Page 2 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
My grandmother’s shop stands at the bottom of Harbour Street, at the point where the cobbles lead out on to the harbour. My first thought was that it looked a bit ramshackle, but having seen all the other derelict shops, I’m just glad it’s still here. Down in the harbour I can make out a few fishing boats, and a patch of pale yellow sand – the tide must be on its way out. Maybe it will take this miserable weather with it.
It’s been a long day already, with a tiring drive from my flat in north London to St Felix, the little town on the north Cornish coast where my grandmother’s shop was. My mother had hired a car for me, a brand-new black Range Rover, thinking it would help cushion the journey. But for all the car’s comfort and luxury, it hadn’t made the journey to somewhere I really didn’t want to go any easier.
My stomach grumbles as I stand looking forlornly at my slightly bedraggled reflection in the shop’s window. No wonder that guy at the service station I’d stopped at had given me a look when I’d pulled up in the Range Rover; with my long black hair dangling around my pale face, I look much younger than my thirty years. He probably thought I should be sitting in the back rather than the driver’s seat.
An elderly couple holding hands with two cute toddlers – twins, by the look of their matching outfits – pass by. The lady stops briefly to help one of the twins fasten her coat, and as she pulls the hood over the child’s face to shield her from the strong wind gusting today, she gives her a kiss on the cheek.
I feel my heart tug.
My grandmother used to do that to me when I was small…
I turn away from them and stare up at the shop again, feeling guilty – not for the first time today. Guilty about moaning so much about returning to St Felix, and guilty I hadn’t done so sooner.
You see my grandmother has just died.
Not passed on, moved to a better place, or any other term that people use to make the obvious sound easier to accept.
She’d simply died and left us – like everyone does eventually.
Afterwards everyone had cried. Not me, though. I never cry now.
Worn black – that part was easy, I liked that.
Went to her funeral and talked about how wonderful she was; eaten all the food they could stuff inside them at her wake – again, neither of these proved difficult for me.
Her family had been summoned to a will-reading with a solicitor who had travelled up from Cornwall to meet us at a posh London hotel.
We being myself, my mother and father, Aunt Petal, and my two annoying cousins, Violet and Marigold. Actually, after the awfulness that was the funeral, the will-reading was quite amusing to begin with. The look on Violet and Marigold’s faces when my name was read out as the sole beneficiary of my grandmother’s estate was hilarious – for a few seconds. But then as everyone recovered from their shock, and my mother with tears in her eyes hugged me and proclaimed that this would be the making of me, the reality of what my grandmother had done began to envelop me in a way that made me feel so claustrophobic it was all I could do to breathe.
‘I’m afraid you won’t get any flowers in there today, miss,’ a voice behind me says, making me return to the present with a start.
I turn to see a very tall young policeman with a mop of black curly hair protruding from underneath his hat, standing with his hands behind his back. He nods at the window of the shop. ‘There’s no one in there on a Monday – not any more.’
‘And there is the rest of the time?’ I ask, surprised to hear this. As far as I’m aware no one has been in the shop since my grandmother became too ill to look after herself just over a year ago, and was admitted to a specialist private hospital in London which her daughters had insisted paying for.
He shrugs, and I note, from the lack of rank insignia on his shoulders, that he’s a police constable.
It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, knowing how to spot the rank of the police officer you’re dealing with, but when you’ve had as many encounters with the police as I have… let’s just say it becomes second nature.
‘Yes, there’s someone in there five days a week. Well, sort of…’
I wait for him to continue.
‘You see, the florist that was there before sadly passed on. Lovely lady she was, apparently.’
‘Apparently?’
‘Yes, I never knew her. I’m new to this patch, only been here a few months.’
‘So who runs the shop now then?’
‘The local women’s group.’ He looks about him, then lowers his voice. ‘Fierce bunch, they are. Not really suited to the gentle ways of a delicate flower, if you know what I mean. They quite scare me.’
I nod sympathetically.
‘However,’ he continues, ‘I don’t like to say a bad word about anyone. The ladies run the shop voluntarily out of the goodness of their hearts – which is never a bad thing in my book.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I smile politely at him.
