Page 1 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
Prologue
1993
My brother and I run through the town, weaving our way through the holidaymakers as they bustle along Harbour Street. It’s a Saturday, and the town is packed with people; some eating ice creams and pasties, some choosing souvenirs from the many busy little shops, and some simply enjoying the fantastic sunny weather.
But Will and I don’t stop to browse in the shops or eat ice cream, though I do look longingly at a lady carrying a large, white, whippy ice cream with a chocolate flake. It’s a really hot day and I’d love an ice cream, even though we’ve just had our lunch. My grandmother says my tummy is an empty pit that she can never fill up, but I can’t help it, I’m always hungry, especially when we’re here at the seaside.
Today we don’t have time to stop for ice creams, however tasty they look. Because Will and I are on our way to see one of our favourite people.
As we run along together Will clutches a paper bag and I’m holding a posy of flowers my grandmother pressed into my hand moments before we left her flower shop and headed for the bakery.
‘Say hello to Stan for me,’ she’d said in the same way she always did. ‘Send him my love, won’t you.’
‘We will!’ we’d called before rushing out of the shop and up the street.
At last we escape the hustle and bustle of Harbour Street and run to the harbour, where people are crammed on benches soaking up the sun, trying to prevent the hovering seagulls from snatching their fish and chips, or their delicious cakes bought from the lovely bakers a few doors up from my grandmother’s shop.
Mmm, I think again as I see the cakes, I could just go a custard tart.
Finally we leave the holidaymakers and their tempting food smells behind, and begin climbing the narrow path up Pengarthen Hill.
‘Here you are, my lovely young friends,’ our old mate Stan says as we find him sitting high up on the hill, looking out over a glorious view of the town and harbour. ‘And you come bearing gifts – what might they be, I wonder?’
‘A pasty, of course!’ Will says happily, handing him the bag.
‘And flowers from my grandma,’ I say, handing him the posy.
‘Ah, they always brighten up my little home so well,’ Stan says, smelling the flowers. ‘So what would you like to do today? A story, perhaps? Or straight up to the castle?’
‘Story!’ I cry, at the same time as Will says, ‘Castle.’
Stan smiles. ‘How about we do both? I’ll tell you a story as we walk up the hill to Trecarlan.’
Will and I grin with anticipation as we walk side by side with Stan, and he begins to tell us one of his strange and glamorous tales about his wonderful home.
It was so exciting back then. We had a friend who lived in a castle! I thought I was a fairy princess.
As I recall us all walking happily up the hill together, I wish I’d known then that those precious summers we spent in St Felix would be the happiest time of my life.
One
Daffodil – New Beginnings
This can’t be it, surely?
I stand in front of my grandmother’s old flower shop and gaze up at the sign.The Daisy Chainit states in curly yellow writing. But the paint is beginning to peel away from the edges, so in reality the sign readshe Daisy Chai, which makes it sound more like an oriental tearoom.
I look around me at the cobbled street where as a child I’d run up and down to fetch delicious cakes and pasties from the bakery, my grandmother’s daily paper from the newsagent, and where at the start of our holidays we’d spend ages choosing a shiny new bucket and spade from the beach supply shop at the end of the road.
Yes, this is definitely it; I can see the bakery a few doors up, but now it’s called The Blue Canary, not Mr Bumbles like it used to be back then. The newsagent is further up the hill that this street winds its way up, and there’s still a shop that looks like it might sell buckets and spades in the summer, but today, a wet Monday afternoon at the beginning of April, its doors are closed, and the lights are turned off.
I can’t blame them for shutting up shop early; it isn’t the best of days to be by the coast. A dank sea mist hovers over the town, making everything feel damp and lacklustre, and in the short time since I arrived in St Felix I haven’t seen many holidaymakers. Or come to think of it, many people, full stop.
It’s a strange phenomenon – the seaside wet weather effect. A resort can be packed with people out enjoying themselves in the sunshine one moment, then the next, as a changing tide brings dark showery clouds in with it, they will all suddenly disappear, back to whatever hotel, holiday cottage or caravan they are calling home that week.
When I used to stay here with my grandmother in the peak holiday seasons, I would sometimes pray for rain, just so I could wander the beaches and clifftops in total peace, away from any holidaymakers.
My eyes follow the cobbles up the winding street. Beyond the bakery, newsagent and beach shop, I can see a small supermarket, a charity shop, a chemist, and what looks like an art gallery – it’s right at the top of the street so it’s difficult to make out from here. But that’s it: a few small businesses in amongst an awful lot of empty shops with white paint covering their windows. Where have all the gift shops gone? They were always so popular when I used to come here. St Felix prided itself on the quality and variety of its souvenirs; none of that tacky seaside stuff like Kiss-Me-Quick hats, or T-shirts with rude slogans. St Felix had always been a haven for local artists and their work. What has happened?
