22) The Way It Was Placed
On what’s moved, what’s meant, and the quiet honesty of things left slightly askew.
The Way It Was Placed
It began, unusually, with a marigold and the word bollocks.
The Lower Tissington Well Dressing Festival was in full swing—or as full as it ever got: bunting, brass that never quite found the key, lemon drizzle to spare. Maggie preferred the early mornings, before the crowds arrived. She preferred the early mornings. The floral panel made her stop short.
At first glance: standard tableau.
Saints. Sheep. Possibly a lamb with a flag—hard to say; the geraniums were wilting.
But just beneath the saint’s hemline, in a neat arc of marigold and heather, someone had arranged the petals so precisely that, if viewed at just the right angle, it spelled a word you wouldn’t find in scripture.
Bollocks.
Bold. Spaced. Intentional.
She said nothing. Just raised one eyebrow, patted the dog, and moved on.
By Wednesday, it had escalated—though only if you were looking closely enough to be troubled.
A new panel outside the parish hall—flanked by sweet peas and a dubious attempt at a dove—featured a flourish in yellow daisies that, turned ninety degrees, spelled bugger. Subtle. But not subtle enough.
Audrey Crenshaw didn’t see it. She was too busy arranging her WI sash and making remarks about spiritual vandalism and the price of dahlias.
Reginald noticed. He muttered something about linguistic decline and stared pointedly at the panel, as though it might pause, then confess under pressure.
Maggie simply sipped her tea.
Netta’s grandchild had arrived on Monday.
J, they said. No explanation. No apologies. Just the letter.
Hair somewhere between shaggy and defiant. Vintage jacket. Combat boots. They walked like the ground might shift beneath them, and spoke only when asked—and even then, softly, like the words had barbs.
Most of the village didn’t know what to make of J, so they pretended not to notice. Audrey introduced them at the WI meeting as “Netta’s… visitor,” with the same polite revulsion she reserved for mildew and minor socialism.
Reginald offered a salute. Netta beamed like the sun.
Maggie watched.
Watched J rearrange flower crates when no one was looking.
Watched them frown at their own hands, as if they’d betrayed something.
Watched them walk wide arcs around every group of villagers, head down, boots too loud.
She remembered once unpicking the hem of her uniform skirt—not in protest, just to see if anyone would notice. No one had.
By Thursday, Maggie was certain.
The marigolds. The heather. The curve of the stem placements.
J wasn’t vandalising the well dressings. They were… writing.
She remembered a boy once—left-handed, soft-spoken—who used to stack his Scrabble tiles in patterns rather than words. Turned out he couldn’t read properly until he was fourteen, but no one noticed. No one looked. Not really.
Not vandalism, she realised. Not really.
J, she thought, was spelling out something no one had asked to hear.
Late Friday afternoon, Maggie found them crouched by the Community Garden’s panel, elbow-deep in buckets of petals. Alone. Hands stained pink from rose pulp, a crumpled list beside them titled approved only.
They didn’t notice her. Or pretended not to. Maggie waited—just long enough to see whether they’d flinch or fold.
A tiny hitch in their shoulders. Then nothing.
They kept working—fingers moving quickly, deliberately—laying out a soft spiral of calendula and forget-me-nots.
No words this time. A circle. Unbroken. Like something waiting to be read, not translated.
“You chose well,” Maggie said quietly.
J froze. “It’s not a swear,” they said, eyes still on the petals. “I thought maybe this time…”
“You know,” Maggie said, kneeling beside them, “back in the day, they used to believe flowers could say what people couldn’t. Like a language. Just petals and silence.”
J shrugged. “No one listens.” The words barely left their mouth, embarrassed by their own volume.
“I do,” Maggie said. And meant it.
J didn’t answer. But their hands stilled over the petals, fingers curling lightly as if letting go of something they hadn’t meant to hold.
At the Saturday ceremony, Audrey gave her usual speech about heritage, piety, and community standards. Reginald polished a brass trowel with unnecessary vigour. Netta stood tall, one hand on J’s shoulder.
Maggie stood at the back.
When the final panel was unveiled, there were gasps. Compliments. Polite claps. No one mentioned the circle.
That evening, Maggie made tea. Added an extra spoon of sugar, just because. Let it cool, untouched.
She opened her grey notebook, flipped past jam scandals and fig bar diplomacy, and began a new page.
Case #33: The Way It Was Placed
Observation: Some mischief isn’t meant to disrupt—it’s meant to declare.
Outcome: The message was received. No one said so, but someone refilled the petal bins without being asked.
Additional note: Some kids don’t test boundaries. They name them. One petal at a time.
She tapped the page once. Then closed the book.
She let her hand rest there, feeling the faint grain of the paper.
Outside, a breeze stirred the ivy.
Somewhere nearby, someone was laughing.
Hard to say what carried it, but Maggie smiled.