The Blue Rose (4 page)

‘How's it doing?' Alex asked, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

‘Couple more minutes and it'll all be ready,' she said. ‘If you could get those plates out of the oven, and keep stirring the sauce, that would be great.'

Alex had always admired how simple Kate made things look in a kitchen. Everything was always under control. There was never a sense of urgency or impending disaster. If he were in charge, the sink would be piled with pots and dishes, saucepans would be boiling over and throughout the house would be a strong smell of something burning.

‘What are you two talking about?' asked Kate.

‘Wine – mostly.'

‘Does he know anything about wines?'

Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Are you kidding? When I told him we didn't have a decanter I might as well have been telling him we didn't have a teapot. The man's an expert on everything. Next thing you know he'll be telling me how to redesign the house.'

‘Now, now,' Kate said, smiling. ‘I have a feeling Lawrence Kingston is going to be very helpful to us, so let's be nice to him.'

They emerged from the kitchen to find Kingston wearing horn-rimmed glasses, examining the archway that separated the dining room from the living room.

‘Marvellous old house,' he said, running his hand along one of the beams framing the archway. ‘Splendid architectural details.'

‘Yes,' Alex said. ‘That's one of the things we both love about The Parsonage. That, and the garden – which is more Kate's thing, of course.'

‘Yes, the garden,' Kingston said, lost in thought, standing back from the archway. ‘These beams were a later addition, I think.'

‘Why, yes,' said Alex, surprised that Kingston could see the difference between the detailing, ‘they are. The original house dates back to the 1830s – these were probably added much, much later.'

‘You should get rid of them,' Kingston said. He ran his hand along one of the beams again. ‘They're not very sympathetic.'

‘They're load-bearing beams,' Alex pointed out.

‘Really?' Kingston asked thoughtfully. ‘I should think it would be worth getting an architect in here to confirm that.'

Kate stifled a giggle.

‘I am an architect,' Alex said.

‘Oh.' Kingston peered down at Alex over the top of his spectacles. ‘Really?'

 

Considering that he had just gazed upon civilization's first blue rose ever, Kingston displayed a remarkably nonchalant attitude throughout the lunch. For fifteen minutes or so there was further discussion of the rose, but soon Kingston steered the conversation deftly back to The Parsonage. He was clearly taken with its mellow character and with the layout and plantings of the luxurious garden. Switching subjects again, he inquired about Kate's antiques shop, listening with uncharacteristic silence as Kate talked about her business, complaining about inflated prices and the difficulties of finding good quality items to sell. For many years he had collected antiques, he said, and still attended the occasional auction and estate sale. Kate's eyes lit up when he mentioned a couple of items of furniture that no longer suited his purpose that he would be happy to consign to her.

For the most part, Alex remained silent.

‘So, how did the two of you meet?' Kingston asked offhandedly, taking a sip of wine.

Alex glanced at Kate, as if to ask, should I tell him, then back to Kingston.

‘It was on Kate's twenty-sixth birthday,' he said. ‘At a picnic organized by one of her close friends, Annabel. It turned out to be a brilliant day – on the River Avon. I must say, when Annabel's sister, Pam, asked me if I'd go with her I wasn't too keen on the idea at first.' Alex picked up his wineglass and cupped it in his hands. He rocked it gently to and fro, looking at it as if it were a crystal ball. ‘I'm not very big on crowds,' he said, gazing at the glass. ‘The prospect of having to spend the best part of the day with a group of total strangers was about as appealing as being invited to an undertakers' convention.'

‘Remind me not to throw any cocktail parties for you,' Kingston chuckled.

Alex eyed Kate out of the corner of his eye. ‘Actually Kate's not much better – well, maybe a little better.' He paused to take a sip of wine. ‘It would be fair to say that we both have the tendency to be a trifle antisocial at times.'

‘Nevertheless, you obviously decided to go,' Kingston observed.

‘I did, yes. In the first place, I'd always wanted to visit Bradford-on-Avon. It has some splendid old architecture and I thought, if time permitted, I'd pop up to Lacock Abbey to see the Henry Fox Talbot museum – you know, the photography fellow. Then, the more I thought about it, the idea of a picnic by the river did have a certain appeal – so I went.' He took his eyes off Kingston and gave Kate an apologetic look, knowing that he was being far too talkative.

