It was a dusky winter morning, and Syd Appleton was opening his synthetic flower stall for the day. The stall faced the automatic doors in the entrance of London Victoria train station. Due to the awkward placing of the stall, a sharp bitter wind would constantly slip through the doors and cause Syd to stomp his feet and chatter his teeth. He wore a thick woolly hat and black fingerless gloves in a futile attempt to keep himself warm. His gloves were frayed where he had been incessantly rubbing his hands together.
Syd flicked a switch on the neon sign and the title ‘Syd’s Synthetics’ lit up an intense fluorescent pink. The sign frazzled, and burnt his vision. With watering eyes, he grabbed for the hip-flask in his jacket pocket. He unscrewed the top and lugged at the hip-flask. The fiery whiskey burnt his throat and made him wheeze. Syd, who was forty-two, was sent into a fit of coughing. He pulled out his inhaler and took a deep puff. Once he had finished coughing, he sat down in the camper chair and placed the opened hip-flask in the drinks pocket.
The time was approaching half six and the first rays of sun shone through the glass doors. Daylight brought the usual sweep of businessmen and women, idly staring at their mobile phones as they rushed past the stall. A mindless commuter would often knock over a few flowers whilst swinging their suitcase. Syd peered over his stall and saw a trodden chrysanthemum on the floor. He reached over and snatched the flower in between the flurry of leather lace-up shoes. The flower had wilted and it started to crackle. Syd sighed whilst reaching under the stand for a syringe and a vial of artificial feed. He pierced the flower’s stem with the syringe and squeezed the dark red liquid feed into it. The flower stopped crackling and grew a few centimetres. Its petals turned a bittersweet shade of orange. Syd placed the glowing flower back on the stall with the other paler chrysanthemums. He lay back in his camper chair and closed his eyes, shutting the morning rush out of his senses.
Above Syd’s head a speaker announced the seven o’clock train to Brighton was now boarding. The speaker startled Syd, and he jumped to attention, knocking the hip-flask from his chair. He watched the cloudy brown liquid leak onto the floor tiles.
‘Excuse me? I was hoping you could give me some advice.’
Syd looked up to see a lady standing on the opposite side of the stall, thumbing through the lilies and geraniums. Long black hair and oversized sunglasses covered her face. As far as Syd knew, she was the first person to stop by his stall this morning. He gave her an awkward smile.
'What is it?’ Syd spoke with a low, throaty rasp.
‘Well, I was looking for something for my daughter. Do you think she’d like this?’ The lady held up a pale lily to Syd’s face.
‘Oh, you don’t want one of those.’
‘Why?’ The lady peered up from the lily and Syd caught a glimpse of her auburn eyes peeking from under her sunglasses.
‘The battery life on those things is awful. Even with perfect care, the longest a lily will last is a day or two. Now this is what you need!’ Syd passed the lady the recently fed chrysanthemum, whilst he mopped the whiskey up with a paper towel stuck to his foot.
The lady looked over the petals and smiled.
‘It is pretty, yes. I hope my daughter will like it.’
‘Well, yes! They’re all the rage with teenagers these days!’ Syd lied. No teenagers were interested in flowers.
‘I wish that was the case with my Lucy. I want her to be interested in flowers! I want her to be excited and moved by a beautiful red rose, or a delicate white snowdrop. I swear that girl’s only interested in black and white.’
‘A little colour in your life is always sure to put you in a good spirit.’ Syd spoke with a philosophical air in his voice.
‘Of course, these are colourful, but there’s really nothing quite as captivating as a real flower.’
‘I’ve not seen a real flower for years.’
‘I don’t think anyone has. Well, anyone except for the rich. I think they hoard real flowers along with fruit and wine. Flowers should be free for all, if you ask me!’
‘What I would give to smell a real flower again. That’s what I miss the most. These imitations have no smell.’ Syd picked out a carnation and held it to his nose. No smell. He frowned, and then placed the flower back.
Syd sold the chrysanthemum to the lady and she thanked him and left. He watched her long legs stride under her skirt as she walked towards the train platforms. He sat back in his camper chair and looked at the spilt hip-flask on the ground. He picked up the flask and turned it upside down, causing the final drop of whiskey to fall to the ground. He screwed the top back onto the flask and returned it to his jacket pocket. His stomach rumbled. He took a small chunk of chocolate from his other pocket and dropped it into his mouth. He vigorously chewed at the chocolate. The hard chocolate became stuck between his teeth. He meditated as he sucked and grinded his teeth on the tough chocolate.
