Paul Scarlet Roses

Outside the dining room window separated by a canopy of grape vines and a small patch of grass, was a corrugated iron fence weathered to a dull glaze of rust and covered by a trellis on which a thick profusion of roses grew and sent their delicate perfume into summer afternoons. My Nan's Paul Scarlet roses were her pride, a groaning weight of riotous red spilling over the fence, an eye feast of color seen through the window as we ate our meals. ‘It's a good show this year’, she would proudly say as we sat taking in the rich mix of foliage and flower, deep green and red. Six years old, I took it in and shared my Nan's delight. I would thrust my nose deep into the centre of a bloom to get its full scent. Even when I had a friend around, I always pointed out my Nan's Paul Scarlet roses as if such an acknowledgement was a necessary preface to play. I was so proud.