She flashed him a hurry-it-up look. ‘Annabel told me you and Pam never made it to Lacock.'

He looked flustered.

‘Did you?' she asked with a knowing smile.

‘Well – no, as a matter of fact we–' Alex put a hand to his mouth and coughed. ‘It simply got too late.'

The smile hadn't left Kate's face.

‘Anyway – where was I?' Alex mumbled. He looked back to Kingston who seemed to be enjoying the story immensely. ‘Right. I never did get much of a chance to speak to Kate, though. In fact, the only words I can remember saying when we finally met were, “Happy birthday, Kate.” That was about it.'

Kingston was obviously now caught up in the story. ‘Did you meet again soon after?'

‘No,' said Alex. ‘I was working crazy hours and weekends at my job. On top of that, two nights a week I was playing trombone in a jazz band.'

Kingston smiled benignly. ‘So that was the end of Pamela, I take it? Your friendship ended?'

Kate got up from the table, picked up the bottle of Pomerol and topped up their glasses. ‘Let's just say that it petered out,' she said, straight-faced.

Kingston raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled.

‘Needless to say, Kate and I did meet later, which happily led to all this,' Alex said, reaching over and placing his hand on Kate's.

‘I'm curious,' said Kingston, taking another ninety-degree turn in the conversation, ‘who were the previous owners of The Parsonage?'

‘
Owner
,' Kate answered. ‘An elderly widow by the name of Mabel Cooke.'

‘We never met her, though,' said Alex.

‘So we don't really know whether it was the Cookes who created the garden in the first place,' said Kate. ‘For all we know, it could have been the owners of The Parsonage prior to the Cookes.'

Kingston took a deliberate sip of wine. ‘Well, we do know, for sure, that the garden has existed for many years and whoever had a hand in it knew what they were doing. The design and selection of plants are exceptional.'

It didn't escape Kate's attention that Kingston seemed to be consciously avoiding further conversation about the blue rose. At an appropriate lull in the conversation – when Alex left the table to open another bottle of wine, one of less distinguished parentage – she politely asked him why.

Lowering his wineglass, Kingston smiled at her. ‘I thought I'd save all that for this afternoon – not spoil your lovely lunch, Kate. You're right, of course. There's a lot to talk about.' His voice had lowered and she noted that, for the first time since they'd sat down, the sparkle had gone from his eyes. ‘A lot more than you might imagine,' he said.

 

Kate brought coffee into the living room, pouring a cup for Kingston and one for herself. Alex declined, opting to stick with the last of his wine. He was comfortably settled into an overstuffed armchair awaiting Kingston's words.

Next to Alex, Kate sat perched on the edge of the sofa like a hungry fledgling about to be fed. Already she had taken a liking to Kingston. His frank yet quiet manner had a calming effect on her. At the same time, though she knew it was childish, she found it difficult not to picture him in some bygone era: as a dashing cavalry officer, flying ace or intrepid explorer. Certain of his mannerisms were not unlike those of her father.

She glanced across at Alex, hoping that he would refrain from flippant remarks about gardening. Not that it was of any consequence, since she'd already made it clear to Kingston that Alex was not much into gardening.

Kingston settled into the upholstered wing chair, which had surreptitiously become
his
chair, and eyed them from across the room over his glasses. He was obviously comfortable to be back again in his role of professor.

‘While I won't rule out, entirely, the possibility that a human being has somehow fathomed the genetic riddle of the rose – which, I might add, has remained inviolate for millions of years – I'm more inclined to believe that your rose was an aberration of nature. That a freak cross-pollination has taken place between a rose and another plant. One which was probably blue, containing
delphinidin
pigment.'

‘What are the odds against that happening?' Kate interrupted.

‘Gosh. The odds? In the many millions – could be billions, I suppose.' He paused, rubbing a forefinger on his chin. ‘Remind me, would you – I'll come to the
delphinidin
thing in a minute.'