‘If only I could find a real flower! To look at, to touch, and to smell a real flower even for just a few moments would make me ecstatic. Better than that, if only I could have a real flower to keep! It would be mine! And other people would love it.’
Syd spent the rest of the day sat in his camper chair, thinking about real flowers as he watched the lifeless people walk by. The dark haired lady had caused a hunger for beauty within him. He served a handful of customers throughout the day, all wanting to buy roses. His roses were terrible and would rarely last a day before losing their deep tone of scarlet and wilting.
Six o’clock came and Syd began to close up his stall. He flicked off the neon sign and collapsed the camper chair, pushing it under the stall table. He checked the money in his cash draw, and he retrieved a couple of notes and a few pound coins. He slipped the money into his wallet. He’d made twenty five pounds today, which would barely go towards paying his stall rental fee. As he sprayed the synthetic flowers with artificial feed, he gazed absently into the newsagents. From afar, he read the front page of an art magazine. It read, ‘Our generation’s greatest artist! Glen Ash!’ A black and white image of a bald man adorned the page, presumably being the famous Glen Ash. He was wearing a long gray tunic, and he stood in front of a wall of black and white polka dots. Syd recognised the man in the photograph, but he thought the recognition to be no more than a coincidence. After all, he saw a lot of people who look like that walk through the station every day.
Evening had come by now, and the day was dwindling down with the last rush of commuters. Syd was to join these, and he left Victoria station to begin his short walk home. As usual, he passed a row of huge houses on the way to his flat. He wondered why he’d never been asked to make deliveries to places like these. Seldom was he asked to deliver flowers, but when he did, he would always end up delivering to small flats and houses in the poorer areas of east London.
Syd thought back to the lady from earlier, and he became fixated on real flowers again. A few moments later, he had stopped walking. He found himself looking up at a large three story Victorian house. An uncontrollable emotion had filled him, and he couldn’t understand why. Then he picked up on an unfamiliar smell. The smell pleased him, it was a light smell, yet at the same time it smelt thick. A hint of vanilla rushed up his nostrils, making him smile. He took in the fragrance for a few moments and then realised the force of the smell. The aroma enveloped him and he closed his eyes, imagining a picturesque garden complete with cherry red roses, fuchsia peonies, magenta azaleas and amethyst lilacs.
‘It’s lilac! It’s lilac!’ He gasped, and felt a sharp nerve tingle in the back of his neck. He looked up and it was raining. The rain warning siren began to sound throughout the streets, and the fire hydrants began to spurt out cleaning chemicals. He took his protective goggles from his jacket pocket and put them on his face, adjusting the lenses to completely protect his eyes. It was foolish to spend too long in the rain, so he left the aroma behind and started towards his flat. Throughout the streets, people were running to get inside from the rain. As Syd took a brisk pace towards his flat, an elderly woman slipped over into a puddle and landed on her face. She lay on the cold pavement, kicking her feet, waving her arms and screaming ‘help!’ Syd stopped to help her up. The rain had tinted the old woman’s face a light green.
‘Are you alright?’ Syd asked her.
The woman gave him a frightening glare. Her eyes seemed to penetrate his vision. She bawled at him, spitting in his face.
‘The rain is ‘ere! God is punishin’ us! We’re all rotten sinners! You! Me! Everyone!’
Syd left her and began to run on. ‘Religious nutcases’, he muttered under his breath.
Soon after leaving the woman, Syd arrived outside his flat. He pushed open the crooked front door, and made his way into the darkened doorway, where he noticed the light bulb was flickering on and off. He climbed up the stairs and around a bend which bought him to the flat door. He turned his key in the door and pushed it open, causing the door to make a loud creak across the vinyl floor. He entered the flat and automatically reached out to turn on the television. A fuzzy picture of the seven o’clock news came on. He then left the television switched on and walked into the kitchen to wash up his rain soaked clothes.
Syd dropped the goggles into soapy water and scrubbed them with a thick scour. He gazed outside as he cleaned the goggles. The rain was dying down and siren slowed to a halt. A man wearing a yellow boiler suit and protective helmet stood below in the street, spraying the pavement with a hose to wash off the chemicals. Syd turned away from the window and began to undress. He took off his stained green jacket and hat and dropped them into the soapy water. He untied his shoes and left them on the floor. He then placed his red work shirt, black trousers and imitation cotton socks into the washing machine. He poured himself a short glass of whiskey, which he automatically lifted to his mouth and drunk in one gulp. He opened the fridge and took out a solid chunk of cheddar cheese. He cut off a few thin slivers from the chunk and placed them on a plate. He sat at his small kitchen table and ate the cheese. The weather report droned on in the next room.
