The Flowerpot Thief

• Sophie Lewis, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2021

Old Mr Braithwaite had many reasons to be grumpy. The flowerpot thief was only one of them.
His wife had passed away two years ago, her passing gift to him a bed of flowers. Mr Braithwaite hated flowers and was constantly sneezing, but he loved his wife, so the flowers stayed: a polleny, pungent, persistent reminder.
When he peeked his abnormally-long nose out of the window one morning, he noticed that a clump of carnations had vanished. He put it down to the crows and didn't think any more of it.
The next day, he looked out of the window again. Another patch of flowers was missing. Asters, this time.
The day-lilies went next.
Once the poppies had gone, he’d had enough. Somebody was stealing his wife’s flowers!
So Mr Braithwaite deduced a plan. He purchased a bucket-load of security cameras and assembled them along his roof, looking down into the desecrated garden. He nicked the neighbour’s kid’s skipping rope and strung it across the gate. Satisfied, he settled into his armchair by the window with a bowl of expired Two Minute Noodles and a cup of mouldy ginger beer, and waited.
Hours passed, and Mr Braithwaite’s eyelids grew heavy. Just as he was about to drift into slumber something flashed in the corner of his vision, and there was a definite thump from the garden.
Mr Braithwaite jumped awake to see a figure in a black hoodie sprawled in the flowerbed, a bouquet of freshly-picked roses in their hands.
He let out a triumphant “A-HA!” and leapt from his chair. With as much speed as his ninety-seven year old legs could carry him, he tore into the garden. Before the hooded figure could comprehend anything, Mr Braithwaite grabbed the scruff of their hood and yanked them upwards.
“I’ve got you now, flowerpot thief!” he crowed. “Hand over the roses!”
The figure writhed and kicked. “No!” she spat. A girl. She couldn't have been more than thirteen.“Let me go!”
“Gimme the flowers!” Mr Braithwaite grunted.
“I need them!” she whined.
“Don’t take them from my garden! God’s sake, leave me alone!”
Mr Braithwaite shoved the girl out of his garden. It was only when he looked at her did he realise his mistake. The girl grinned and, clutching the roses, pelted down the street.
Mr Braithwaite shrieked his fury to the heavens and raced after her.
They ran across roads and down alleyways. Ten minutes later and panting, they emerged at a park. Polished stones stuck out of the soil like teeth and it took Mr Braithwaite a moment to realise where they were.
“Why,” he panted, “Are we at a graveyard?”
“I told you I needed these flowers.” she said softly.
“For whom?” he asked.
“My parents,” the girl replied. “There was a car crash.”
An image of his smiling wife flashed before Mr Braithwaite’s eyes. “What is your name?”
The girl smiled. “Lily.”
“Keep the flowers, Lily,” Mr Braithwaite said, and together they walked into the graveyard.