The bicycle could be heard approaching long before it came into sight along the lane. Something metallic scraped and squeaked rustily as it made its way ponderously along. A wren in the hedgerow bordering the track churred briefly, more in irritation than alarm, and a blackbird in the field beyond paused in its foraging among the grass to cock its head and regard the newcomer balefully for a moment, before going back to its activities with a dismissive shake of its feathers.

"Blast that chain!" swore the man riding the bike softly.  "I thought I'd got the thing fixed!"

The bicycle wound its way laboriously towards the wooden gate that marked the end of the lane, its passage punctuated by increasingly louder scraping and squeaking and muttered remarks by its rider like "WD40" and "superior British workmanship my arse." The wildlife in the vicinity didn't give it another look, and showed no sign of being bothered by his comments.

Eventually, it reached its destination, and the man dismounted and turned the bicycle so that he could lean it against the gate. Stiffly, the man knelt down and examined the offending chain, reaching out and rattling it briefly, before straightening slowly with a shake of his head. He regarded the machine for a moment, then took a step backwards and drew his right foot back, as if he was about to kick it. But at the last moment he thought better of it, and lowered his foot. Instead, he looked up into the sky, shading his eyes with his hand as he did so. The sun hung above the horizon, high and bright in an acre of blue.

He smiled.

"Funny how the sun always shines when I come here," he murmured. "But if that bus in the village is ever more than five minutes late, whoosh! Down comes the rain..."

Shaking his head ruefully and muttering about the vagaries of the English weather, the man reached down towards the pannier attached to the rack at the rear of the bicycle.  He undid the straps and opened it up, then reached almost gingerly inside to remove its contents, clicking his tongue his he did so.

"Hope they're not as badly squashed as last time... I don't know, must be an easier way to carry 'em round than this..."

He finished lifting the bundle out and held it up to examine it. It was quite a long, broad package, wrapped in multiple pages from a copy of 'The Times' newspaper. The bottom of the bundle was stained and darkened by water. The man grunted.

"Doesn't look too bad this time... let's see..."

Carefully he began to unwrap the bundle, mindfully stuffing each sheet of the paper back into the pannier as he removed it. He smiled again as he neared the completion of his task.

"Yes... yes, they're fine. Quite fine!"

In his hands was now a bunch of roses, their stems carefully clipped to remove the worst of the thorns. The blooms at the end of the stems were magnificent; thick, rich blossoms of dark ruby-red that almost glowed beneath the light of the sun. The man lifted them to his face and inhaled; he smiled again.

"Not lost their scent, either, but then..." he craned his neck and looked up once more into the sky, addressing the rest of his remark as if to someone up there, "you grew 'em so they never would, didn't you?"

The only sound in reply was the faint passage of the wind through the hedgerow and the grass in the bordering meadow, but the man smiled and nodded, as if taking that for an answer.

Perhaps it was.

***

The rest of the journey he took on foot; well, you couldn't really get a bicycle up the slope of the hill he was ascending, particularly not the one he was using. And even if he could, he wouldn't have. It always seemed more, well, right, that you undertook this part of the journey on foot. It was how he'd first made the trip, all those years ago. Too many years than he preferred to think about. It wasn't that getting old bothered him, but...

He paused, produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and used it briefly to dab at the sweat beading his brow. He glanced at the damp cotton irritably afterwards, and muttered darkly, completing his train of thought:

"But there's going to come a time, when I'll be too old to make this trip..."

He glanced from the handkerchief to the roses clutched in his other hand, then to his place of destination, at the top of the hill. A breeze lifted around him, stirring his grey hair slightly, and cooling the perspiration on his forehead. From somewhere high above, a skylark began to sound, clearly and sweetly, revelling in the afternoon.

With that, the gloom lifted from the man. He smiled.

"But not, I think, today."

Tucking the handkerchief away again, he set off again, with a little more pace and vigour than earlier. And before he knew it, he had reached his destination, at the top of the hill.

Where stood, as it had been standing for centuries, the massive shape of the old oak tree.

***

He had no idea how old the tree actually was. He recalled that he had asked once - perhaps even more than once - and had been told that it was 'ageless'. Looking up at it again from so close, he could well believe that claim.

The oak was, well, huge. He'd never seen one so big, nor so... permanent. He guessed that its roots stretched deep down within the hill, and probably down beyond too. He glanced up, towards the top of the tree, having to shade his eyes from the dazzle of the sunlight that filtered through the branches. So high did those branches reach up, that he felt almost dizzy looking up like this.