‘Tomorrow we can expect more rain! So don’t forget your goggles on the way to work! If you’re day off, how about you stay in and make the most of the rainy day? I know I shall be snuggled up on my sofa with a hot cup o’ Has Bean coffee! It’s the gourmet coffee with five times the caffeine of your regular coffee. It’s guaranteed to put an extra spring in your step!’
Syd walked into the living room and moaned at the forecast. A man dressed in a plain grey suit was smiling and swinging his arms in exaggerated movements over a map of the United Kingdom. Scotland and parts of the north of England were completely blanked out. The surrounding seas were covered by dense fog. The news then cut to an advert for protective eye goggles. Syd turned off the television. He noticed a mark on the black screen, so he reached for a duster from the coffee table. He wiped the screen, being careful not to push too hard on the surface. He then used a healthy measure of polish on the coffee table and gave that a good wipe too.
Syd’s lounge was delicately thought out. He didn’t own much, but he still believed in making his home look presentable. His red faux leather sofa was kept in immaculate condition, with three yellow and pink polka dot cushions sitting upon it. A large bookcase dominated much of the room, with shelves decorated by synthetic plants and books.
Syd reached for a book entitled The Complete Guide to Lilac – with Photographic Examples. On the cover was a picture of a flowering lilac with pink and purple petals. The book was dated from 1994. Syd had found it up at a jumble sale a few years before. He opened the book and flicked through the pages, browsing over highly glossed photographs of lilac. He left the book open on chapter eight and sat down on the sofa. He began to read:
‘Chapter eight: Smell. The deep smell of lilac has been appreciated for thousands of years. In China, the fragrant Amur tree lilac (Syringa reticulata) was often used in traditional perfumes. The aroma is said to give off a clean smell with tinges of vanilla. This fresh smell is often attributed to innocence.’
Syd continued to read until he fell into a deep sleep. He lay yawning with the book spread across his lap. A drop of saliva fell from his mouth to the glossy page.
Syd was awoken by the phone the next morning. He picked up the receiver of his vintage yellow touch-tone telephone.
‘Hello?’
‘Hullo. Sorry, I know it’s early, but I was hoping you could deliver me some more of your fabulous chrysanthemums? The same as the one you sold me yesterday?’
‘Yesterday?’ Syd took a moment to remember the woman from the day before. ‘Oh yes, I do remember. Well, I’ll check my supplies. That should be fine though. Is half six in the evening okay?’
‘That’s perfect. Well, if you could deliver them my office on Old Brompton Road? It’s in the top floor of Carver house. Ask for Sophie Smith on the intercom. I’d like ten chrysanthemums if you have them?’
‘I’ll have a look.’
‘Thank you ever so much! By the way I think my daughter really liked the chrysanthemum. I’m very happy for her.’
Syd put down the receiver and entered the bathroom. He took a quick shower, heavily scrubbing himself over with a bar of tough soap. Small flakes of skin fell from his nose where the rain had dropped the day before. As he turned the shower off, he began to cough and sneeze due to the thick steam that built up around the bathroom. He reached for the window and pushed it open. A loud voice could be heard outside. Syd poked his head through the window to see who was speaking.
‘Our planet is now impoverished due to our sins! It is our fault we are living in this mess of an existence which we continue to call life! Is this really life though? This is really a living hell! We as humans have been too greedy! Too consumerist! We have been impoverished!’
The speaker was a bald man holding a megaphone to his lips. He was surrounded by a group of people; all dressed alike with shaven heads. Syd shouted to the congregation below.
‘Impoverished? We’re not impoverished! I smelt a lilac last night. And I’m going to hold one in my hands by the end of the day. This whole impoverishment nonsense is merely the tool of the government to scare us all into submission! You’re all fools! I’ll be laughing when I’ve got my own lilac!’
A few members of the religious congregation briefly looked up towards Syd, and then looked away.
‘What a bunch of fools. Shoving that nonsense in your face,’ Syd mumbled. He wrapped a towel around his waist. He jogged out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He opened his wardrobe and grabbed for an immaculately ironed red shirt. He owned about ten of them, since they were his staple piece of work uniform. He pulled on some fresh underwear and the same jeans from yesterday. He buttoned the red shirt up across his skinny chest. He looked at himself in the mirror.
‘I shall have seen and felt a real lilac by the end of the day!’ He exclaimed into the mirror.
