POOR HER! BY ROSE BOUCHERON I adore African violets, but they’ve always sickened and died on me - until my son Nick fell in love with a girl called Anna I’ve never had much luck with South African violets, yet the sight of one of those sturdy, compact little pot plants is enough to send me inside the florist’s shop to try my luck once more. The exotic purple little flowers with the yellow starry eyes smiling on a winter’s day is sure to send anyone’s spirits soaring, and you really have to admire their impudence at daring to bloom amidst the rigours of an English winter. Be that as it may. I must have spent a small fortune on them, and I have always been very careful to ask advice on how to rear them successfully. “They like shade, madam, to be kept cool and moist.” “Not too much water.” “Plenty of water, and they do not like gas central heating.” Well, that won’t be any problem. I’m not likely to lose one on that account in my unheated Victorian house. “The directions are on the wrapping paper Madam.” This on another occasion as once more I hurry home clutching my precious jewel of a starry-eyed plant. “Never water from the top, and they like a warm atmosphere.” This from a friend who prides herself on her fine pot plants. “But—” “Oh, and they do like their roots moist - and a little bit of cosseting.” She smiles indulgently. Then, as the flowers wither and fade away, the outside leaves sag, and the poor thing is obviously fighting a desperate struggle for life, I resolve never to try again. Much better to concentrate on the ivy which cascades down the wall, the kangaroo vine which is now six feet tall and requires even further staking. The cyclamens which are in bud again, the azaleas I have kept from year to year, and the purple tradescantia thing which only needs to be broken off at the tip and stuck into the soil for it to romp away like one of Queen Elizabeth’s many oak trees. Ah well. What did I do wrong? For now I have another South African violet, only this one is different…..and it came to me in a strange kind of way. My younger son, Nick, has always had his fair share of girl friends ever since he was old enough to notice them. Tall ones, small ones, fair ones, dark ones, girls with glasses and girls without, intellectual girls and girls — well, girls whose brains shall we say, were not their main claim to fame. Until the day, a year ago, when he met Anna. Now Anna was of medium height and had green eyes and high cheekbones and a dimple in her chin. She had black hair which fell to her shoulders so that she looked like an artist’s model, or which she tied tightly back giving her the appearance of a prima ballerina. She also had the most endearing accent, for Anna was Czech. Now I cannot say my husband was delighted with this situation, which looked like being more enduring and on a somewhat more permanent basis than anything that had gone before. He had to admit Anna’s charm and beauty, her intelligence, all the things in fact which my younger son had already observed. “But she isn’t English,” he said. If there is one thing I have learned about my husband as he grows older, it is that he is becoming more British—or Blimpish - whichever you prefer. “Nice girl,” he said. “Very nice girl. But she’ll go the way of the others, I shouldn’t wonder,” and you knew he was thinking—I hope. But then as time wore on and Anna became a more frequent visitor and we all got used to the way the wind was blowing, he said: “Nice girl. Very nice girl. Pity she’s Czech.” “So?” we all said. ‘Well,” he said, “I could wish she’d been English.” “But she wouldn’t be Anna.” we said. “True,” he said, observing how diligent she was, how conscientious; how anxious she was to learn, how neat she always looked with her spotless white collars and cuffs, her endearing excitement at holidays and birthdays and family occasions. For Anna was like quicksilver, swift as a ballet dancer on her toes and if she were still, it was as though she were arrested on the point of flight. She had a natural awareness of life, and a childlike enjoyment of everything it had to offer. Since she was here to learn English, she was staying with a family who had known her parents in Prague. Well, that Christmas she spent with us and she gave us small presents she had made herself, home-made chocolates and candles, and we sat around the fire on Christmas Day and played records of carols sung in St. Paul’s Cathedral and the great churches of Prague. She told us of her home, and her schooldays, and gradually we were made aware of life as it is lived today in that fairy tale city of spires. In the following July, her year in England was up, and as she prepared to pack and go home, we all knew we were going to miss her. And then Nick decided that he was going back with Anna to meet her parents. He would use his holiday and spend it in Prague to see for himself Anna’s home and meet her parents, who had written to us so graciously thanking us for our hospitality. Need I tell you that my husband paced back and forth at the thought of our son in Prague. Why on earth Nick couldn’t have found an English girl. You never knew—and so on—and so forth. “But you like her,” we persisted - the rest of us. “Nice girl,” he said. “But – well – “ We knew. Before she left, tearfully, she gave us small farewell presents, and to me she entrusted something which our son had bought for her some weeks previously so that it had a special significance. “Poor Her!” she said. “I cannot take her to Prague—it is such a long way— she will die! Perhaps you would take care of her until I return?” Her green eyes looked into mine with such trust I took it from her reverently. For of course you have guessed what it was. A South African violet. . . . Ablaze with mauve flowers, the yellow stars shining. I gulped. “Well, I’m not too good with these,” I said. “Oh, just sit her on the window sill and give her a little drink.” She looked up at Nick who smiled at her indulgently, and I was reminded of the great hulky player who had been such a monster on the rugger field. Imagine my son buying this little plant for this green eyed girl... “Well” I said. “Of course I will,” and gingerly placed Poor Her on the window sill, looking at it and willing it to thrive. Then we set off with heavy hearts to Victoria. We watched the train pull out of Victoria Station, two young people hanging out of the window. Anna, her eyes filled with tears, the smooth tied-back hair, the Slav-like cheekbones, soft as apples, the neat white collar and scarlet belt around the navy dress. And Nick, so tall and English, his arm around her shoulders as the train disappeared round the bend. My husband led us back to the car in silence and my mascara ran, and my schoolgirl daughter wept unashamedly, and my elder son made jokes, for we’re like that as a family when we are worried or het up. “Now for a burn up down the Western Avenue! Or how about a stroll down the King’s Road?” My husband spent the next two weeks glued either to the television screen or listening to the radio news. “What are you worried about?” I asked irritably. “Really, we’ve had cards from them. Goodness gracious, lots of people go to Czechoslovakia. Anyone would think they had gone to the moon!” “You never know,” he said darkly. To make matters worse, need I tell you that Poor Her had wilted more than somewhat. One day my elder sun sat it on the middle of the lawn in blazing sun. “Well”, he said cheerfully. “After all, South African, the name speaks for itself, surely it likes warm sunshine!” “Oh, no!” I wailed. “lt’lI die!” “It almost has,” he said unfeelingly. So into a shady corner it went and the outer leaves looked like brown velvet, and the flowers shriveled and died, and I thought, well, I’ll buy her another one, if and when she returns to England. Then came the day in early August when my son returned. Handsome, suntanned, with messages from Anna’s parents, and little gifts for us. With tales of life in that beautiful city, but his eyes were worried and preoccupied, and his thoughts were far away. My husband came to life again, and I felt a surge of gratitude. For Anna was to stay in Prague for a year, taking a secretarial course in French and English, and then she was to come to England the following summer, and the way Nick smiled as he told us, I knew exactly how he felt. Then came that dreadful morning in August. I had been to the shops and when returned I went straight into the garden to bring in the washing I’d done before I went out. I took down the clothes which had dried in the hot sunshine. I heard a sound behind me, and there stood Nick. White faced, near to tears, I hadn’t seen him look like that since he was small. “What is it?” I cried. For one awful moment I thought – Paul, my husband! Something had happened to him. “The Russians are in Prague,” he said. “Oh, no!” I said, and put my arms around him. The picture of that lovely girl flashed before me, her swift smile, her warmth, her hopes.... Unable to speak, we went into the house. In ten minutes, Paul was on the phone. “You see?” he said. “This is what I have been afraid of all along!” “But I never thought,” I said. “No, it was you who said, of course they wouldn’t do this, of course they wouldn’t do that – !” “Well”, I said lamely, for I don’t get het-up over big things, only small irritating ones. So the days passed, with us waiting on the television news, for post which never came, for a line to Prague which was just not possible, and August limped into September. We were due to go away for a few days, but postponed it. It seemed wrong to go away and leave Nick to fret. “If only she could get away,” he said, and each time I looked at Poor Her, my heart sank even further. At times we talked of rescuing her, each of us in a silly James Bond kind of way. “If I went,” I said - for my imagination outreaches them all - “if I went as a tourist, making my way back through Czechoslovakia, I could bundle her into the car under blankets.” Not for nothing had I sat through countless spy films. “Well - I was just wondering if it would be possible to use a helicopter - or dress as a Russian sentry,” Paul said. I looked at him swiftly and smiled for I realised in that moment that he was as keen to get Anna out as the rest of us. He had accepted her. As the days wore on with no news of her, we watched the television news, searching every little crowd who jeered and booed for a glimpse of Anna’s face, waiting to hear of any casualties after a sporadic burst of firing. Until one day, late in September, when the telephone rang, and a small far-away voice said: “It’s me - Anna. I’m in Switzerland!” Oh the relief of it! Even Poor Her seemed to revive a little, didn’t look quite so dead. She had, it seemed, to wait for a British permit, and this took some time. When it did come through, quite suddenly, we said: “We’ll go and meet her - let’s go to Switzerland!” So then we packed our things and left Jane and Thomas to hold the fort, and before we left I looked at Poor Her, who was on her last legs, so to speak. Jane will have enough to do without worrying about pot plants, I thought, so I picked up a handful of small stones from the garden and put them in a dish, and sat Poor Her in that. At Ieast, she wouldn’t dry out for a few days. Then I put her on the windowsill in Anna’s room and Paul and Nick and I set off for Dover. I can’t tell you of the suppressed excitement of my son, who drove like a demon across France to reach the Swiss border – who left us in the market square of the little Swiss town, while he went farther up the mountainside to the chalet where friends were taking care of his precious Anna… Or of the moment when, having drunk three coffees apiece, we saw our car coming back across the market square, which was deserted, and of the slim dark-haired figure who got out and was running over to us in a flash, her black hair flying, and who flung her arms around us. “Oh, I’m so happy, so happy!” Behind the glasses, my husband’s eyes were warm, and he hugged her for a moment and cleared his throat. “Come along, then,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go”. For her kind Swiss friends had invited us up to the chalet for lunch to celebrate the reunion. It was a very gay party indeed which crossed into France en route for England. The journey flew like lightning with tales from Anna of the occupation, and stories from Nick as to how he had survived the enforced separation. We were reaching Calais when Anna suddenly said: “How is Poor Her?” “Well,” I said. “Not too strong, I’m afraid.” Oh - well, never mind. My Papa says to put the pot into a dish and fill it with little pebbles so that it keeps moist, and never put it in the sun, but always in the shade. So we shall see.” We shall, I thought. And wondered for a time about her parents in Prague, thankful now that their beloved daughter was on her way to freedom. How they would miss her.... Once back again in the shelter of our own home, I put the kettle on for tea, then escaped from the noisy chatter and made my way upstairs. Once I had changed I went up to Anna’s room to see that all was ready for her. On the windowsill was the little plant, with thick sturdy green leaves, from the centre of which sprung four stalks each with a tight brown bud atop! One of these was half open to reveal a lovely mauve flower. “Poor Her!” I shrieked, almost falling down the stairs. “Poor Her’s got a bud!” “Really. Mother!” My elder son stood in the hall looking up at me, more like a professor than ever behind his horn rims. “Control yourself,” he said. And I walked sedately down the rest of the stairs. THE END © Rose Boucheron 1970