Anthony Eglin - The Blue Rose

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.’