It appeared that Kate's interjection had broken his rhythm. He gathered his thoughts. ‘Not too long ago I was reading about an Australian company, Florigene. They call themselves molecular breeders of cut flowers. Since the mid-eighties, they've been working on genetic engineering projects with flowers, principally to create new colours in petals. Their number one goal is to create a blue rose. So far – over fifteen years in fact – they've spent millions on their mission, without success.'

‘Fifteen years!' Kate exclaimed.

Alex whistled. ‘Millions, you said.'

‘That's right,' said Kingston. ‘The article stated that they have produced a blue carnation, now being sold commercially. But a blue rose was proving to be a much more complex and difficult task than they'd reckoned on. Let me tell you why.' He got up from the chair.

Inhaling deeply, he proceeded to explain in painstaking detail and – with neat sketches on a large artist's pad that Alex had provided – the cycle by which flowers produce seed.

‘A flower's sole purpose in life,' Kingston said, ‘is seduction.' To reinforce the point, he repeated the word. ‘Seduction – to lure the pollinators: the birds, bees, butterflies and insects. The bright colours and patterns of the flowers act as a magnet. Nectar, resins, oils and perfumes are the reward. But the real purpose of this transaction, the veritable essence of life, is the transfer of pollen from the stamen, the flower's male organ, to the stigma at the tip of the pistil, the plant's female organ, right here.' He stabbed a long bony finger dramatically to the place on his drawing as if it were the target of a cruise missile. ‘Where germination takes place,' he said. ‘This is, more often than not, done by the pollinators. Bear in mind, too, that it can also be achieved by the wind, by animals and, of course, by man. When pollen is deposited on the stigma of a flower, the flower is said to be pollinated.'

At this point Kate excused herself to let in Asp, who was barking at the front door.

‘I'm not putting you to sleep, Alex, am I?' Kingston asked.

‘No, not at all. It's – it's fascinating.'

Kingston smiled, helping himself to more coffee, thus avoiding the immediate need for further conversation with Alex.

Kate returned and Kingston continued where he'd left off.

‘Only certain insects will pollinate certain plants,' he said. ‘We know, too, that the complex genetic structure of each individual plant group prohibits pollen fertilization between unlike plant species.'

‘Which means?' asked Kate.

‘Meaning you can't cross a rose with a daisy. But in your case it looks as if nature has finally hiccuped. It's almost certain that a rose – probably a white one – has cross-pollinated with a blue flower of some kind.'

‘A freak of nature?'

‘Exactly. The only other possible explanation is that it was hybridized by a person or persons unknown.'

Kingston got up from the chair, smoothed his corduroy trousers and stood facing them. With chin raised, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes twinkling, he gave Alex and Kate a self-satisfied smile. ‘Well – there you have it,' he said.

‘What do you suggest we do now?' Kate asked. ‘What do we do with this eighth wonder of the world, Lawrence?'

‘A good question, my dear,' Kingston answered in a more sombre tone. ‘There are some serious issues looming here,' he said, wagging a finger in the air. ‘The first thing we need to address is how to handle the bedlam that's going to erupt when word of a blue rose gets out. Your garden will be emblazoned on the front page of every newspaper and magazine around the globe. The fields around Steeple Tarrant will turn into an international settlement for every reporter and rose fanatic on the planet. Not only that, but every single entity in the world that has anything to do with growing roses will beg, cajole – even cheat or steal to get their hands on the blue rose patent.'

‘God, that sounds horrible,' Kate exclaimed.

Kingston held out his open palms. ‘On the brighter side, if you play your cards right, you could soon be in the tax stratosphere of superstars and sports professionals. The fees and royalties could be monumental.'

‘I suppose commercial rose growers would be the most interested,' said Kate.

‘Absolutely,' said Kingston. ‘There are some big rose companies out there. You can bet your life that David Austin, in this country, will be clamouring to get their hands on the world's first blue rose. In the States, there's any number of big outfits. Jackson and Perkins, in Oregon, is probably the biggest. Then there's Baker-Reynolds, also on the West Coast. In France, the big player is Meilland. In Denmark, it's Poulsen. Any of them would undoubtedly pay an astronomical price for it. To give you some idea, I read recently that the relatively new German rose Flower Carpet has sold over fourteen million plants worldwide in a short span of time – you can just imagine how many
blue
roses could be sold.'