"Imagine trying to climb the bugger!" he breathed. He bet someone had tried. There were plenty of branches low enough and secure enough for someone to begin an ascent, and almost certainly a perfect network of branches to get you to the top. Like just there, for instance. If you went from that branch to that one there, and-

He shook his head and chuckled, casting his gaze and his aspirations back down to earth again. He had never been much of a one for scaling trees even as a youth, and he was well beyond that sort of prime now. But give him back forty years...

"Oh yes," he chuckled again. "And while you're at it, you can give me a million quid and Raquel Welch's phone number!"

Still chuckling, he circled around the tree, as if reacquainting himself with it, pausing every now to examine something on or in the bark. The tree was home to a multitude of wildlife; insects, animals (he'd observed a family of squirrels in the branches on more than one occasion), and birds, especially owls. The tree was a favourite roost for the most enigmatic of nocturnal predators. You could always find traces of their pellets scattered beneath the tree.

But there was no presence of man about the tree; no litter, nor no initials or graffiti carved into the bark. Strangely, though, he was never surprised that this was the case. If you regarded the tree in a certain way, there was a definite sense of... forbiddance, about it. But he rarely felt that way about it.

He reached out and patted the bark lovingly. "Nice to know some things never, ever change."

The breeze stirred the tree, making it seem, to him at any rate, as though it were agreeing.

He felt sure it was.

***

His little wander down memory lane completed, he got on with the prime reason for his visit. He took a step back away from tree and stared at it for a moment, then bent down and almost reverently placed the bunch of roses at its base, positioning them slightly so they were tucked out of the way more from the elements.

He straightened up, and stood staring at the tree again for a moment, almost awkwardly, as if not entirely certain of what to do next.

Then he spoke, softly and gently, as if addressing another person, rather just an inanimate object.

"They've bloomed well this season, after a little early trouble with aphids. Tried that little trick with the liver salts and the Soy sauce you recommended - worked a treat, just like you said. Not seen too many ladybirds, though - reckon that might be because of the winter, and that cold snap we had in March. But we have loads of butterflies - loads! They love that Heliopsis, particularly the tortoise-shells. Been practically fighting among 'emselves to get at it!

"The rest of the village is in pretty good nick. Was talk of 'em putting themselves into one of those national competitions, you know, Best Kept Village and all that. But, well, you know how the folks are there... much like yourself, treating gardening as a pleasure rather than as something competitive. I mean, can you imagine old Captain Brasendale taking orders from the Vicar on the size of the grass on his lawn? Never happen!

"Mrs Benson has been talking about opening up a tea-room in the shop again, but I don't think anything will come of it. Not like Little Tuddenham gets many tourists, now, is it? 'Course, if she did open one, it would mean we'd be able to taste her cakes more often than just at the fete and the church jumble sales, but as you always said, some things are worth waiting for! Mind you, you have to say that, all things considered, if-"

It was at that moment he realised that there was someone behind him. He'd had that vague impression since about halfway through after he began speaking, but he'd grown so used to the idea that he was never actually alone when ever he visited the tree, that he'd paid the feeling no concern.

This time, it was different. This time, there was someone there, and they were standing behind him.

He swung round in fright, heart hammering wildly in his chest suddenly. In reaction to this, the person standing behind him gave a little start, as if frightened themselves.

"Oh!" cried the person.

"Oh!" cried the man, and for a moment, that was all either of them could say, each struck momentarily speechless by the presence of the other. It did allow them both the opportunity to size each other up though, besides the chance to recover from their surprise.

He saw that the newcomer was a tall woman with short dark hair, approximately middle-aged but quite handsome, with distinctive, almost exotic features and dark, inquisitive eyes. She was dressed plainly and sensibly, in clothing as dark as her hair, but again there was something distinctive and vaguely exotic about the style of her apparel.

She's not from around here...in every sense of the word.

He felt a brief flicker - a frisson, almost - of recognition when he looked at her, but he couldn't immediately remember who she was, or where he'd seen her, and the sensation quickly passed.

She spoke first. Cultured English, a little too cultured to be natural, again with a faintest hint of something foreign, something exotic.

"I'm dreadfully sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"That's, ah, okay. I was, um, a bit, well, distracted."

It struck him suddenly how foolish he must have seemed to her, standing there talking to a tree like that. A crazy old man, that's probably how she saw him. She ought to be more startled than he was, but after her initial fright, she seemed a lot calmer than he certainly felt.

And there was that sensation again, that he knew her, recognised her from somewhere.

But still, her identity eluded him.

She bobbed her head contritely. "I apologise for disturbing you from that, too. If I had known that someone else would have been here, I would not have come." She bobbed her head again. "I am sorry."

He held up a hand. "No, no, that's all right... I should have been a paying more attention myself, instead of getting carried away doing, well..."

He trailed off, awkwardly, simultaneously embarrassed and unwilling to discuss what exactly he was doing. But to his surprise, the woman smiled, and nodded, as if in understanding.

"You don't have to explain. I think I get the gist of what you're doing here." She indicated towards the bunch of roses resting at the foot of the tree, then added, rather hesitantly: "In many ways... I believe I am probably here for much the same reason as you."

The penny dropped. Of course... of course!

"So... you knew him too, then?"

She smiled, wistfully. "Yes. Yes, I think you can say that. And you?"

"Yes. Oh yes. Maybe not as well as some, but... he was my friend."

She nodded. "He was a friend to many. More, possibly, than even he knew."

He smiled. "I think I know what you mean. He got around a bit, didn't he?"

That made her laugh. "Yes! He certainly did!"

"But he left his mark..."

"Yes. And he was never forgotten, by any of those he left it upon."

"Indeed not."

They both fell silent for a moment, before he added, a little hesitantly:

"That's... why I'm here, really."

She smiled. "Yes... me too." She indicated to the roses again. "May I?"

He stepped aside. "Please do!"

She went across and knelt beside the roses to examine them more thoroughly. "They're lovely. Are they yours?"

He knelt beside her as well. "Well... yes and no. I look after 'em now, but he... well, he was the one that planted them in the first place."

She picked one of the stems up, and held the blossom up to her face. She took a breath, and smiled, sadly again. "Yes... I recognise the scent. His favourite strain."

The man nodded slowly. "He loved his garden. Especially his roses."

Her sad smile remained. "Yes, he did."

"I look after it for him now, you see. Keep it ticking over. Not nearly as good as what he could, mind, but..."

She looked up at him and smiled again, reassuringly this time. "I'm sure you do very well, otherwise he wouldn't have entrusted it to you."

He couldn't help but blush at that. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Do you have a lot of bees? Butterflies?"

He grinned widely. "Yes. Oh yes! Loads of 'em!"

"Good! He always loved his bees, and his butterflies." A faraway look settled across her face. "He used to tend a garden at home that attracted the most gorgeous butterflies... it was like a living sea of colour, sometimes. Whole masses of them, dancing and playing in the breeze." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Their colours... their grace and beauty. The gentleness, and the fragility... so fragile. So very, very fragile..."

She closed her eyes suddenly, and turned her head away from him. He found he had to look away too, and blink furiously to clear the haze that misted his vision. Something in her voice, the way she spoke, reminded him of someone else, another woman he'd known, helped...

Watched die.

Jane. Oh Jane. If only... if only...I... I...

He closed his eyes too, and fought to control his emotions. He didn't want to cry, not now, not here.

He wanted to wait until he got home before he did that.

***

The rest of the afternoon seemed to pass quickly. They just spent the time around the tree, in the sunshine, talking about nothing and everything. Remembering. Sharing and exchanging memories. Sad but happy. Happy but sad.

Such was life.

The sky was beginning to bruise with evening and the birds were beginning to mark the passage of day into night with a farewell chorus by the time they made their way slowly back down to the gate at the bottom of the hill, where the man's bicycle was still waiting. There was no sign of any conveyance for the woman, but perhaps she had left it somewhere else. It wasn't a great road for a bicycle, let alone a car.

"Do you have far to go?" asked the woman.

"Not far," replied the man. "Little Tuddenham, a village about four or five miles away. How about you? You got far to go?"

"A fair ways," she said simply, and left it at that. He knew better than to press her further on the matter. He recognised a closed answer when he heard one. He'd had plenty of experience of them.

Besides, he suspected he knew exactly what she meant by a fair ways. And he suspected she knew he understood what she meant too.

Some things didn't have to be spoken, nor explained, when you'd experienced what the pair of them had experienced.

