Tim Potter stared in disgust at the arrivals board on the station platform. He had watched the display for the past forty minutes, as the arrival time of his train home was delayed further and further. Now the bright green letters declared Cancelled. Everyone on the rush-hour platform grumbled and swore to themselves and to each other. People shuffled towards the exit. Some reached for mobile phones, dialling for taxis or calling loved ones to come and pick them up.

Tim jogged down the stairs and out onto the high street. He walked quickly along, pushing through the city centre throng. Some of the people he passed were like him, making their way home after a long day at work. Others moved in groups, chatting and laughing as they headed to a bar for an after-work drink. Fists in pockets, staring at the pavement, Tim marched down the road. He just wanted to be at home. Every so often he glanced up, hoping to see a taxi cab passing by. The only taxis that went by were occupied and had their yellow vacancy light turned off.

He cut down a side street. There was a taxi rank outside the Midland hotel. He made his way across the city to the red brick building. As he walked down the streets of China Town it started to rain. He raised his eyes to the pale sky overhead, brilliant, that was just what he needed. With their neon Oriental signs the restaurants, shops and bookmakers of China Town had an exotic feel to them. The rain started to fall more heavily, blurring his vision. He could feel his shoulders getting wet as the rain seeped into his coat. Under the deluge the Chinese streets seemed to take on an other-worldly quality. In a spur of the moment decision, to get out of the lashing rain, he ducked into a small shop.

He paused for a moment, standing, dripping in the doorway. He wiped the rain from his glasses with his sleeve. The small store was about the size of a petrol station shop. He mooched down the narrow aisles. The shop seemed to sell everything you’d need if you ran a Chinese restaurant. There were woks of all shapes and sizes, some flat-bottomed, others round-bottomed. There were chopsticks, elaborately painted bowls and ladles, and ornaments and vases. He would his way staring at the items with interest.

At the back of the store he spotted a selection of plants. There was a wide variety of plants and flower and bonsai trees. Then he saw it.

The plant looked like nothing else in the shop. It was somewhere between a bonsai tree and a cactus. Blossoming from the thick trunk were prickly leaves. He carefully picked the plant up and called out

‘Excuse me.’ He called.

The shop-keeper looked up from his newspaper. He folded the paper and came out from behind the counter.

‘Have you seen anything you like?’

‘I really like this one.’

The shopkeeper frowned.

‘The Kobayashi plant is not the easiest to look after. The bonsai trees are our best sellers.’

Tim looked at the range of plants and trees. The bonsai trees were twisted in wonderful shapes and the leaves had been clipped so expertly, so artfully. But they were not a patch on the Kobayashi plant.

‘I really want this one.’

The shopkeeper sighed and retreated back behind the counter. Unperturbed, Tim picked up the plant and trotted over to the till.

‘I’ll take this, please.’ He insisted.

He couldn’t explain fully why he was so eager to have the plant.

‘You must take very good care of this plant. Place it in a bright place but not in direct sunlight. You need to water it every day, and use this plant food.’

He handed Tim an ornate jar with strange lettering on the lid. Tim nodded and tucked the jar in his pocket. He paid the twenty five pounds in cash. It was a bit expensive for a house plant but he could afford it and it was such an exotic looking think. It would be worth the money to have that in his home. He picked up the plant in its clay pot and turned to leave.

‘Make sure you take really good care of the plant.’

Tim nodded and headed for the door. Carrying his new purchase as carefully as a parent with a new-born baby, he made his way to the taxi rank.

Ten minutes later he was in a taxi home. As they headed out of the city centre and into Salford he stared at the plant in his lap. It was such an interesting thing.

Back home Tim placed the plant on the kitchen table. The spot seemed ideal. The plant would catch the sun but not be baking in direct sunlight. The Kobayashi looked really good on his table. It seemed to finish the room off perfectly. His eyes were automatically drawn to the exotic plant.

Before he went to bed he watered the plant and poured the special food onto the soil at the base. Of all the plants in his house, the Kobayashi stood out from all the others. The spider plants and all the other mundane house plants, were just dull in comparison.