Remembering the forecast, Syd packed a satchel with a pair of protective goggles and a balaclava. He put on his thick blue rain jacket and held his orange and green Ralph Lauren umbrella under his arm. On the way to the door, he filled his hip-flask with whiskey and took a stiff drink. He then placed the hip-flask in his jacket pocket and went outside.
Outside the air was thick with dense smog and the morning sunlight peaked through the sterile grey sky. Dull advertisement billboards for oxygen tanks and atmosphere protection clothing polluted the tops of buildings. The constant slew of businessmen and women took up the pavement, all heading in the way of Victoria station. As Syd struggled through the morning crowds, he found himself reaching for his inhaler at regular intervals.
Syd continued to walk through the streets of mechanical people until he reached the house where he smelt the lilac. He walked up to the gate and took a deep breath. The aroma was still strong, and now that it was daytime, it was apparent to him that the smell must have been coming from the front yard. He tried the gate, and it pushed open with ease. He looked across the yard to check that no one was watching him. Once he’d surveyed the area, he tip-toed into the yard and carefully closed the gate behind him.
He searched around the front yard, making sure to stay out of the view of the windows. There was no foreseeable trace of any flowers in the front yard, real or synthetic. Syd followed the aroma to the side of the house, where he was lead to a waste disposal bin. Syd looked back to the front yard again to make sure he was still safe. He then balanced his umbrella against the wall of the house and took the lid off the metallic bin. As soon as Syd removed the lid, the fragrance rose up and made him ecstatic.
'Why would they throw out a real lilac? Especially one that smells as beautiful as this?' Syd thought to himself as he looked down at the black bag sitting in the bin. He placed his hands around the top of the bag and gave it a tug. The bag was heavy, and as he pulled on it, the metallic bin fell to the ground and made a loud crashing noise which sent fear throughout Syd's body. With trembling hands, he pulled the bag from the fallen bin and made a dash for the front gate, leaving his umbrella behind.
Syd bolted through the gate and made his way down the road towards Victoria station. Sweat beads began to form on his face and he looked noticeably anxious. Whilst walking down the road, he checked behind himself to make sure he wasn't being followed. Just as he reached the corner of the street, a fierce bout of asthma kicked in and Syd stopped and swiftly pulled out his inhaler. As he puffed on his inhaler, he thought out his plan of action.
'Do I open the bag and take the lilac now? Or do I wait until after work? I know, I'll wait until after work. I can take the lilac to show Sophie when I make the chrysanthemum delivery. She'll be amazed. The smell is unbelievable!' Syd caught his breath and resumed his journey to Victoria station.
Syd arrived at Victoria station around seven o'clock. The morning rush was already in flow as Syd set up the stall. He placed the rubbish bag under the stall, in a position so the sweet smell of lilac would rise up and please him throughout the day. He sat in his camper chair and unscrewed the top off his hip-flask, beginning the usual morning routine.
Like most days at work, fewer than twenty people stopped by the stall all day. Synthetic poppies were the popular choice today, to coincide with the tenth anniversary of Great Britain's 'victory', which would be celebrated the following week. Whenever the anniversary came round, Syd always felt depressed. For Syd, the anniversary marked the day that true beauty died. All that survived now was manmade, and thus beauty itself had become falsified for Syd.
Syd checked his watch. The time was approaching six o'clock and he'd have to close the stall and make the delivery of chrysanthemums to Sophie soon. Syd counted out ten of his finest chrysanthemums and put them to one side. He gave the rest of the flowers their evening dose of artificial feed and pulled the protective sheet over them. He collapsed his chair and picked up the rubbish bag from under the stall. The smell of lilac was still strong on the bag.
'She'll love this!' Syd said to himself. He put on his jacket and gathered the rubbish bag and box of chrysanthemums together. He then made his way out of Victoria station, cradling the rubbish bag and chrysanthemums in his arms. On the way to Old Brompton Road, Syd turned off into a side alley, where he dropped the rubbish bag onto the floor. The aroma rising from the rubbish bag now made him feel ravenous. He untied the knot in the bag, and ripped it open at the top. He then emptied the contents across the pavement. A pile of bottles, rotten food and tin cans now lay at Syd's feet. Syd dropped to his knees and started sorting through the rubbish, focusing on the smell of lilac. He followed the smell to a pink bottle. He read the label on the bottle: 'Eezee Clean Shampoo! Leave your hair smelling fresh!' Syd flipped the bottle over and read through the ingredients of the shampoo: 'Pyrithione zinc, water, sodium laureth, synthetic lilac aroma.'