They reached the gate, and he stopped and looked at her. "You know," he asked shyly, "you're more than welcome to come back with me, if you like. I'm no genius in the kitchen, but if you fancied a pot of tea and bit of cake..."

She smiled, but shook her head. "That's very kind of you, but there are things I must be getting back to." She glanced around and pulled a wry face. "Really and truthfully, I shouldn't even be here at all, but... well..." She paused, then looked back at him and smiled again. "But, perhaps, some other time? I'd certainly love to see your garden."

He beamed. "Of course! Any time you like!"

"Splendid!" She held out a hand. "I shall be sure to call in, the next time I am in the area, mister, um...?"

He grasped her hand and shook it warmly. "Newman. Jack Newman."

She nodded in acknowledgement. "A pleasure to have met you Mr Newman. My name is Susan - Susan Campbell."

Jack's mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. "Oh! Susan - the Susan?"

She giggled slightly at the way he said that. "Yes, I suppose I am that Susan!"

He shook her hand again, with more energy. "Then it's a double pleasure to meet you! Goodness, I've heard so much about you!"

She laughed. "All good, I hope!"

"Nothing but good!" he chuckled.

"Oh, perfect!" she giggled. "In that case, I shall most definitely hasten my return!"

They both laughed at that, then, perhaps in celebration of the discovery of this new bond, they hugged, briefly, like two old friends saying goodbye at the railway station. They were still smiling when they parted, though their gazes were a little mistier. Or perhaps, that was just down to the chill approach of evening.

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

"Now, I must go," she said quietly.

"Yes," he replied woodenly. "Me too."

She stepped back, and raised a hand in farewell. "Goodbye, Mr Newman. Take care."

"You too."

She turned and slowly started off along the hedgerow, into the meadow. He knew better than to wonder, let alone question, why she appeared to be walking off in the direction of nowhere, particularly now he knew who she was. But she'd only gone a few steps when she stopped again, and looked up.

"Fade away, and radiate," she said distantly.

"I beg your pardon?" replied Jack, uncertain if he'd heard her properly. She looked over at him.

"Fade away, and radiate," she repeated, a little louder. She pointed up into the sky. "Look."

He followed the direction of her finger. There above, just about visible in the darkening sky, was the first star of the evening, twinkling away.

"An old saying from where we came from, and which he used to tell me as a child," she explained softly. "Fade away, and radiate. Just like that star. It probably burnt out centuries ago, but its light will shine on through the universe forever more." She glanced at him and smiled. "Do you see?"

He nodded, and smiled too. "Yes, I do. A beautiful notion... and highly appropriate."

Her smile broadened. "I knew you'd understand, Mr Newman. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Susan."

He watched her turn away and walk across the field, vanishing gradually into the pre-dusk gloom. Then a thought suddenly struck him, and he started to move after her, throwing up an arm and calling out:

"Wait! I didn't give you my address! How will you know where to find me?"

Her voice drifted back from the gloom:

"... By the scent of the roses, Mr Newman. By the scent of the roses..."

Then she was gone. He smiled, and shook his head.

"Of course... of course."

He started to climb over the gate, then paused, and glanced up towards the tree, framed in the burnt-orange glow of the setting sun.

"Fade away, and radiate," he murmured. "Yes... absolutely right."

For an instant - a split instant - Jack fancied someone was watching him from beneath the tree.

Then he shivered, and the sensation passed.

"Getting old," he murmured as he clambered laboriously over the gate. "And getting cold! Catch my death out here... going to bang that kettle straight on when I get home, and run myself a great, big bath..."

He climbed on to the bicycle, and pedalled slowly away, his passage accompanied by the mournful scrape and rattle of the malfunctioning chain. He didn't really notice it much this time.

His mind was on better things.

***

The noise of the bicycle faded away, and for a moment, silence and stillness descended upon the area around the oak. Then there was a new noise; footsteps, crunching in the rough ground beneath the tree. A shadow fell across the roses still lying at its base.

The footsteps halted. A pale hand, gnarled and liver-spotted with age, reached down to gently pluck up one of the rose blooms. The hand lifted the bloom to its face; there was the sound of a deep inhalation, then, quietly, a man's voice sighed:

"Time's roses, scented with memory."

The man placed the rose in the buttonhole of his dark coat, then politely and gratefully doffed the bowler hat he was wearing towards the direction the bicycle had taken. Then he turned away, and plodded slowly back down the hill into the dusk, to disappear among the shadows, from whence he came.