D.H.Lawrence: Odour of Chrysanthemums
As they went towards the house he tore at the ragged wisps of chrysanthemums and dropped the petals in handfuls along the path.” Don’t do that-it does look nasty,” said his mother. He refrained and she, suddenly pitiful, broke off a twig with three or four wan flowers and held them against her face. When mother and son reached the yard her hand hesitated, and instead of laying the flower aside, she pushed it in her apron-band. The mother and son stood at the foot of the three steps looking across the bay of lines at the passing home of the miners. The trundle of the small train was imminent. Suddenly the engine loomed past the house and came to a stop opposite the gate.
From the metal carriage, appeared a ghost-like man, all blood appeared drained from his skeletal body, a burgundy briefcase was carried. She looked at the medium sized man, her father. His faded black hat, grey suit and pants reminded her of his polished dress sense. His hair was white like snow; his eyes were like rocks, cold and concentrated. The train driver signalled for departure. Seconds later the train whistled away into the distance from its stopping point, just one destination in a list of many. The old man glanced at his watch and raised his head slowly to search the distance for meaning. He removed his spectacles and wiped his wrinkled forehead with his handkerchief. He moved closer to the house while the mother stood paralysed, nervously anticipating the meeting with her father, after all the long hard years apart.