Syd jumped to his feet and slammed the bottle against the wall. He then stamped on it, sending the remaining suds of shampoo over the pavement. He kicked the heap of trash on the floor. A tin of substitute baked beans rolled towards the gutter, leaving a trail of thick red juice. The alley was a mess of food waste, smashed bottles, tin cans and shampoo suds. Syd heaved at the smell of the lilac aroma mixed with rotting food. Syd noticed a man in a grey suit entered the alley. He was walking along slowly whilst speaking on his phone. Syd quickly gathered the chrysanthemums in his arms and left the alley, making his way towards Sophie's office.
Syd arrived outside Carver House at six o'clock. He looked over the buttons on the intercom. He pressed the button for Sophie Smith. A faint voice came through the intercom.
'Hullo?'
'Hello. It’s Syd. I've come to make that delivery of chrysanthemums.' Syd spoke with a hurried, high pitched voice.
'Oh, I thought you weren't coming. Yes, I'll buzz you in.'
Syd made his way up to the top floor of Carver House, where Sophie's office was located. His face was red with exhaustion. He took a deep breath and calmed himself down before knocking on the black office door.
'Come in! Take a seat. Sorry I'm in the bathroom' she shouted from inside the office.
Syd let himself in. 'Sorry I'm late. I had a run in with someone.'
'I'll be two minutes! You'll find the money on the desk.'
Syd looked around the room. The room was decorated completely white, void of any plants or decorations. He turned around and saw a selection of wigs behind him, delicately hung on a long line of coat hooks. He walked over to the wall and looked at the wigs with a puzzled glare. From the left to the right, ran a blonde bob wig, brown pigtails, a curly ginger wig, and then finally a long jet black wig. Syd began to feel the wig, it felt cheap and lifeless. The toilet then flushed in the bathroom and Syd stepped away from the wigs. He picked up the flowers and took a seat in front of Sophie’s desk. He heard the door handle turn, and Sophie walked into the room and sat opposite him. Sophie entered the room. To Syd’s surprise, Sophie’s head was bald and she was wearing a long grey tunic.
‘Sorry about that, the bloody flush was broken again!’
‘You’re one of them? Sophie?’ Syd gasped.
‘My name’s not Sophie. My real name is number 21752. Sophie is one of my many monikers to introduce people to purity. You do know you can only find purity through religion? By casting yourself away from anything that makes you feel strong emotion?’
Syd felt nauseous. He slowly stood up, keeping his eyes focused on the woman. Her eyes were now not auburn but now a dark grey. He shifted his eyesight to the desk plate in front of her. It read ‘Number: 21752. Church recruiter.’ He began to turn away; he stopped as she resumed speaking to him.
‘I know the methods we use to recruit souls are devious. That is just the way we have to work though. Please, let us save you. Rid yourself of this flower nonsense, the whole reason they were eradicated was to stop you chasing irrational beauty. I can save you.’
Syd felt sickness rise in him. He ran to the door. He began to pull and push on the handle but the door was locked.
‘You’ve locked me in here! Why?’
‘It’s just a precaution. We will save you.’
Syd began to throw his arms and pace up and down the room, whilst the woman sat still at her desk, with a relaxed look on her face.
‘Let me out!’ he screamed and hit the walls. ‘I’ll get someone from downstairs up here and expose you fools!’
‘I think you’ll find this whole office block is run by the church. We are all recruiters here. Now stop moaning and sit down. We can begin the initiation process.’
The woman reached into her desk and pulled out a copy of the church manifesto booklet and an electric razor.
‘The first step of cleansing your body is to remove your hair. Hair is needless, and only detracts from the purity of your soul.’
‘Never!’ Syd screamed again.
‘Please calm down; we will only help you after all.’ The woman remained motionless in her chair.
‘Over my dead body!’ Syd picked up a fire extinguisher from the corner of the room and threw it into the door. The door wobbled as it became weakened. He then kicked the door, making it fall from its hinges.
‘Fine. Don’t see we didn’t try to help you though. Damnation is serious. You are a very stupid man, Syd.’
Syd scowled at the woman and left the room. He jogged down the stairs. He burst through the door of Carver house and ran out into the street. It was still daylight, and Syd felt weak. He walked across the road to a park, where he took a seat on a bench. He looked at the plain, grey sky, and across the concrete park. Nothing was real.
Two young boys began to play fight in front of Syd. One boy lifted his right hand up to emulate a gun. He then shouted ‘bang!’ The other boy jumped to the floor, simulating death. He wriggled and writhed on the pavement, screaming ‘please, don’t kill me!’ A moment later the boy climbed up to his feet. The two boys then ran off into the distance.
