‘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.’
A worried look clouded Kingston’s face. ‘My advice is that you start immediately counselling the various kinds of professionals – patent lawyers, accountants and such – who are going to be essential to maintain control of what could otherwise become a nightmare.’ He scratched his forehead, as if trying to conjure something he had overlooked. ‘Oh yes, I remember what it was – there’s an extensive collection of roses out there in your garden, and it’s a certainty that whoever planted and cared for them is, or was, a dyed-in-the-wool rose enthusiast. What’s more, it’s not totally out of the question that he, or she, might have been tinkering with hybridizing. If that’s the case then there may be some records stored away somewhere. It’s taken for granted that anybody making a serious attempt at hybridizing must keep a log of some kind. It’s a long shot, but you never know.’
‘The only person we can ask is the previous owner, Mrs Cooke,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll call Julian, our estate agent, and see if he has her new phone number. Maybe she can shed some light on the matter.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ said Alex. ‘If she knew she had a blue rose in the garden she would have hardly kept it a secret, would she?’
‘I still can’t figure out how come she, her husband, or somebody else, didn’t know about it,’ Kate responded. ‘I agree, it’s well hidden, but do you mean to tell me that all the time it’s been out there nobody has seen it?’
‘And if they had, wouldn’t they have known of its rarity and tried to sell it?’ Alex interjected.
Kingston raised a hand. ‘You’re assuming that it’s been blooming all these years, Kate. It’s a mutant, and there’s a lot we don’t about this rose. Who’s to say that it will behave like a normal rose? Plus, there are other factors that might explain poor or non-florescence–’
‘Florescence?’ Alex cut in.
‘Flowering, blooming,’ Kingston replied. ‘Roses won’t do well in a soil that’s too alkaline. It’s possible that there’s chalk in that part of the garden. It’s not in a very sunny spot, either – another factor influencing flower production. Add these together and it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that it’s only just started blooming. We will never know.’
‘You’ve convinced me,’ said Kate.
‘Well, if you do find anything more, let me know right away,’ Kingston said, walking over to the coffee table, placing his cup and saucer on the tray.
Kate sensed that, for today, at least, they had exhausted the subject of the blue rose. Alex was about to leave the room when Kingston spoke again. His words were carefully chosen and articulated. ‘Kate and Alex, let me say this. I’m not sure, yet, that either of you grasp fully the significance and enormous impact that this discovery is going to have on the international world of horticulture and commerce. There’s no doubt in my mind that the two of you could become exceedingly wealthy, but you’d best prepare yourselves for some surprises and some sacrifices, too. I’m sure these can be minimized if you exercise reasonable care and good judgement.’ His expression became less serious. ‘What we have to do is to assemble a competent team of professional people to handle the legal work, management and marketing of this awesome rose. It’s going to take a lot of your time and a lot of hard work on your part.’
Kate noted that Kingston had said ‘we’.
‘What’s the first step, then?’ Alex asked.
‘To find a good lawyer.’
‘How do we go about that?’ asked Kate. ‘Blue roses are hardly a legal specialty.’
‘A patents specialist is the closest I can think of,’ said Alex.
Kingston nodded. ‘I think you’
re probably right, Alex.’
‘There must be some kind of referral service, I would imagine,’ said Kate.
‘There is,’ Kingston replied. ‘You need to call the Law Society. They recommended a solicitor for me a number of years ago. As a matter of fact, I think they have a website. You may want to check, Alex.’
Alex grinned. ‘What were you accused of?’
Kate flashed him a disapproving look.
Kingston smiled. ‘We were defending old Rascal.’
Alex frowned. ‘Old Rascal?’
‘Our beagle. Took a chunk out of one of the neighbourhood kids who’d been baiting him. Mother took us to court.’
‘You gave him the right name,’ said Kate, smiling.
‘What was the outcome?’ Alex asked.
‘He got off with probation, thankfully. Anyway, I know the Law Society will find you just the right man.’
‘Or woman,’ said Kate.
‘Well, of course,’ Kingston quickly corrected himself.
Contorting his long limbs like a giant cricket, Kingston squirmed expertly into the cramped quarters of his highly polished TR4, slamming the door with authority. ‘You know, once word gets out about this rose,’ he shouted over the noise of the engine, ‘your world will never be quite the same.’ Then, with a wave of his gloved hand, he was gone.
As the gurgling exhaust of his sports car faded into the distance, an exhausted Alex and a thoroughly bemused Kate stared at each other for a few seconds, then started laughing, helplessly. It was an outburst of both relief and pent-up exhilaration.
Hand in hand, they walked back into the house.
Chapter Five
Any fool would trade his left toe for a blue rose – it’s worth a potential fortune. Worldwide, twenty-five billion dollars are spent on cut flowers annually, one fifth of that on roses.
Rayford Reddell, rose grower, author
The Blue Rose Page 4