predictions, survived. More than survived as it showed signs of new growth, with tiny leaves unfurling like green promises.
"I told you," Gabriel said smugly one afternoon, eating pilfered strawberries while Clara attempted to sketch the garden she was terrible at it, but refused to admit defeat.
"You said there was a fifty percent chance we'd bring about its demise.”
"No, I said there was a fifty percent chance it would live. That's completely different. I'm an optimist."
“You speak falsely.”
"I'm optimistically truthful."
“There’s no such thing as that.”
"It is now. I've decided."
This was how they were together, easy, teasing, completely unaware that what they had was rare and precious, but…doomed, and this was because Gabriel’s father had other plans for him.
Because Gabriel's father had plans. Eton, he announced one evening at dinner. Starting September.
Gabriel's first thought wasn't about leaving home or facing the unknown. It was:Clara's going to be furious I'm leaving her with all the garden work.
When he told her the next day, she was indeed furious, but not about the garden.
"Eton's ages away!" she protested. "It's practically in Scotland!"
"It's in Berkshire."
“It amounts to much the same thing!" Anywhere that's not here might as well be the moon."
"I'll write letters," Gabriel promised. "Every week. I'll tell you everything."
"Even the boring bits?"
"Especially the boring bits. They'll probably all be boring bits."
Clara was quiet for a moment, picking at the grass. "It won't be the same."
"No," Gabriel agreed, because even at such a young age, he knew better than to lie about the important things. "But I'll come back for holidays. Christmas and summers. And you can take care of our rose."
“It will surely become an absolute fright, quite without form or beauty, if left to my humble care. I possess not the slightest acquaintance with the proper tending of a rose.”
"You know everything about everything."
"That's true," she said, but her smile was shaky. "You have to promise to write. Properly. Not just 'Dear Clara, school is fine, sincerely Gabriel.' Real letters."
"I promise. Long, incredibly boring letters about Latin and porridge and how much I miss…" He stopped, flushing.
"Miss what?"
"This," he said, gesturing at the garden. "All of this. You as you can understand.”
She did. That was what made their friendship strong as their thoughts were ever known to each other.
The month of September presented itself with the certainty of an unfortunate tempest spoiling an afternoon outing.
Gabriel's departure was marked by a melancholic, leaden sky and a light, incessant rain which caused the flowers in the garden to appear quite dejected and heavy with wetness.
They sat in the greenhouse, watching rain streak the glass, neither saying much.