The following week was mad busy. Tim found that like went like that sometimes. You’d go for weeks, things running smoothly, not a lot planned, work ticking over nicely. And then, just as you got used to the nice pace, and gentle routine, you’d find you’ve suddenly got lots planned, stuff to sort out with your car and house, relatives visiting and work problems to sort out too.

He felt like he did not stop all that week. If he wasn’t picking his aunt up from the airport he was working late or out with friends for someone’s birthday.

By Saturday morning he was exhausted. He threw back the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed. Every part of him ached. He rubbed the back of his neck. He just felt totally drained. At least it was the weekend. A day in bed was called for. He stumbled on unsteady legs to the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked awful. All the colour had gone from his face. His skin looked as thin as tissue paper. He was so very pale, it was as though the reflection was a photograph with a pale filter. He splashed cold water on his face.

That afternoon he shrugged into his dressing gown. He made his way downstairs. He needed a cup of tea. He filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. As he waited he glanced around the kitchen. The daylight hurt his eyes. He swore as he saw the plant. The Kobayashi plant had lost a lot of its leaves. Those leaves still there were turning brown and starting to shrivel like week old fruit. While his tea was brewing he went over and watered and fed the plant.

‘There you go.’ He said to the plant.

Despite his fragile condition he managed a smile. He always talked to his plants. They said it did plant life good if you spoke to your plants. Tim wasn’t sure how true that was but he talked to all his plants as he watered them. Mind you, he talked to his car too. When his car wouldn’t start he would call the vehicle all the names under the sun.

After a lazy day under the duvet Tim felt much better. He still felt a little weak but his pains and headache had faded. The colour had started to return to his cheeks.

As the days went by Tim but the funny spell behind him. The week that followed was another busy one. His work and social calendar that week had his head spinning. Because of all that was going on, Tim fell behind with tending to his plants.

When he got home from work on the Friday evening, he was exhausted. He locked the front door behind him and took his coat off. He padded through to the living room on weak legs. As he tossed his keys on the fireplace he saw in the mirror that, again he looked awful. His drained, gaunt features looked like they belonged to someone else. He ached all over and was light headed. He went through to the kitchen. He found some pain killers in a junk drawer. He ran the cold tap and swilled back the pills with a handful of cold water. It was then he noticed the Kobayashi plant. The plant looked dreadful. Once again, it’s leaves were brown, rotting and shrivelled. In his weakened condition a thought occurred to him. The condition of the plant seemed to reflect his own condition. Could that really be so? All he knew was that each time the plant had suffered, so had he. The words of the shopkeeper came back to him. He had been warned to take very good care of the plant. No wonder the owner had been reluctant to sell. If the owner of the plant’s health was affected by the condition of the plant, then they had to be very careful.

He knew that the notion was unbelievable. How on earth could it be that a plant, albeit a strange looking thing he’d purchased from an odd little shop, could affect his health if he did not water it. It did not make sense and yet he knew it was happening. After washing his face he tended to the plant. He knew that once the plant felt better, he would too.

He set a reminder on his mobile phone for the following morning. That way he would always remember to water the plant.

Things returned to normal for the next few weeks. Tim knew this thing with the plant was weird, but if he kept the thing watered and treated with plant-food, everything was fine and he could go about his life as normal.

On the day of his birthday his parents were due to call round. As usual, if he wasn’t home by the time they arrived, then they were to let themselves in. They were to make themselves at home and wait for him to arrive. When he pulled up outside, the lights were on. Clearly the buses had been running okay and they were round early.

He found his parents in the living room. His mother was wiping her hands with a cloth.

‘Everything okay?’

‘We’ve had a bit of an accident with your plant.’

Tim felt sick. The room span around him. His heart pounded in his chest. He rubbed his eyes. If they had smashed and killed the plant, what would happen to him?

‘You’ve killed my new plant?’

‘No, not that one. It was the old spider plant you’ve had for ages.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom